Red and Black

“SIS, I’ll stump you to go to church with me this morning!”

It may have been rather a peculiar form of invitation to attend upon the service of the sanctuary, but that was not the reason for the startled expression on Jane Ray’s face. She simply couldn’t believe that it was her brother Cary who was making the proposal. Church!—when had Cary ever gone to any church whatever?—unless it might have been for the purpose of gathering material for some brilliant, ironic article with which to do his share in that old fight of the world against the forms of religion. As for herself—it had long been her custom to employ her Sunday mornings in making up her business accounts for the week.

Her reply was a parry. “What church would you suggest going to?”

Cary’s glance at her was both sharp and whimsical. “Is there more than one? According to what I hear, the ‘Stone Church,’ as they call it, is the one where the town is flocking to hear our friend, the fighting parson, say things that stop the breath. I understand his trustees are mostly pacifists. It must grind ’em like fun to hear their Scotsman firing his machine-gun, regardless. I admit I want to be in on it. I think this country’s going to get into it before long, and when it does I expect to see Robert Black off like a shot for some place where pacifists are unpopular.”

“He has never asked us to come to his church,” Jane temporized.

“No. That’s why I want to go. I’ve been waiting all this while to have him ask me, so I could turn him down. But he never has, so, being quite human, I’m piqued into going on my own motion. Come along, Sis. I’ll guarantee if an old sinner like me can stand the gaff, a young saint like you will be in her element.”

Jane gave him a sparkling smile. “Very well, Cary Ray. It will be your fault if we feel like fish very much out of water and don’t know how to act. I haven’t been in a church in at least three years.”

“The more shame to you. Most of them are mighty comfortable places in which to sit and pursue your own train of thought, and on that ground alone you should be a constant attendant. Though I doubt very much if we are able to pursue any train of thought, within hearing of R. Black, except the one he chooses to put up to us. The more I’ve seen of him the more I’ve discovered of his little tendency to keep one occupied with him exclusively. Well, if you’ll go I’ll have a clean shave and look up my best gloves. We’ll give him a bit of a surprise. To tell the truth, I’m beginning to think we owe it to him.”

There could be small doubt of this. In the three months which had intervened between Cary Ray’s arrival—for all hope there seemed of him, both physically and morally down and out—Robert Black had stood steadily by him. His comradeship had been a direct challenge to Cary’s better self, and all that was good in the young man—and there was undoubtedly very much—had rallied to meet the sturdy beckoning of this new friend. At an early date the two had discovered that, different as they were in character, they had one thing mightily in common—the delights and tortures of the creative brain. Jane had called Cary a genius, and so he was—perhaps in the lesser and more commonly used meaning of the too much used word. His articles on any theme were always welcomed in certain of the best newspaper and magazine offices, and only his lack of dependability and his erratic ways of working had kept him from rapid advancement in his world.

Black, discovering almost at once that he had to deal with a brain which, if it could be freed from the handicap of dissipation, would be capable of production worth any effort to salvage from the threatened wreck, had thrown himself, heart and soul, into winning Cary’s friendship on the ground of their common interest and understanding. To do this he had used every particle of skill he possessed, and his reward had been the knowledge of the steadily lengthening periods of Cary’s reasonableness and his response to the stimulus which will always be greater than almost any other—the demand of a friend who cares that we live up to his belief in us. Cary had come to think of Robert Black as the best friend he had in the world, after his sister, and to look forward to the hours the two spent together as the brightest spots in a life which had become dimmed at an age when it should have known its fullest zest.

Thus it came about that Robert Black, entering his pulpit that Sunday morning, and presently taking estimate of his congregation, as a preacher must do if he is to know how to aim accurately and fire straight, caught sight of two people whose presence before him gave him a distinct shock of surprise. He had been sure he would some time get that shock, but it had been long delayed, and he had rather doggedly persisted in withholding the direct invitation, reasoning with himself that he would rather have Jane and Cary come for any other reason than the paying of the debt he knew they must feel they owed him.

