John Marsh's Millions

CHAPTER XI.

The Bowery, that Broadway of the slums, odoriferous sink of cosmopolitan pauperism, degradation, and crime, wore its familiar, everyday aspect of ugly squalor and vice—grimy, dilapidated rookeries, dark, sinister hallways, filthy, greasy pavements littered with decayed fruit skins, gutters choked up with offensive black slime, suspicious-looking characters, abominable stenches of sauerkraut and stale beer which offended the nostrils on every side. On the slender rails high overhead occasional trains crashed by with a sullen roar; in the middle of the roadway rushing trolley cars noisily clanged their warning gongs, while on either sidewalk stretching as far south as the City Hall cheap clothing shops, tough saloons, low dance halls, pawnbrokers, penny arcades, vaudeville shows, displayed their gaudy signs. Up and down pushed and jostled a perspiring and motley crowd—bearded Jew peddlers, pallid sweat-shop workers, Chinese, flashily dressed "toughs," furtive-eyed pickpockets, sailors on shore leave, factory girls, painted street walkers, slouching longshoremen, tattered tramps, derelicts of both sexes—an appalling host of unkempt, unwashed, evil-smelling humanity.

In the side streets, just off the main thoroughfare, conditions were even more congested and depressing. On either hand ricketty, grimy tenements were alive with bearded Russians, fierce-looking Italians, vociferating Irish, pot-bellied Germans. From broken windows hung clotheslines bending under the load of newly washed rags; on flimsy, rusty fire-escapes were jammed filthy mattresses on which slept the wretched occupants, glad to escape from the foul air and heat within; dark stairways and stoops were thronged with neglected, consumptive children. The evil smells were so numerous that it was impossible to determine which was the most objectionable. The air was full of discordant, nerve-racking sounds. On one side of the street an Italian was grinding a wheezy organ, while little girls, some with bare feet, danced to the music. A few yards farther on, boys with white faces drawn by hunger, were rummaging eagerly in ash barrels, hunting for scraps of refuse. Two women were pulling each other's hair in the centre of a circle of encouraging neighbors, neglected babes were screaming, dogs were barking, a vendor was shrieking his wares. It was Hell, yet nothing unusual—only everyday life in the slums.

"Isn't it dreadful?" murmured Paula, as she and Tod hurried along Rivington Street.

"Gee!" replied her escort. "Look at some of those faces! They seem hardly human. Animals are better looking."

"They are not to blame," answered Paula sadly. "These poor people are the victims of circumstances. They have been brutalized—the Jews by centuries of race persecution, the others by merciless economic conditions. The black poverty in which they live is well nigh inconceivable. Their desperate struggle for mere existence is unbelievable."

"Phew!" exclaimed Tod, as he peeped through the window of a gloomy, broken-down rookery. "How can any one live in such a place? The Black Hole of Calcutta couldn't have been much worse!"

"That's just it," answered Paula, with some warmth. "You self-satisfied, well-fed people uptown don't take the trouble to come down here to find out how the poor live. We Settlement workers know, for we are right in the heart of it all. What you see from the street is nothing. You must enter some of these tenements if you wish to become really acquainted with the shocking conditions in which they live—the crushing poverty, the physical and moral suffering, the gross immorality. In some places as many as twelve persons, full-grown men and women, half-grown boys and girls, all eat and sleep in one dark, ill-ventilated room. Can you wonder that such a life brutalizes them and that they die like flies?"

Tod shrugged his shoulders.

"What good would it do if we did know? We couldn't help all of them. You remember what Baron Rothschild said to a wild-eyed anarchist who one day managed to break into his office brandishing a pistol: 'My friend, you insist that I share my fortune with the poor. I am worth five millions of dollars. There are in the world more than five hundred million paupers. Here is your share—exactly one cent.'"

"That's all very well," smiled Paula. "I don't go to that extreme. We can't help all, but we can help a little. If the rich could see things as they are, it would make them reflect. I don't think they would be so wickedly extravagant in their own homes if they saw all this misery. The price of one big dinner served in a Fifth Avenue mansion would support half a dozen families here for a year."

Tod looked skeptical.

"I like to hear you talk," he said lightly, "because you're so earnest about it, but really you're wrong. If these people were given assistance to-day they would be as badly off to-morrow. All civilizations have had this problem to deal with. The poor are the underdogs in the struggle for life. They're only half human, anyway. Most of them have never known anything better. They are used to roughing it. They actually enjoy their dirt. They themselves are largely responsible for their own misfortunes. They drink, they're shiftless and thriftless."

"The rich have more vices than the poor," answered Paula quietly. "The poor drink to drown their troubles. We can't say just why, of two men born with the same advantages, one prospers and the other remains in the gutter. We can only deal with the problem as we find it. It is dreadful to think that buried in these fearful tenements, brutalized by their frightful environments, are numbers of talented young men and women who are trying to better themselves. Left to themselves they are likely to sink deeper in the frightful morass that surrounds them, but if extended a helping hand they may be able to rise above the appalling conditions and so escape the terrible degradation and suffering that otherwise awaits them. A boy or girl, children of the tenements, may have within the genius of a Wagner or a Rosa Bonheur, but from infancy these children are so dragged down, so brutalized by their unspeakable environments that their natural aspirations and talents are hopelessly crushed. It is to such as these that the Settlement lends its aid. We are trying to help the deserving, we are seeking to sift the gold from the dross. Look, there is the Settlement House!"

On the opposite side of the street was a substantial-looking building resembling a small school-house. Conspicuous by its cleanliness among the surrounding dingy tenements, erected by enlightened and humane idealists for the sole purpose of uplifting humanity, it stood as a kind of moral lighthouse set down in a deadly morass of crime and hopeless pauperism.

"Come, I will show you all through," cried Paula enthusiastically. Her face brightened up and her step was elastic as once more she found herself in the midst of her fellow workers. Smiles and nods greeted her from every direction. The place was busy as a beehive. The halls were full of people; classes were going on in the different rooms. Taking Tod's arm, she led him in this direction and that, proud to show all there was to be seen. There were regular night classes where those employed during the day could receive instruction in stenography, bookkeeping, and other useful vocations, gymnasiums, classes where the technical trades were taught, classes where music lessons were given. There were also attractive recreation rooms which kept young men from the dangers of saloons and young girls from the temptations of the dance halls.

"It's such interesting work," she said. "Here I have no time to think of my troubles. I can forget Uncle James and Bascom Cooley."

