The Definite Object: A Romance of New York

OF A PACKET OF LETTERS

M'Ginnis jerked aside the roll-top desk and falling on his knees before a small but massive safe built into the wall behind, set the combination and swung open the heavy door, talking to his companion as he did so and quite unconscious of the pale face that watched him through the dingy window.

"That dam' Soapy's gettin' ugly," he was saying, "an' it don't do t' get ugly with me, Heine, boy! Soapy thinks he's smart Alec all right, but I guess I'm some smarter. Why, I got evidence enough in here t' 'lectrocute a dozen Soapys."

"So?" said Heine, chewing on his cigar and peering into the safe. "Say, what's all them tied up in sassy blue ribbon, Bud?"

"These?" said M'Ginnis, and he took out a bundle of letters, turning them over in his big hands.

"Skirt—hey, Bud?"

"Sure thing!" he nodded, and as he stared down at this packet, how should he know how tense and rigid had become the lounging form in the darkness beyond the window, or guess of the wide glare of watchful eyes or of the sudden quiver of a smouldering cigarette?

"Yes, a girl's letters, Heine! An' a hell of a lot of 'em. I dunno why I keep 'em, but—oh, hell!" So saying he tossed the letters back again and turned to his companion. "Hand over that dope!" he commanded, and Heine passed over a bundle of papers which M'Ginnis carefully slipped into a certain compartment. As he did so, Heine spun around upon his heel.

"Gee whiz!" he exclaimed, "you shook me that time, Soapy! Where've you blown in from—"

"An' what th' hell are you nosin' around here for, anyway?" snarled M'Ginnis, shutting the heavy safe with a fierce slam; "since you've come in you can get out again—right now!"

Soapy seated himself upon a corner of the desk and placidly breathed out two spirals of cigarette smoke.

"Heard about Hermy bein' married, Bud?" he enquired.

"Married? You're a liar! Hermy married? It's not so!"

"'S right!" nodded Soapy. "She's married th' millionaire guy as got shot—you know—got shot in that wood—you'll remember, Bud!"

M'Ginnis sank into a chair and fell to biting his nails, staring blindly before him.

"Is—this—straight goods?" he enquired thickly, without altering his gaze.

"Sure! Y' see, she nursed him through his sickness, Bud—kind of did the piller-smoothin' an' brow-strokin' act. Oh, I guess she comforted him quite some."

M'Ginnis stared before him, worrying his nails with sharp white teeth.

"Ravenslee's a well man again, I hear, an' they're honeymoonin' at his place on the Hudson—devotion ain't the word, Bud! 'S funny," said Soapy, "but th' bullet as downed this guy drove Hermy into his arms. 'S funny, ain't it, Bud?"

With a hoarse, inarticulate cry that was scarcely human, M'Ginnis sprang from his chair, his quivering fists up-flung. For a moment he stood thus, striving vainly for utterance, then wrenched loose his neckerchief, while Soapy methodically lighted a new cigarette from the butt of its predecessor.

"Easy, Bud, easy!" he remonstrated gently, when M'Ginnis's torrent of frenzied threats and curses had died down somewhat. "If you go on that way, you'll go off—in a fit or something an' I shouldn't like t' see ye die—that way!"

"Up the river, is he?" panted M'Ginnis.

"'S right, Bud, up the river in his big house—with her. I—"

"Is he, by—"

"A dandy place f' honeymoonin', Bud!"

"Loan me your gun, Soapy. I'll get him, by God! if I have t' shoot him in her arms—loan me y'r gun!"

"I guess not, Bud, no, I guess not. I'd feel kind o' lonesome without th' feel of it. Ask Heine; he'll loan you his; it's gettin' t' be quite a habit with him, ain't it, Heine?"

M'Ginnis sat awhile glaring down at his clutching right hand, then he rose, opened his desk, and took thence a heavy revolver, and slipped it inside his coat.

"You're comin' with me, Heine," said he, "I'll want you."