And now they were there before him—rather near him, too. Young Perkins, one of the ushers for the middle aisle, had pounced on them as a pair who would do credit to his natural desire to have all the best dressed and most distinguished looking strangers placed where they would do the most good to the personnel of the congregation. He knew Jane for what he called “a stunner,” thereby paying youthful tribute to her looks and quiet perfection of dress. As for Cary, one glance of appraisal had placed him, for Perkins, in the class of the “classy,” than which there is no greater compliment in the vocabulary of the Perkinses. Therefore it was that Perkins, leading Jane and Cary down the middle aisle, had complacently slipped them into the pew of one of the leading members—to-day out of town, as he knew—and thus had left them within exceedingly close range of whatever gunfire might be at the command of the pulpit. Perkins, having hurriedly scanned the headlines of the morning papers, had a hunch that it was going to be one of those mornings when the congregation would be likely to leave the church with its hair a trifle rampant on its brow from excited thrustings—or with its hats a little askew from agitated noddings or shakings. He had come to look forward to such Sundays with increasing zest. There was something else to stake quarters on with the other ushers, these days, than on how late Doctor Burns was going to be at church, or how short a time he would be permitted to remain there. Perkins was beginning to wonder how he had ever endured the dull times of Black’s immediate predecessor; certainly he was rejoicing that they were over.

Frances Fitch, in the Lockhart pew, just across the aisle and two rows behind Jane and Cary, found the pair a particularly interesting study. Through Tom she had heard much of Cary; she had caught only unsatisfying glimpses before. As he sat at the end of the pew nearest the aisle she had a full view of that profile which had first assured Black that Cary was indeed Jane’s brother, and it now struck Miss Fitch as one of the most attractive masculine outlines she had ever seen. Cary was still distinctly pale, but his pallor was becoming more healthy with each succeeding day of Jane’s skillful feeding, and his manner had lost its excessive nervousness. To the eye, by now, he merely looked the interesting convalescent from a possibly severe illness, with every probability of a complete return to full fitness of body. As to his mind—one glance at him could hardly help suggesting to the intelligent observer that here was a young man who possessed brains trained to the point of acuteness and efficiency in whatever lines they might be employed.

To look at either Cary or Jane, moreover, one would hardly have said that church was to them so unaccustomed a place. Jane, sitting or rising with the rest, sharing hymn-book or printed leaf of the responsive service with her brother, appeared the most decorous of regular communicants. For herself, however, she was experiencing many curious reactions, the most distinct of which, throughout the preliminary service, was caused by the sight of Robert McPherson Black, in his gown, and with the high gravity upon him which she had never before seen in precisely its present quality. Could this be the spirited young man who came so often to spend an hour with Cary, his face and manner full of a winning gayety or of an equally winning vigour of speech and action? This was another being indeed who confronted her, a being removed from her as by a great gulf fixed, his fine eyes by no chance meeting hers, his voice by no means addressed to her, but to the remotest person in his audience, far back under the gallery. For the first time Jane Ray was realizing that well as it had seemed to her that she had come to know the man Black, she actually knew him hardly at all, for here, in this place to her so unfamiliar, was his real home!

And then, very soon came an equally strong reaction from this first impression of remoteness. For, the moment the anthems and the responses and the rest of the preliminary service was over, and Black had been for three minutes upon his feet in his office of preacher, the whole situation was reversed. No longer did he seem to be sending that trained and reverent voice of his to every quarter of the large, hushed audience room; but in a new and arresting way he was addressing Jane Ray very directly, he was speaking straight to her, and she had quite forgotten that there was any one else there to hear. If this impression of hers was precisely like that which reached each person within sound of his voice who possessed the intelligence to listen, that was nothing to her—nor to them. The simple fact was that when Robert Black spoke to an audience as from his very first word he was speaking now, that audience had no choice but to listen, and it listened as individuals, with each of whom he was intimately concerned.

As for Cary Ray—perhaps there was nobody in that whole audience so well qualified to measure the speaker’s ability and power as he. He had spent no small portion of his early after-college days in reporting for a great city daily, and his assignment very often had been the following up of one noted speaker after another. He had listened to eloquence of all sorts, spurious and real; had come to be a judge of quality in human speech in all its ramifications; was by now himself a literary critic of no inferior sort. His mind, at its best—and it was not far short of its best on this Sunday morning—was keen and clear. As he gave himself up to Black as one gives himself up to a friend who is setting before him a matter of import, he was a hearer of the sort whom speakers would go far to find.

Did Black know this? Unquestionably he did. He knew also that Red was in his audience this morning, and Jane Ray, and Nan Lockhart, and Fanny Fitch, and many another, and that every last one of them was listening as almost never before. How could they help but hear, when he was saying to them that which challenged their attention as he was challenging it now?