Tod was full of enthusiasm.

"No wonder you've no use for society and the rest," he said admiringly. "If I'd taken a taste for this sort of thing years ago perhaps I wouldn't have made such a fool of myself."

Paula laughed.

"There's still time," she said mischievously. "It's never too late to mend, you know." Leading him once more in the direction of the street, she added: "This is the bright side of my work; I'll let you look now on the darker side. It isn't so pleasant. Come with me."

Docilely he followed her out of the building, wondering where he was being taken, caring little, so long as she was with him. This dark-eyed girl, with her serious views and charming manner, had already taken a strong hold of the young man. She was utterly different from any girl he had ever known, and cogitating secretly with himself, he came to the conclusion that the comparison was in her favor.

Quite unconscious that she was the object of her companion's thoughts, Paula hurried along the narrow, slippery pavements, crowded with pale-faced women and children, obstructed by all kinds of wagons and hucksters' pushcarts. Stopping for a moment at a delicatessen shop, she purchased some ham, eggs, butter, and bread, and then hastened on again until she came to a big, dreary tenement.

"We go in here," she said, quite out of breath after the quick walk. "It is the home of one of my favorite pupils, Annie Hughes. They are wretchedly poor. The father is an incorrigible drunkard and the mother is bedridden. Only the devotion of her child keeps her alive. I want you to see Annie. She is only twelve, but she does the work of two women. She cannot play like other children of her age, yet she never complains. She is entirely devoted to her mother. It's a dreadful hovel they live in. You'll be shocked at what you see, but don't show surprise. Mrs. Hughes is a decent woman, and it will only distress her. She's consumptive and can't live long. If she dies I shall adopt and educate Annie as my own."

They entered a dark, narrow, forbidding-looking hallway, with walls thickly begrimed with the accumulated filth of years, and so cracked that the plaster in places had fallen out in huge chunks, exposing the wood lathing. At the far end was a winding, ricketty staircase, every stair filthy with refuse and rubbish, and only dimly lighted by small windows that did not look as if they had been washed since the house was built. It was a steep climb to the sixth floor, and both were out of breath when they reached the top. Paula approached a door, and knocked.

"Is that you, Annie?" called out a feeble voice.

"No, Mrs. Hughes—it is I, Miss Marsh, with a friend."

Without waiting for further invitation, they pushed open the door and went in.

A shocking scene of neglect and squalor met their eyes. In a dimly lighted, poorly ventilated room about fourteen feet square, on a tumble-down bed, covered with filthy rags, lay a woman past middle age, apparently asleep. Her eyes were closed and she did not take the trouble to turn her face as the visitors entered. The place, living room and bedchamber in one, was indescribably and hopelessly dirty and littered with broken furniture and rubbish of every description. It was really the attic of the house, the low ceiling formed by the roof sloping down to the front, where a small window looked into the street below. Half the glass panes being broken and patched up with paper, only a poor light entered the room, and this helped to partly conceal the dirt-encrusted floor, torn, filthy bedding, and greasy stove piled up with unwashed dishes. The foul air reeked with offensive odors of decaying vegetation and bad drainage.

The woman on the bed started to cough, a violent cough which shook the bed. When the spasm had passed she turned to see who had come in. Paula she knew, but Tod was a stranger, yet her face expressed neither surprise or embarrassment. The poor are accustomed to unceremonious visits from Salvation Army workers and others, and they are so wretched that they have ceased to care about anything. A faint smile came over the invalid's pale, wan face.

"I thought it was Annie," she said. "She's been a long time gone. I had to send her to the Dispensary to get some more medicine. My cough is very bad to-day."

She stopped, seized again by a fit of coughing.

"I brought you a few little things, Mrs. Hughes," said Paula, laying down the packages she had brought. At the same time she slipped a five-dollar bill into the woman's hand. "Let Annie beat you up a fresh-laid egg. It'll do your cough good. You must get all the nourishment you can or you'll never get strong."

"God bless you, lady," murmured the sick woman. "Where would Annie and me be to-day if it wasn't for you?"

"Where's your husband?" demanded Paula.

Mrs. Hughes shook her head feebly.

"I don't know," she whispered. "He never comes near me. He earns wages now and again, but it all goes in whisky. The neighbors say he was arrested last week and sent to the Island."

Paula turned to Tod.

"Isn't it fearful?" she said, in a low tone.

Tod put his hand in his pocket and pulled out a ten-dollar bill.

"Terrible!" he said. "Here—give her this. She needs it more than I. It's the first thing I've done for charity in my life, and somehow it makes one feel good."

Paula looked at him and smiled as she passed the money over to Mrs. Hughes.

"This is from my friend here," she said.

"God bless you, sir!" she said. "It'll help keep Annie and me going a little while more. 'Tain't for long, though. I've given up hope. I'll never get any better. The doctor says I'm a goner. He knows. He told a neighbor, and she told Annie. The poor child came home crying as if her dear little heart would break. It's not for myself that I'm worrying. It's for Annie. If you only knew what a good child she is, sir——"

She stopped short, choked by another fit of violent coughing.

"Don't worry," said Paula, soothingly and trying to keep back her own tears. "We'll take good care of Annie."

The sick woman raised herself with difficulty on one arm.

"The child's gone a long time," she said uneasily. "I'm always anxious when she's away."

The words were hardly out of her mouth when through the crack in the window came the sound of unusual commotion in the street below. There was the noise of an automobile stopping with a jerk, warning shouts, and then the shrieks and sobbing of women. Tod rushed to the window.

"It's an accident!" he said. "Some one has been run over."

Paula, her heart in her mouth, seized by an indefinable dread, leaned out of the window. All they could see was a surging crowd gathered round a big, red automobile. A burly policeman, and a tall, thin man in a linen duster were stooping over a prostrate form. Suddenly a wild cry from the bed behind them froze the blood in their veins. They looked back. Mrs. Hughes, livid, had raised herself to a sitting posture and was trying to get out of bed to come and see for herself. The mother's unerring instinct had told her what had happened—yet she dare not give expression to her dread. Her hollow eyes dilated wide with terror, she cried:

"Annie only went to the Dispensary. She ought to be back by now. Where can she be?"

Outside, the noise and excitement had been succeeded by an unnatural calm. Suddenly Tod, who was still hanging half out of the window, turned round, and before Paula could silence him, called out:

"They're coming into this house."