"Sure thing, Bud," nodded Heine, chewing his cigar. "But what about lettin' Soapy tag along too."

"Soapy," said M'Ginnis, striding to the door, "Soapy can go t' hell right now."

"Why then, Bud," drawled Soapy, "I'll sure meet you—later. S'long."

Left alone, Soapy's languor gave place to swift action. In two strides, it seemed, he was in the saloon, had beckoned the quick-eyed bartender aside and put the question: "Where's the Kid, Jake?"

The bartender lifted an eyebrow and jerked a thumb upward.

"Shut-eye," he nodded, and turned back to his multifarious duties.

Up a narrow stair sped Soapy and, opening one of the numerous doors, crossed to a truckle bed wherefrom a tousled head upreared itself.

"Who th'—"

"Say, Kid, are ye drunk or only asleep?"

"What yer want, Soapy? You lemme be—what yer want?" began Spike drowsily.

"Nothin' much, Kid, only Bud an' Heine's gone t' shoot up y'r sister's husband."

"Husband!" cried Spike, drowsy no longer. "Husband—say, d' ye mean Geoff?"

"That's who, Kid. You was crackin' on t' me about wantin' t' make good; well, here's y'r chance. Bud aims t' get there 'bout midnight—up th' river, you know—so you got two hours. You'll have t' go some t' get in first, but I guess you can do it."

"I will if it kills me!" cried Spike, springing toward the door.

"Hold on, Kid, you'll need some mazuma, maybe. Here's a ten-spot. It'll be more useful t' you than me after t'night, I reckon. So get your hooks on to it, an' now—beat it!"

Without more words Spike snatched the money, crammed it into his pocket and, running down the stairs, was gone.

Then, after having lighted another cigarette, Soapy descended to M'Ginnis's dingy office, where having dragged away the desk, he brought a chair and sat with his ear against the safe, turning the combination lock with long, delicate fingers. To and fro he turned it, very patiently hearkening to the soft clicks the mechanism gave forth while the cigarette smouldered between his pallid lips. Soapy, among other accomplishments, was a yeggman renowned in the profession, and very soon the heavy door swung softly back, and Soapy became lost in study. Money there was and valuables of many kinds, and these he didn't trouble with, but to the papers he gave a scrupulous attention; sometimes as he read his white eyelids fluttered somewhat, and sometimes the dangling cigarette quivered. Presently he arose and bore these many papers to the sheet iron upon which stood the rusty stove; here he piled them and set them alight and stood watching until they were reduced to a heap of charred ash. Then, returning to the safe, he took out a bundle of letters tied up in a faded blue ribbon, and seating himself at M'Ginnis's desk, he slipped off the ribbon and very methodically began to read these letters one after the other.

But as he read the humble entreaties, the passionate pleading of those written words, blotted and smeared with the bitter tears of a woman's poignant shame and anguish, Soapy's pendent cigarette fell to the floor and lay there smouldering and forgotten, and his lips were drawn back from sharp, white teeth—pallid lips contorted in a grin the more awful because of the great drops that welled from the fierce, half-closed eyes. Every letter he read and every word, then very methodically set them back within the faded blue ribbon and sat staring down at them with eyes wider open than usual—eyes that saw back into the past. And as he sat thus, staring at what had been, he repeated a sentence to himself over and over again at regular intervals, speaking with a soft inflection none had ever heard from him before:

"Poor little Maggie—poor little kid!"

TELLS HOW RAVENSLEE BROKE HIS WORD AND WHY

"Past eleven o'clock, dear," said Hermione.

"Still so early?" sighed Ravenslee.

They were sitting alone in the fire glow, so near that by moving his hand he could touch her where she sat curled up in the great armchair; but he did not reach out his hand because they were alone and in the fire glow, and Hermione had never seemed quite so alluring.

"How cosy a fire is—and how unnecessary!" she sighed contentedly.

"I'm English enough to love a fire, especially when it is unnecessary," he answered.