This was in February, nineteen seventeen. Diplomatic relations with Germany had been severed; America was on the brink of war. One tremendous question was engaging the whole country: was it America’s duty to go into war? Was it her necessity? Was it—and here a few voices were rising loud and clear—was it not only her necessity and her duty—was it her privilege?

No doubt where Robert Black stood. It was America’s privilege, the acceptance of which had been already too long postponed. In no uncertain terms he made his conviction clear. The blood baptism which was purifying the souls of other countries must be ours as well, or never again could we be clean. To save our souls—to save our souls—that was his plea!

“Oh, I wish,” he cried out suddenly toward the end, “I wish I had the dramatic power to set the thing before you so that you might see it as you see a convincing play upon a stage. Never a human drama like this one—and we—are sitting in the boxes! Bathed and clean clothed and gloved—gloved—we are sitting in the boxes and looking on—and applauding now and then—as loudly as we may, wearing gloves! And over there—their hands are torn and bleeding with wounds—while we delay—and delay—and delay!”

Down in the pew before him Cary Ray suddenly clenched his fists. His arms had been folded—his hands were gloved. Gloved hands could clench then! Into his brain—now afire with Black’s own fire, as it had been more than once before now as the two talked war together—but never as now—never as now—there sprang an idea, glowing with life. His writer’s instinct leaped at it, turned it inside out and back again, saw it through to its ultimate effort—and never once lost track of Black’s closing words, or missed a phrase of the brief prayer that followed, a prayer that seemed to rise visibly from the altar, so burning were the words of it. Cary rose from his seat, a man illumined with a purpose.

Up the aisle he felt Red’s hand upon his arm. Those orders to the usher not to call the red-headed doctor out for anything but an emergency had been regularly in force of late. Astonishingly often was the once absentee now able to make connections with his pew, at least in time for the sermon. To his friend Macauley, who now and then let loose jeering comments upon the subject of his change of ways, he was frank to admit that it did make a difference in the drawing power of the church whether the man in the pulpit could aim only soft and futile blows, or whether he could hit straight and fast and hard. “And whether,” Red added once, bluntly, “you happen to know that he practises precisely what he preaches.”

In Cary’s ear Red now said incisively: “What are you betting that sermon will cost him half his congregation?”

Cary turned, his dark eyes afire. “If it does, we’ll fill it up with vagrants like me. My lord, that was hot stuff! And this is the first time I’ve heard him—more fool I. Why didn’t you let a fellow know?”

Red laughed rather ruefully. “Cary,” he said, “it’s astonishing how we do go on entertaining angels unawares. But when we get one with a flaming sword, like this one, we’re just as liable to cut and run as to stay by and get our own hands on a hilt somewhere.”

“I’ve got mine on one, I promise you,” murmured Cary. His one idea now was to reach home and lay his hand upon it. If, to him, his fountain pen was the trustiest sword in his arsenal, let none disparage that mighty weapon. In his hands, if those hands remained steady, it might in time do some slashing through obstacles.

It was just three days later that Jane Ray, coming in from the shop, saw Cary sling that pen—hurriedly capped for the purpose—clear across the table, at which for those three days he had been writing almost steadily. He threw up his arms in a gesture of mingled fatigue and triumph.

“Janey,” he said, “I want you to send for Robert Black, and Doctor and Mrs. Burns, and your friend Miss Lockhart—you told me she wrote plays at college, didn’t you?—and her friend, Miss Fitch, the raving beauty who acts—probably acts all the time, but none the worse for that, for my purpose. Also, Tommy Lockhart. I want ’em all, and I want ’em quick. I can’t sleep till I’ve had ’em here to listen to what I’ve done. And now—if I weren’t under your roof, and if I didn’t care such a blamed lot about not letting Black down—I’d go out and take a drink. Oh, don’t worry—I won’t—not just yet, anyhow. I’ll go out and take a walk instead. My head’s on fire and my feet are two chunks from the North Pole.”

Happier than she had been for a long time, her hopes for her brother rising higher than they had yet dared to rise, in spite of all the encouragement his improvement had given her, Jane made haste to summon these people whose presence he had demanded. They came on short notice; even Red, who said at first that he couldn’t make it by any possible chance, electrified them all and made Cary’s pale cheek glow with satisfaction when at the last minute he appeared.