A cry from the mother answered him. She did not know why she called out. Surely it was no misfortune of hers—this accident. She only knew that her child was out, and should have returned long ago.

Paula rushed to the top of the landing and looked down. Below, she saw a procession of people slowly ascending the stairs. First came the stalwart policeman bearing something white in his arms, then came the tall, thin man in the linen duster, followed by a number of women weeping and wailing. Paula felt herself grow pale. A vague intuition told her that a terrible tragedy had occurred. Her heart seemed to stop beating. Up and up, closer and closer, came the policeman with his burden.

"What is it?" cried Paula, scarcely able to control herself.

"A child run over, m'm," answered the officer stolidly. Tears were in his eyes as he added: "It's little Annie Hughes. I'm afraid it's all over."

The child's form was limp, the eyes were closed, her little dress was saturated with blood.

"Oh, God!"

With an involuntary shriek of horror, Paula staggered back into the attic. Her first thought was of the poor mother, to save her the shock of seeing the body of her mangled child, but as she crossed the threshold, she suddenly felt sick and dizzy. The room seemed to swim round. She called loudly:

"Mr. Chase! Come quick!"

Then she fainted, just as Tod reached her.

But poor Mrs. Hughes had heard the shriek and she answered it with one even more terrible—the agonized scream of a mother robbed of her young. Suddenly possessed of almost superhuman strength, she left the bed and staggered to the door while Tod, panicstricken, was dashing cold water into Paula's face, trying to revive her.

The policeman entered with his pathetic burden and laid the child gently on the bed.

"We've rung for an ambulance," he explained, "but——"

A fierce, hysterical outburst interrupted him. The wretched mother snatched her child from his grasp and, fondling it to her almost naked breast, tried with wild, staring eyes and trembling hands to find its injuries. Not understanding, unable to help, crushed under the awful weight of this supreme blow which had stricken her, she frantically kissed the child's white face and called upon her by name.

The tall, thin man in the linen duster advanced, felt the child's pulse, and then tried to lead the mother away.

"Madam," he said, "I'm a doctor. There's nothing to be done. It's all over. I can't tell you how I deplore this accident. If money can help matters, I am willing to pay. The little girl ran right into my automobile as I was turning the corner." Turning to the policeman, he added: "It was an accident, officer, wasn't it? Thank God, you were a witness to that. Everybody saw how it happened."

The policeman glared angrily at him. Almost savagely he replied:

"You may thank your stars it was, or you'd never have got out of this neighborhood alive. They'd have strung you up to a lamppost sure as fate, and served you right. I guess it was an accident, all right, and you're not to blame, but I'll have to arrest you, anyway, on a technical charge of homicide."

The distracted mother, staring at the two men, had listened stupidly. Suddenly she understood, and, pointing a scrawny finger at him, cried hysterically:

"Ah—you are the murderer! You killed my child! He killed my child! Oh, justice in Heaven!"

The effort was more than her weakened condition could stand. Sobbing violently, she fell prostrate over the body of her little daughter.

The stranger turned to Tod, who was still engaged in reviving Paula. It seemed to Tod that he had seen the pale, sardonic face, those piercing eyes and jet black hair before. He could not tell just where.

"You seem the only reasonable one here," said the stranger. "The woman's hysteria is only natural. I am entirely blameless in the matter. Of course, it is very sad, but these children of the tenements will run under the wheels of carriages. It is a wonder more are not killed." Looking at Paula, who was slowly coming to, he inquired: "Fainted, eh? One of the family?"

Tod did not like the man's cold, indifferent, almost brutal manner. It was with an effort that he replied civilly:

"No—this lady was merely paying a visit here. The child was one of her pupils. She is Miss Paula Marsh, teacher of the Rivington Street Settlement."

The stranger started and looked at Paula more closely.

"The niece of Mr. James Marsh?" he cried, in surprise.

Tod nodded.

"Yes."

"How strange!" muttered the stranger. Drawing a card from his pocket, he said: "I am Dr. Zacharie!"

Now Tod remembered where he had seen this man. It was through the keyhole of the library the night of that secret midnight meeting.

Paula opened her eyes. At first she saw only Tod. Then her gaze, wandering round the room suddenly rested on Dr. Zacharie, who stood staring with his black, piercing eyes and sardonic smile, silently studying her. For a moment she stared back at him, without making a movement or a sound. A look of repulsion and fright came into her face. Suddenly she uttered a shriek:

"The man of my dreams!" she cried.

Then she fainted again.

Dr. Zacharie put his finger on her pulse and turned to Tod. It seemed to the latter that a smile of satisfaction hovered about his mouth.

"She's a highly nervous girl," he said, "and subject to strange hallucinations. I am a nerve specialist. Cases like this interest me. Her condition is well known to her uncle. He asked me to call and see her. It is a curious coincidence that I should meet her under these tragic circumstances. You had better get her home at once. My automobile is at your disposal."

CHAPTER XII.

Both Mr. Ricaby and Tod tried their best to cheer her up, insisting that there was nothing to worry about. It was ten months now since her uncle was appointed administrator of her estate. In two months more his guardianship would be at an end, and she would be legally entitled to come into her own. Yet, in spite of this reassurance, strange misgivings seized the girl. What new move were her uncle and Bascom Cooley contemplating? She had heard nothing of them for weeks, but that in itself meant nothing. Under the peculiar circumstances, such silence was, perhaps, all the more suspicious.

Why had her uncle spoken to this Dr. Zacharie, the nerve specialist, about her? How frightened she had been that fatal afternoon in Mrs. Hughes' attic when she first saw the doctor. As he stood staring at her, with those black, piercing eyes and sardonic smile of his he looked exactly like the terrible man in her dream. Of course, that was silly, but she could not overcome her first aversion to the man. Since the accident he had called at the boarding house several times on the pretense of inquiring after her health, and on each occasion she noticed that he looked at her strangely. Why did he come so often—by what right did he stare at her and question in that searching, inquisitional manner? In future, she would not allow it. She would resent it as an intolerable impertinence. If he came again she would refuse to see him.