“Confound you, who are you to interfere with my schedule?” Red growled, as he shook hands. “I was due at a Medical Society Meeting, where I was booked as leader of a discussion. They’ll discuss the thing to tatters without me, while I could have rounded ’em up and driven ’em into the corral with one big discovery that they’re not onto yet.”

“Mighty sorry, Doctor. But, you see, I had to have you.” Cary grinned at him impudently. “I’ve been raving crazy for three days and nights, and if I can’t call in medical aid on the strength of that—— Oh, I know I’m mighty presumptuous, but—well—listen, and I’ll try to justify myself.”

They listened for an hour. They could hardly help it. As a down-and-outer Cary Ray had been an object of solicitude and sympathy; as a clever, forceful, intensely yet restrainedly dramatic playwright, he was a person to astonish and take his new acquaintances off their feet. Stirred as he had been, gripped by the big idea Black had unknowingly put into his head, he had gone at this task as he had time and again gone at a difficult piece of newspaper work. With every faculty alert, every sense of the dramatic possibilities of the conception stringing him to a tension, his thoughts thronging, his language fluid, his whole being had been sharpened into an instrument which his brain, the master, might command to powerful purpose. Thus had he written the one-act war play which was to fire the imagination, enlist the sympathies, capture the hearts of thousands of those who later saw it put upon the vaudeville circuit, where its influence, cumulative as the fame of it spread and the press comments grew in wonder and praise, was accountable for many a patriotic word and act which otherwise never had been born.

But now—he was reading it for the first time to this little audience of chosen people, “trying it out on them,” as the phrase ran in his own mind. He had no possible doubt of its reception. His own judgment, trained to pass upon his own performance with as critical a sureness as upon that of any other man, told him that he had done a remarkable piece of work. To him it was ancient history that when he could write as he had written now, with neither let nor hindrance to the full use of his powers, it followed as the night the day that his editors would put down the sheets with that grim smile with which they were wont to accept the best a man could do, nod at him, possibly say: “Great stuff, Ray,”—and brag about it afterward where he could not hear.

To-night, when he laid down the last sheet and got up to stroll over to a shadowy corner and get rid of his own overwrought emotion as best he might, he understood that the silence which succeeded the reading was his listeners’ first and deepest tribute to his art. His climax had been tremendous, led up to by every least word and indicated action that had gone before, the finished product of a nearly perfect craftsmanship. Small wonder that for a long minute nobody found voice to express the moved and shaken condition in which each found himself.

But when it did come, there was nothing wanting. If they were glad beyond measure, these people, that they could honestly approve the work of this brother of Jane’s, this was but a small part of the feeling which now had its strong hold upon them. Wonder, delight, eagerness to see the little drama glow like a jewel upon the stage—these were what brought words to the tongue at length. And then—plans!

“We can’t get it on too quick,” was Red’s instant decision. “It must be done here first, and then turned loose on the circuit. We can handle it. Nan Lockhart can help you get it up, Cary—and take the part of the Englishwoman, too. Of course Miss Fitch must do the French actress—she’s cut out for that. I’m inclined to think my wife would make the best Belgian mother. Tom can be the wounded young poilu, and you, Ray—will be the French officer to the life. As for the rest—we have plenty of decidedly clever young actors who will be equal to the minor parts.”

There was a general laugh. “I seem to see the footlights turned on already,” Cary declared. “But that’s not a bad assignment. Would you—” he turned to Black—“I wonder if you would take the part of the American surgeon.”

Now this was a great part, if a small one as to actual lines. Every eye turned to the minister. Fit the part—with that fine, candid face, those intent eyes? No doubt that he did. But he shook his head with decision.

“I’d do much for you, Ray,” he said, “but not that. It’s not possible for me to take a part. I’ve a real reason,” as Cary’s lips opened, “so don’t try to persuade me. But I’ll help in every way I can. And as for the surgeon—why not take the one at hand?” And he indicated Burns himself.

“I’ll do it!” announced Red, most unexpectedly.