One afternoon she was home, alone. The weather was stormy and had spoiled a little shopping excursion arranged with one of her Settlement friends. At a loss what to do in order to kill time, she thought she would practice a little, so going to the piano, she played a few bars. This soon tired her. Finding she had no mind for music, she picked up a book and tried to read. But she found it impossible to become interested. For some reason she could not explain she felt nervous and ill at ease. Depressing fancies came crowding into her brain. There was nothing particularly to worry about, yet something within told her that a critical moment in her affairs was fast approaching. She was growing more and more uncomfortable, when suddenly there came a rap at the door. Nervously she jumped up, wondering who it could be. Surely Mrs. Parkes would not knock, and she had not heard the front doorbell.

"Come in," she called out timidly.

The door opened and Dr. Zacharie appeared on the threshold, bowing and smiling.

Dr. Louis Zacharie belonged to that class of medical practitioner, limited happily in number, who do not hesitate to disgrace a noble profession for mere love of lucre. An arrant humbug, he called himself a nerve specialist, and with the help of one or two yellow newspapers ever ready to print any trash so long as it was sensational, had succeeded in getting himself talked about as an authority on nervous diseases. Silly women and foolish men believed he possessed extraordinary powers to cure their imaginary ailments, and flocked in crowds to his waiting rooms. Society took him up. It became the fashion to consult him. Soon he was so busy that he could be seen by appointment only, and money literally flowed into his coffers. A man of magnetic personality, with some skill as a hypnotist, he had no difficulty in persuading his patients that they were in a very alarming condition, and that only the closest care at his hands could save them from total nervous collapse and worse. His real character as an unprincipled charlatan was, of course, well known to all his medical colleagues, but he was clever enough to cover up his tracks and thus managed to escape disciplinary action by the Medical Society. He was a comparative newcomer in New York, but in the West he had blazed a long trail of crookedness. Driven from San Francisco for malpractice, he turned up in Denver, where he again aroused the authorities to action. He fled to Chicago and for a time kept from public notice. Then there was a new scandal, and once more he disappeared, to turn up two or three years later in New York. In the metropolis his peculiar talents seemed to find a more profitable field. Within a short time he found himself one of the most successful and fashionable specialists in the city.

One day he found among the patients in his reception room a big, blustering man who introduced himself as Bascom Cooley. The doctor had already heard of the criminal lawyer, and for a moment was inwardly perturbed, thinking the visit might have some connection with his past history. But Mr. Cooley soon put him at his ease. He had called on behalf of a friend of his, Mr. James Marsh. They understood that he, Dr. Zacharie, was an expert on all nervous disorders. There was a case in Mr. Marsh's immediate family that they believed needed watching. Would the doctor be willing to come to Mr. Marsh's house for a conference? The doctor looked at the lawyer and the lawyer looked at the doctor. Each understood the other. There was money in it—big money. That decided it. Dr. Zacharie went that same night to West Seventy-second Street, and ever since had evinced a warm interest in James Marsh's ward.

Paula's face flushed with annoyance. Going hastily forward, she said:

"I am afraid I cannot see you, doctor."

Not in the least abashed by this chilly reception, Dr. Zacharie advanced into the room, the sardonic smile hovering round his thin, cruel mouth.

"I won't detain you a minute— I have come to say good-by," he said blandly.

Thinking that she might get rid of him the more quickly by a pretense at politeness, Paula said more amiably:

"Are you leaving town, doctor?"

The question was unfortunate for, thus encouraged, he took a seat uninvited, and drew off his gloves with deliberate slowness.

"Just a few words before I go." Fixing her with his penetrating black eyes, he went on: "You know, your case interests me—so much——"

"My case?" echoed Paula, coldly elevating her eyebrows as if not comprehending his meaning.

He nodded.

"When I first saw you the day of that unfortunate accident I said to myself——"

He stopped and shook his head ominously. Then, after a pause, he continued:

"I said to myself, she's a fine, highly strung girl, who needs care and attention, and, above all—rest—rest. Yes, your brain needs rest. It is over-worked—you think too much—the wheels go round too fast."

"Yes?" said Paula, trying to curb her growing impatience.

The doctor smiled.

"You don't mind my sitting down, do you?" he asked.

"Not in the least—if you wish to," she replied curtly, without making a move to take a seat herself.

He sat in silence, watching her stealthily.

"Won't you sit down, too?" he said. "We will talk a little."

She shook her head decisively.

"No—I—I can't talk to you. I had fully made up my mind never to see you again. I'll be perfectly frank, Dr. Zacharie, you have a disquieting effect on me."

He smiled again, a cynical, horrible smile, which made her shudder.

"That is because I tell you the truth," he said, blinking his eyes. "You don't like to hear about your state of mind."

"No. For I don't believe what you say," she retorted hotly. "My health—my mind—is as clear as yours. I am only tired. I'm weary to death of this awful lawsuit. I am compelled to stay in-doors, to keep my door locked so that they shan't serve me with any one of those dreadful papers summoning me to appear, to answer, to show cause, to answer endless questions. Even when you knocked just now my heart began to beat."

He shrugged his shoulders as if the symptoms she described confirmed only too well his diagnosis.

"You see," he cried, "you are all nerves! There is great danger there—hidden dangers that only we men of science can see."

Starting involuntarily, she exclaimed apprehensively:

"Hidden danger! What do you mean? Why do you tell me these things? Do you think it does me any good to hear them? Last time you were here, doctor, I asked you not to call again. I told you I needed no further professional advice. I am perfectly well—and strong—and—and—and——"

She stopped and stared at him, as if struck with a new idea.

"You see," he cried quickly, "you cannot even finish your sentence. You have forgotten what you were going to say."

"No," she replied promptly, "I was just thinking—something flashed across my mind. Dr. Zacharie, you were sent here by Uncle James to watch me."

"To watch you?" he echoed with well-simulated surprise.

"Yes," she said firmly. "To watch me—am I right?"

He shrugged his shoulders.

"Your uncle is anxious about you, of course—why not? You have said many strange things about him. He is actually afraid for you, and for himself. It's natural enough. But come, don't let us speak of him. That is the one subject that we should never mention before you. It is your—your—what shall I call it—that the non-scientific person may understand?"

Paula paced nervously up and down the room. What did these insinuations mean? What was the real object of this ambiguous questioning? She was about to retort angrily, when the door opened, and to her great relief Mrs. Parkes entered.

"Oh, I beg your pardon," said the landlady, about to withdraw.

"Don't go, please," cried Paula, going forward. "I want to see you, Mrs. Parkes. Dr. Zacharie is just going." Turning to dismiss him without further ceremony, she said curtly: "Good-by, doctor. Please thank my uncle, and tell him I don't need medical attention."