They spent a fascinated hour discussing the characters and who could do them full justice. There was nobody to see, but if there had been a disinterested onlooker, he might have said to himself that here was a group of people who of themselves were playing out a little drama of their own, each quite unconsciously taking a significant part. There was R. P. Burns, M.D.—his red head and vigorous personality more or less dominating the scene. There was Ellen Burns, his wife—dark-eyed, serene, highly intelligent in the occasional suggestions she made, but mostly allowing others to talk while she listened with that effect of deep interest which made her so charming to everyone. There was Nan Lockhart, quick of wit and eager to bring all her past training to bear on the situation, her bright smile or her quizzical frown registering approval or criticism. There was Fanny Fitch, radiant with delight in the prospects opening before her, her eyes starry, her face repeating the rose-leaf hues of the scarf she wore within her sumptuous dark cape of fur—somehow Miss Fitch’s skillful dressing always gave a point of light and colour for the eye to rest gratifiedly upon. Then there was Robert Black, rather quiet to-night, but none the less a person to be decidedly taken into account, as was quite unconsciously proved by the eyes which turned his way whenever he broke his silence with question or suggestion. There was Tom Lockhart, somehow reminding one of a well-trained puppy endeavouring to maintain his dignity while bursting to make mischief; his impish glance resting on one face after another, his gay young speech occasionally causing everybody’s gravity to break down—as when he solemnly declared that unless he himself were allowed to play some austerely exalted part yet to be written into the play he would go home and never come back. There was Jane Ray, who sat next Tom, and who somehow looked to-night as young as he—younger, even, than Miss Fitch, whose elegance of attire contrasted curiously with Jane’s plain little dark-blue frock. Jane’s brunette beauty was deeply enhanced to-night by her warm colour and her brilliant smile; her sparkling eyes as she watched her brother gave everybody the impression that she was gloriously happy—as indeed she was. For was not Cary——

Cary himself was probably the figure in the room which, if this little scene had been actually part of a drama, would have become the focus of the audience’s absorption. Interesting as they were, the other actors only contributed to his success—he was the centre of the stage. Dark, lithe, his excitement showing only in his flashing eyes, his manner cool, controlled—he was the picture of an actor himself. He was keenly aware that the tables had suddenly been turned, and that from being a mysterious sort of invalid, Jane’s ne’er-do-well brother, he had emerged in an hour. He had gathered a wreath of laurels and set it upon his own brow, and was now challenging them all to say if he had not a place in the world after all, could not claim it by right of his amazing ability, could not ask to be forgiven all his sins in view of his dazzling exhibition of an art nobody had realized he possessed. Undeniably this was Cary’s hour, and Jane, being only human, and loving him very much, was daring to believe once again that her brother was redeemed to her. It may not be wondered at that now and again her eyes rested gratefully upon the two men who had done this thing for Cary—and for her. She knew that they must be rejoicing, too.

It was, therefore, something of a shock to her when from Robert Black, before they left, she had a low-toned warning. “Miss Ray—” Black had chosen his opportunity carefully; for the moment the two were well apart from the rest—“I don’t dare not tell you to look out for him to-night. After we are gone, and he is alone, there will come an hour of—well—he will be more vulnerable than he has been for a month. Don’t let him slip away—see him safely relaxed and asleep.”

Jane’s expression was incredulous. “Oh, not to-night, when he is so proud and happy—so glad to have you all his friends, and to show you at last that he is your equal in—so many ways.”

He nodded gravely: “Believe me, I know what I’m saying. It’s a bit of an intoxication in itself, this reaction from his long languor of mind. He’s done a magnificent thing, and he’s now in very great danger. Don’t allow yourself to minimize it.”

“Oh, you’re very good!” Jane’s tone was a little impatient, in spite of herself. “But you do misjudge him—to-night. Why, he’s just his old self—as you’ve never known him. Of course, I’ll stay by him—and I understand. But—his temptation has always been when he was blue and unhappy, not when he was on the top wave of joy, as he is to-night—as he deserves to be——” Her voice broke a little, she turned away. She herself was keyed higher than she knew; she simply couldn’t bear to have Robert Black, or anybody else, distrust Cary to-night—dear, wonderful Cary, with his shining eyes and his adorable smile, her beloved brother and his genius both restored to her.

Black’s low voice came after her: “I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to hurt your happiness to-night, of all nights. I only—want you to take care of him as——”

But she was off, back to her guests, cutting him short, with only a nod and half smile back at him, which showed him that she thought him wrong—and a little cruel, too.

She was surer than ever that he had been mistaken when they were all gone, their congratulations on Cary’s work still ringing in her ears. He threw himself upon the couch with a long laughing breath and a prolonged stretch of the arms. “Smoke and ashes, but I’m tired!” he declared. “I’ll stop and chin with you about ten minutes, and then it’s me for bed.”