Dr. Zacharie rose and bowed. He understood that he was unceremoniously dismissed, but he was not the kind of man to easily lose his sangfroid.

"As you wish," he said, as he rose and went toward the door, "but you will be careful—won't you?" Impressively he added:

"Remember—there is danger—great danger of total collapse. Your nerves need watching. The slightest imprudence——"

"Lord sakes, doctor, you're not very comforting!" cried Mrs. Parkes.

"I always tell my patients the truth," replied the doctor. "It is better."

"Then I'm glad I'm not your patient," retorted the landlady promptly. "Give me the good, cheerful lie that comforts, even if it ain't true. My experience with Parkes taught me that, Paula— I was only happy when he was lying to me."

"Well, I have warned you, Miss Marsh," repeated the doctor, "take care!"

Paula bowed haughtily.

"Thank you—good-by," she said icily.

Dr. Zacharie opened the door and disappeared.

"Phew! Isn't he the Job's comforter!" exclaimed Mrs. Parkes. Looking suddenly at Paula, she said:

"Lord sakes, child, how pale you are!"

Paula was visibly distressed. The man certainly had frightened her, for she was all trembling. Going to the door, she first locked it, and then, turning to Mrs. Parkes, she said, in an agitated voice:

"Don't let him come here again—please! He has such a depressing effect on me. Somehow or other I'm afraid of him—afraid of him. I don't know why—but I am."

Suddenly she stopped, and, approaching the landlady, said, in a shuddering whisper:

"Mrs. Parkes, if anything happens to me——"

"Gracious! What could happen?" cried the old lady.

"I don't know," replied the young girl gloomily. "My uncle is desperate for money. If anything happened to me—he's the next of kin—he'd get the estate." She stopped, as if unwilling to tell what was on her mind. Then, with an effort, she continued: "Supposing he——"

"Supposing he what?" demanded the other.

"I don't know—I have such strange thoughts—I never know what they're going to do next. Mr. Ricaby doesn't know, either. There's this strange, inexplicable silence, these strange visits of Dr. Zacharie. It is as if they were waiting for—for— It's the uncertainty that gets on my nerves so."

The old lady shrugged her shoulders.

"Why don't you get married and settle the whole business?" she said.

"Get married!" cried Paula, compelled to smile in spite of her anxiety.

"Certainly. Then your husband can do the worrying, and your uncle could whistle for the money.

"Yes, yes; but who could I marry?" laughed Paula.

The old woman shook her head sagaciously.

"Oh, just look around a little. You won't have to look very far. My Harry's a good boy—as different from his father as chalk is to cheese. He's fine looking, too, and he's a good son—and, Paula, a good son makes a good husband."

"Get married," said Paula musingly, "and get away from here? Yes. That's it—that's it."

"I was speaking to Mr. Ricaby about it," went on Mrs. Parkes.

Paula looked up, surprised.

"Mr. Ricaby? What—what did he say?" she demanded.

"He said it was a splendid idea—but you'd have to get your uncle's consent—or the consent of the court—or something. My advice is to marry first and ask consent afterward."

Paula was silent and thoughtful for a moment. Then she asked:

"Did Mr. Ricaby seemed pleased at the idea?"

"Well, not—not—exactly pleased. He didn't throw up his hat and dance a hornpipe, but he congratulated me on having such a fortunate son."

The young girl stared at her landlady as if dumbfounded.

"What!" she cried, "did you tell Mr. Ricaby that your son—what did he say?"

"I said that Harry loved you and would make you a good husband," replied the mother proudly.

"How did you dispose of me in the matter?" smiled the girl.

Mrs. Parkes seemed embarrassed for an answer. Hesitatingly she answered:

"I said—that you—that you were not exactly opposed to the idea."

It was only with difficulty that Paula could keep her face straight. Controlling herself, she said:

"Mrs. Parkes, you have said that a good, cheerful lie is sometimes very comforting, but—in this case it's not only cheerless and uncomfortable—it's also most embarrassing. As it happens, I'm very much opposed to the idea."

The mother looked at her blankly. That her Harry was not a suitor any girl would eagerly jump at had never entered her mind.

"You could learn to love him," she said testily.

Paula was getting rather weary of the subject. Impatiently she replied:

"But I don't want to learn to love him. Forgive me, Mrs. Parkes, if I ask you not to refer to the subject again."

"The poor boy is eating his heart out," said Mrs. Parkes, wiping away a solitary tear.

Just as she spoke the door opened and the object of the conversation put his head in.

"Say, mater," he grinned, "do you know Mr. Chase has been waiting downstairs half an hour?"

"Oh, my gracious!" cried the old lady, all flustered. "I quite forgot—so he has! He wants to see you. He came while the doctor was here. I told him to wait, and I'd—I—clean forgot—oh, dear! I'll tell him to come up. Excuse me, dear, I'm all upside down to-day."

With more excuses the landlady bounced out of the room, leaving the two together. Harry had been listening at the keyhole, and now he eyed Paula sheepishly. There was an awkward silence. Finally he took courage, and said:

"Miss Paula—I want you to forgive my mother's meddling with our affairs. I promised you I would never speak of marriage again, and I won't. But I can't get mother to—stop spreading the news. She has told Mr. Ricaby, she has told Dr. Zacharie, and now she has just told Mr. Chase that—that the matter between us is settled."

Paula gasped with mingled surprise and indignation.

"Mr. Chase! Oh! And Dr. Zacharie! Oh!"

"Don't be too hard on her, Miss Marsh," he said apologetically, "it's the vanity of the mother, she thinks her son is good enough for any one, just because he's her son. But he isn't—I know it, and—when he's a confirmed bachelor of eighty she'll know it, too."

"I hope she's alive then," smiled Paula, who had recovered her good nature.

Just then the door opened, and Tod entered. He first looked at Paula, and, with a grimace, extended his hand to Harry Parkes.

"First of all—congratulations!" he said.

Offering his hand to Paula, he said:

"Congratulations!"

The young girl showed impatience.

"Please, Mr. Chase—don't jest!" she cried.

"What!" exclaimed Tod, a pleased expression on his face, "nothing in it?"

"Nothing at all!" replied Paula laconically.

Tod looked immensely relieved. Then, turning the subject, he said in a low tone:

"I hate to be the bearer of bad news, Paula, but it's bound to be in all the papers to-night."

"Bad news!" exclaimed Paula apprehensively.

"What is it? Tell me; I'm used to that."

Harry moved towards the door.

"If you'll pardon me I'll go."

He went out, closing the door behind him. Approaching Paula, Tod said earnestly:

"I should have come here before, only I could not get away. I'm keeping tabs on Cooley. I wanted to warn Ricaby. Ricaby is all right, but he doesn't seem to know how to handle the case. He gets the worst of it every time."

"What is the news?" demanded Paula uneasily.

"Well, they've arrested Ricaby!"

"Arrested him! What for?"

"For debt. It appears that he has borrowed money on some securities left in his charge by a client, or something of that sort. He was taken from his office this morning to the City Hall Court. He's trying to get bail."

"Mr. Ricaby in prison!" cried Paula. "The only friend I have in the world!"

"Not the only friend," replied the young man promptly. "Count me, too, Miss Paula. I'm with you in the fight you're putting up against that school of sharks, and you couldn't drive me away from you with a Gatling. This is a new move in their game, but we'll block it. I'm going on Ricaby's bail bond myself."

"Can you?" asked Paula eagerly.

"Can I?" laughed Tod. "It's the easiest thing I do. Mother's got some real estate, and she'll sign anything for me. You know it's a joke on Jimmy to make his wife put up bail for the man he's had arrested. As for Cooley, it will be a scream when he finds it out."

"Oh, but the disgrace of it!" cried Paula, in dismay. "The humiliation—he's so sensitive. Poor Mr. Ricaby!"

"That's all right, Miss Marsh," said Tod consolingly. "It's a put-up job of the Big Chief—that's one of his methods. We'll get Ricaby out before to-night. I thought you'd like to come with me to jail—he's down in the Tombs."

"The Tombs!" she exclaimed.

"Of course," he went on, "that's no place for a lady, but when I'm with you, you might be in the St. Regis for the courteous treatment you'll get. Say, can you see Cooley's face when he finds out who went on Ricaby's bond! Do you know what worried them so? They heard that Ricaby is trying to raise money to retain ex-Senator Wratchett. That fellow Cooley's a wonder! He hears about things before they happen."

"Then it's for me—for my sake," faltered Paula, "that Mr. Ricaby is in prison. I believe he has beggared himself for me—to fight this case. He never tells me how much I owe him. It's all my fault. Let's go to him at once. Oh, Mr. Chase, I'm so grateful to you!"

Going into her room, she reappeared immediately with her hat and coat and began hurriedly to put them on.

"Then call me Tod, won't you?" grinned her companion. "All my men friends call me Tod. The only name I won't stand for is Todhunter. Your Uncle Jimmy insulted me with that epithet once, and I went up so high in the air that he never did it again. I'm the one man your uncle respects. I make so much noise he has to bribe me to keep quiet. That's Bascom Cooley's argument—the more noise you make the more attention you get, and the more you fool people. Cooley says——"

"Don't be like Mr. Cooley," she protested.

"He's mighty successful, all the same. Do you know, Miss Marsh, he and two or three others run this city?"

"More's the pity," she replied dryly.

Enthusiastically he went on:

"Bascom Cooley is the great American legal genius—he never loses a case. If I thought it would please you I'd cut out the brass band effects and put some soft pedal polish on my manners. You wouldn't believe it, would you? I almost graduated, that is, I nearly took a degree. I can slow down to society speed if I want to."

"Whatever you are, be yourself," smiled Paula gently.

"Then you like me as I am, eh?" he grinned. "Well, that's a good start!"

"Let us go, please," said Paula, embarrassed at the personal tone the conversation had taken. "When I think that a noble-hearted, self-sacrificing friend is in prison because he tried to help me—I—feel I ought to share his prison cell with him. Let us go to him at once."

"Say, I'd go to jail for the rest of my life if you'd share my cell with me," he said, with mock heroism.

Paula laughed.

"I think you said you'd cut out the brass band effects, Tod."

"That's right," he replied. "I'm an extremist. When I like anybody I—I don't know where to stop. Ricaby is a good fellow, and he's entitled to anything you can say about him."

The words were hardly out of his mouth when suddenly there was the sound of footsteps outside. The door opened and Mr. Ricaby appeared.

CHAPTER XIII.

The lawyer's face was pale and serious, and his manner agitated. Certainly he had gone through an experience unpleasant enough to upset any man. The enemy had made a trap for him, and, like a fool, he had walked into it blindly. Arrested on an absurd charge while trying to raise more funds to carry on the case, he had been subjected to the most mortifying humiliation and annoyance, no doubt at the suggestion of the wily Mr. Cooley himself. Of course, he had no difficulty whatever in making an explanation so satisfactory that the Court at once dismissed the case, but then it was too late. The mischief was done. The reporters had the story, and the yellow extras with their exaggerated "scare heads" were already shrieking their way all over town. Who was responsible for this new outrage? Who was it that had informed Mr Cooley that he was trying to borrow money in order to engage the legal services of ex-Senator Wratchett? To Paula alone he had confided his plans. No, there was still another. Yes, he remembered it now. He had spoken of his intentions in the presence of Mr. Chase, the last time the young man had called at the house. No doubt he had betrayed them.

Disregarding Tod's presence, the lawyer advanced quickly towards Paula.

"Pardon my coming up without being announced," he said. "But I heard Mr. Chase was here, and I came straight in."

Paula's face lit up with pleasure. Hurrying forward and extending both her hands, she cried:

"Oh, I'm so glad to see you! We were just going to—to—the prison. Tell me how—when—did you——"

The attorney halted and pointed to Tod.

"First," he said severely, "dismiss that gentleman! While he is here I can say nothing."

Paula, surprised, looked from one to the other.

"Why," she exclaimed, "Mr. Chase is here to help us! He came with the news of your arrest, and he was going with me to get bail for you. He's our friend!"

"He is not your friend," retorted the lawyer indignantly. "Every word you utter, every action, every detail of your conversation, no matter how petty, is reported faithfully to Mr. Cooley—by this man."

Tod looked at Paula.

"Do you believe that?" he asked.

She shook her head.

"How else are they acquainted with all that happens here?" demanded Ricaby, trying to control his temper. Turning on Tod, he went on angrily: "You have called here almost every day, you've talked to Mrs. Parkes, to young Parkes; you've played the spy under pretence of friendship—and you can't deny it."

The young man shrugged his shoulders.