He seemed hardly to listen while she told him how she felt about his work and the evening, how she knew they all felt. She could see that he was all at once very sleepy and exhausted, and when, before the ten minutes were barely up, he rose and stumbled across the room, declaring that he couldn’t hold out another second, she smiled to herself as she put her arm on his shoulder and insisted on his good-night kiss. He had to cut a yawn in two to give it to her. This tired boy in any danger? Hardly! If he had still been excited and overstrung she might have had fears for him, but now—why, he would be asleep before he could get his clothes off—that was what was most likely to happen, after these three days and nights of consuming labour. She would look in, by and by, and make sure that, as in his boyish days, he had not thrown himself across the bed without undressing at all, and gone off into a deep slumber from which her sisterly ministrations would not wake him.

She never knew what actually happened that night. She was a long time herself in making ready for bed, and so busy were her thoughts that for an hour she quite forgot her resolve to make sure of Cary’s safety. Then, just to prove that Black was unreasonable in his fears, she went to Cary’s door, opened it very gently, and saw in the bed his motionless figure, evidently in as deep a sleep as any one could wish. She went back to her own room with a curious sense of injury upon her. Why had the minister tried to alarm her when there was so little need? Hadn’t she had anxious hours enough?

Within a quarter of an hour the door of the shop very softly opened, and Cary Ray let himself out into the silent little street. His coat-collar was up, his hat pulled over his eyes; he stole away on noiseless feet. If Jane could have seen then the eyes beneath that sheltering hat-brim she would have understood. Sleep? They had never been farther from it, so glitteringly sleepless were they.

But Robert Black saw those eyes—and he had already understood. As Cary slipped round the corner he ran straight into a tall figure coming his way. With a low exclamation of dismay he would have rushed by and away, but Black wheeled and was at his side, walking with him.

“Out for a walk, Ray?” said the low, friendly voice he had come to know so well. “I know how that is—I’ve often done it myself. Nothing like the crisp night air for taking that boiling blood out of a fellow’s brain and sending it over his body, where it belongs. May I walk with you? I’m still abnormally keyed-up myself over that play of yours. No wonder you can’t settle to sleep.”

Well, Cary couldn’t get away, and he knew he couldn’t. As well try to escape an officer’s handcuff if he had been caught stealing as that kind, inexorable offer of comradeship through his temptation. He knew Black well enough by now to know that his standing by meant that he simply wouldn’t let Cary’s temptation have a chance—it might as well slink away and leave him, for it couldn’t get to him past Robert Black’s defense.

Quite possibly neither of these two ever could have told how many miles they walked that icy winter’s night, but walk they did till every drop of Cary’s hot blood was rushing healthily through his weary body, and the fires in his brain had died the death they must inevitably die under such treatment. They walked in silence for the most part. Cary wasn’t angry, even at the first—he was ashamed, disappointed—but not angry. How could he be really angry with a man who loved him enough for this? And, deep down in his heart, presently he was glad—glad to be saved from himself. Was it for the man who had written that splendid play to take it out in the old degradation; was it for him who had made Truth shine in an embodiment of loveliness to drag its creator in the mire on this same night that his friends had looked upon his work and declared that it was good? When at last he stumbled wearily along the little street again, with a stumbling that was no feigning this time but the genuine sign of a fatigue so overpowering that sleep was almost on its heels, he was thankful to this strange and comprehending friend as he had never been thankful to him before.

“Good-night, Ray,” said Robert Black, at the shop door, and under the street-light Cary saw the smile that had come to mean more to him to-night than it ever had before—and it had meant much already.

“Do you trust me now?” Cary met the dark eyes straightforwardly at last.

“Absolutely. I trusted you before. It was the over-strained nerves and brain I was anxious for, because I’ve had them many a time myself. They’re hard to manage. Taking them to walk is just good medicine, that’s all. You’ll sleep like a top, now.”

“And you’re sure I won’t slide out, when you’re gone?”

Black’s hand gripped Cary’s. “I’d stake my life on it.”

Cary choked a little as he returned the grip. “You don’t need to. I’d prefer to stake mine.” Then he bolted, and the shop door closed behind him.

Black looked up at the wide-open window over the shop he knew was Jane’s. “Sleep well, my friend,” he was thinking. “I told you I’d stand by you—to the limit.”