"You're quite right, Mr. Ricaby," he said calmly. "There are some things that a man can't stoop to deny, and this accusation is one of them."

"Then how can I explain it?" demanded the lawyer. "They knew that I was trying to raise money." Turning to Paula, he added: "They know of your engagement to young Parkes."

"There is no engagement," interrupted Paula quietly.

Mr. Ricaby looked searchingly at her as if trying to read what was in her thoughts. Then he went on:

"They know of your intention to fight your uncle's guardianship to the bitter end. They know your nervous condition. They know everything—even the fact that Dr. Zacharie comes here."

"I'm not surprised at that," exclaimed Paula. "I believe he was sent here by my uncle purposely to annoy and frighten me. He came here again to-day, but I got rid of him. I don't think he will come again so soon."

The lawyer grew thoughtful, then suddenly, as if a new idea had suddenly flashed into his mind he exclaimed:

"Ah! he did, eh? I don't like that man coming here so often. There is something in the wind. I don't know what. I intended to warn you."

He stopped for a moment, and then, looking at Tod, he said apologetically:

"The fact is, we hardly know friend from foe. I may be doing Mr. Chase a serious injustice. If so, I beg his pardon. We are fighting in the dark. We're fighting men without conscience or principle. We can't trust anyone. We dare not."

Paula turned to Tod.

"Will you give us your word?" she said, with an encouraging smile.

The young man looked at her reproachfully as he shook his head:

"No," he said, "that means you have some doubt. No, Miss Marsh, I won't give my word. It shouldn't be necessary. I guess I'll go. You're all right, Mr. Ricaby, you're doing your best, but you get rattled. You lose your head and you bark up the wrong tree. I guess that's where Cooley doubled up on you." Reaching the door, he turned round: "I'm sorry you don't believe me, Miss Marsh. I'll do all I can for you, but you're kinder tying my hands. Good day, Mr. Ricaby—good-bye, Miss Marsh, and good luck to you."

"Oh, don't go, Mr. Chase," exclaimed Paula, going towards him. "I don't believe——"

"Yes, I guess I'd better go," he replied doggedly, "he's your counsel. Good-bye!"

The door closed behind him. He was gone. Mr. Ricaby turned to the girl:

"Paula," he said earnestly, "we must trust no one. They won't stop at anything, as you see. They even had me arrested on a ridiculous charge. I was trying to borrow money—to carry on this case—to engage ex-Senator Wratchett. Mr. Chase knew this, didn't he?"

"Yes."

"You see, he knows everything. I'm afraid he's a spy."

The girl shook her head. She was too good a judge of human nature to be so easily deceived.

"I can't believe it," she said quietly. "I don't believe it."

"At all events," said the lawyer, "we dare not risk taking him into our confidence any more. Listen, I've raised the money, and I'm going to see Wratchett to-night."

"Why did they arrest you?"

"Because I overlooked the formality of having a certificate of shares endorsed over to me. As soon as I could get word to my friend, who loaned me the securities, he came down and the magistrate released me at once, but the stigma of arrest, of accusation, of prison, is there. That's what Cooley wants—to discredit me in court. Cooley knows that if he throws enough mud some of it is bound to stick."

The young girl made a gesture of discouragement. Sinking down in a chair at the table, she said wearily:

"Oh, I'm so tired of it all. Let's give it up, Mr. Ricaby. Let's go to my uncle and make the best bargain we can. I was hasty before. I'll be more patient this time."

The lawyer shook his head.

"Now that I have the sinews of war?" he cried. "No! We'll win out; you'll see. They must be pretty desperate when they resort to such tactics as false arrest. No, by God! I'm going to stick to them now."

Paula walked to the window, and, drawing aside the curtain, gazed thoughtfully into the street below.

"Isn't there some way out of it?" she demanded. "If, for instance, I married—my husband——"

The lawyer started, choked back something that rose in his throat, and hesitatingly said:

"No, you must obtain the consent of the Court or of your guardian. It would make new complications, application of annulment—oh, innumerable opportunities to harass you. No—I—I am opposed to the idea of marriage, Paula."

"I hope you don't think that I have Mr. Parkes in mind?" she smiled.

"Pshaw!" he exclaimed impatiently. "Do you suppose I pay any attention to that old woman's idle chatter? I don't know whom you have in your mind, but I have too much respect for your intelligence to imagine for a moment that it is Mr. Parkes."

He stopped and looked wistfully at her. Did he dare reveal to this girl what had been so long in his heart? At last, summoning up courage, he said in a low, diffident tone:

"If I could only think that it was I——"

Startled, she looked at him in amazement. Impulsively, he went on:

"There! I have spoken at last, Paula, after all these years. I didn't intend to say anything. This is no time to speak of such matters, but——"

Eagerly he scanned her delicate and sensitive face, trying to read there some response that would satisfy his longing, but her manner was grave and her voice perfectly calm and passionless, as she answered kindly:

"I had no idea that you thought of me in that way. I am sorry, Mr. Ricaby. I have regarded you as a life-long friend—nothing more. I can never forget what you have done for me. I shall always be grateful for your friendship and untiring devotion. That I can never repay."

Chilled, the lawyer drew back instinctively. There was no mistaking that indifferent, matter-of-fact tone. Bitterly he said:

"Yes, I understand. I have always felt that. I have inspired you with feelings of kindliness, gratitude, friendship. But love? No. That you reserve for some more fortunate man."

"Don't say that, Mr. Ricaby," she replied gently. "There is no other man, I assure you. I would not hurt your feelings for the world, but you know we can't always control these things ourselves. I admire you immensely—I respect you more than any man I know."

Eagerly he darted forward and took her hand.

"Do you give me hope?" he murmured.

She turned away her head as she answered:

"Don't let us speak of this now. You can understand that in this present moment of great anxiety I hardly know what I am doing or saying. I can never forget what I owe you. Any woman should be proud to be your wife."

The lawyer shook his head.

"A woman who really loves does not stop to reason. You might be willing to repay what I've done for you by making me happy, but that is not what I ask. What I have done for you is nothing. It is not such a debt that you should sacrifice your whole life in repaying it. If there can be no other consideration than that, I prefer that our relations should remain as they are." Suddenly turning on her, he demanded:

"Are you sure there is no other?"

The girl shook her head.

"No," she said positively. "There is no other."

"Then I'll hope against hope," he said hoarsely, "and until your suit is settled I promise you not to mention the subject again."

Going to the table he took his hat and gloves. Then coming back to where she was, he held out his hand:

"Good-bye," he said. "I am going now to Albany. It is a trip that I can't put off any longer. I can't stop to explain what the business is, but it is important and concerns your case. Of course, my every movement is watched, and while I am away they may try to take advantage of my absence by annoying you in some way, so you'd better keep in the house. Bolt yourself in and decline to see anyone, no matter who it is. Above all, don't have anything to do with Mr. Chase. Instinctively I distrust that man."

"Do you? I'm sorry for that," she said, shaking her head. With a deep sigh, she added: "I'm beginning to dread being here alone. I think I'll leave this place. I'm not myself at all lately. Come back as soon as you can. Sometimes I think it would be best for me to go to my uncle and put an end to the whole wretched proceedings."

The lawyer shook his head in protest, and, taking his hat and coat, went towards the door.

"No, we're going to win out, Paula," he said decisively. "You'll see. I trusted to ordinary legal procedure, to the equity and justice of the case. Now I'll adopt their tactics and fight them with their own weapons. Cheer up, Paula, we're in sight of victory. Good-bye."

"Good-bye, Mr. Ricaby," she said, holding out her hand. "Don't worry about me—I shall be all right."

"Good-bye, Paula," he said, with a smile. "Wish me a safe return."

"God knows I do, dear friend!" she said earnestly.

The young girl carefully bolted the door after him, and, returning to the window, stood looking after her attorney until he disappeared from view. The weather was threatening. Big drops of rain, driven slantwise by gusts of wind, were making the passers-by run hastily to cover.

She was sorry he had spoken. Never had she dreamed that he thought of her in that way. She was sorry for him, because he deserved to be happy. She was grateful to him, but in her heart she knew well that it was useless to hold out any hope. She could never love him. It was too bad that he had spoken. Now their relations would not be so pleasant. There would be embarrassment on both sides. The delightful friendly intimacy of the past must cease. She had lost her best friend.

Was any girl so unfortunate and so unhappy before? Here she was locked up in this depressing boarding house, afraid to go out for fear that her uncle might try to kidnap her and do her some harm. For some unexplained reason she felt horribly nervous and low-spirited. Whether it was because Mr. Ricaby had left her all alone she did not know, but she felt herself growing more and more nervous. If only Tod would come to cheer her up. Suddenly, as she stood looking disconsolately through the window, her gaze became riveted on a figure which she noticed standing in a doorway opposite. It was a man with a slouch hat pulled well down over his eyes, and it seemed to her that she recognized Dr. Zacharie. He appeared to be watching the house. Instinctively, she shrank back and when she looked again he had disappeared.

She laughed nervously to herself. How foolish she was! Why should Dr. Zacharie watch the house? She was surely mistaken. No doubt it was some stranger sheltering from the rain. If she kept seeing things like that she would soon make herself ill. With a forced effort at gaiety she essayed to throw off her melancholy by humming a song, but soon stopped, unable to continue. Sitting down at the piano, her fingers had just touched the keys when all at once there was a knock at the door. Paula rose and opened. It was Mrs. Parkes.

"You're wanted at the telephone, my dear," said the landlady.

"Who is it?" demanded Paula.

"Mr. Chase."

Paula hesitated.

"Mr. Chase—I—I can't go—make some excuse."

"Shall I take the message?" asked Mrs. Parkes.

Remembering Mr. Ricaby's parting admonition Paula shook her head.

"No—I—must not receive any message," she replied.

As she spoke she was standing in a position commanding a view of the street. Suddenly she started back in consternation and beckoned to the landlady.

"Mrs. Parkes, come here, quick!"

Pointing out of the window, she said:

"Do you see that man standing on the corner—the one looking up here? I don't want him to see me. Who is it? Tell me."

"It's Dr. Zacharie with some stranger," said the landlady, peering out.

"Ah, I thought so!" exclaimed the young girl excitedly. "I was sure of it. He seems to be watching, doesn't he—watching the house?"

"Yes," said Mrs. Parkes, looking again, "it's the doctor all right, with another gentleman—the gentleman who was here before. Why, there's three of them!"

"Three of them!" echoed Paula, dismayed.

Fearfully, she looked over Mrs. Parkes' shoulder.

"Yes, I see. It's my uncle and Mr. Cooley. They're pointing at this house and whispering together. What can they want?" Frightened, she turned to the landlady: "Mrs. Parkes, don't let anyone into this house to-night, do you hear? What can they be doing?"

"They seem to be waiting for someone."

"Don't let them see you looking," cried the girl, becoming more and more nervous. "Careful—don't let them see you! This is some new move! They know Mr. Ricaby has gone to Albany. Oh, what can I do?"

"Why, what are you afraid of, my dear?" demanded the landlady, surprised.

"I don't know," replied the trembling girl, in a frightened whisper, "only—don't let them in, Mrs. Parkes. Whatever you do, don't let them in!"

"Why, my dear!" exclaimed the old lady; "what ails you? Whatever is the matter, your hands are as cold as ice—what is it?"

"I don't know," gasped the other. "I can't explain even to myself, but I don't want to see that man again—don't leave me, Mrs. Parkes."

"But I want to go and give Mr. Chase your message," said the other.

"Mr. Chase—oh, yes!" cried Paula. "Tell him I want to see him—tell him to come here at once! I can't be entirely alone. I must see Mr. Chase. Tell him to come at once!"

Before the landlady could obey, however, there was a loud peal of the front door bell. Paula turned pale.

"It must be those men!" she exclaimed. "Look out! Can you see them there now?"

Mrs. Parkes hurried to the window and looked out.

"No," she said, "they're gone."

In the hall outside was the sound of footsteps and voices.

"They've come for me!" cried Paula, in an agony of fear. "They've come for me! He said he would, and he has." Wringing her hands, she cried: "Why did Mr. Ricaby go away! I'll go to my room—they dare not come there—they dare not."

Rushing into her room, she shut the door and locked it. Mrs. Parkes went to the door and only partly opened it.

"Miss Marsh cannot see anyone," she said, trying to shut the door in the intruders' faces.

Outside was heard Bascom Cooley's loud, coarse voice:

"But she must see us—she must. It's the mandate of the court!"

Someone pushed the door open. Mrs. Parkes, unable to resist, fell back. Bascom Cooley entered, followed by Jimmy Marsh and Harry Parkes.