"English, dear?"

"My mother was English; that's why I was educated in England."

"Your mother! How she must have loved you!"

"I suppose she did; but, you see, she died when I was a baby."

"Poor lonely mite!" Here her hand came out impulsively to caress his coat sleeve and to be prisoned there by two other hands, to be lifted and pressed to burning lips, whereat she grew all rosy in the fire glow.

"I suppose," said he, the words coming a little unevenly, "it would be too much to ask my wife to—come a little—nearer?"

"Nearer? Why, Geoffrey, dear, our chairs are touching now."

"Our chairs? Why, yes—so they are! I suppose," sighed he, "I suppose it would be breaking my word to my wife if I happened to—kiss my wife?"

"Why, Geoffrey—of course it would!"

"Yes, I feared so!" he nodded and kissed her hand instead, and there fell a silence.

"How heavenly it is!" she whispered softly, leaning a little nearer to him.

"Heavenly!" he answered, leaning a little nearer to her and watching the droop of her lashes.

"So—so quiet and—peaceful!" she added, drawing away again, conscious of his look.

"Horribly!" he sighed.

"Geoffrey!"

"Quiet and peace," he explained, "may hold such an infinitude of possibilities impossible of realisation to a husband who is bound by promises, that it is apt to be a little—trying."

Hermione didn't speak but drew his hand to be caressed by the soft oval of a cheek and touched by the velvet of shy lips.

"And yet," he went on, staring resolutely at the fire, "I wouldn't change—this, for anything else the world could offer me!"

"Bear with me—a little longer, dear!" she murmured.

"As long as you will, Hermione—providing—"

"Well, my Geoffrey, dear?"

"That it is only—a little longer."

"You don't think I'm very—silly, do you, dear?" she enquired, staring into the fire.

"No, not very!"

"Oh!" she said softly, glancing at him reproachfully. "You don't think me—cruel?"

"Not very," he answered, kissing her hand again.

"Dear Geoffrey, you don't think I'm very selfish, do you?" she questioned wistfully.

"No—never that!" he answered, keeping his gaze averted.

"Because if—"

"If?" said he.

"If it is hard for you—" the soft voice faltered.

"Yes, Hermione?"

"If you really think I'm—cruel and—silly, you—needn't wait—any longer—if you wish—"

His arms were about her, drawing her near, clasping her ever closer, and she held him away no more, but—beholding her wistful eyes, the plaintive droop of her vivid mouth, and all the voiceless pleading of her, he loosed her and turned away.

"I love you so much—Hermione, so much, that your will shall be my will."

She rose, and leaning against the carved mantel stared down into the fire; when at last she spoke, there was a note in her voice he had never heard before,

"Geoffrey, dear, this world is a very bad world for a lonely girl, and sometimes a very hateful world, and I have been lonely nearly all my life—and I didn't think there were such men as you; I didn't think any man could love so unselfishly. All my life I shall—treasure the recollection of this hour—yes, always! always!"

Then she turned and, ere he knew, was on her knees before him, had twined soft arms about his neck, and was looking up at him through shining tears.

"Yes, I'm—crying a little! I don't do it often, dear—tears don't easily come with me. But now I'm crying because—oh, because I'm so proud—so proud to have won such a wonderful love. Good night—good night! Oh, break your word for once—kiss me, my husband!"

So while she knelt to him thus, he kissed her until she sighed and stirred in his embrace. Then she rose and hand in hand they crossed the room and he opened the door; for a blissful moment they stood there silent in the shadows, but when he would have kissed her again she laughed at him through her tears and fled from him up the wide stairway.

HOW SPIKE GOT EVEN

A clock in the hall without struck midnight, but Ravenslee sat on long after the silvery chime had died away, his chin sunk on broad chest, his eyes staring blindly at the fading embers, lost in profound but joyful meditation; once he turned to look where she had stood beside the mantel, and once he reached out to touch the thrice-blessed chair that had held her.

The curtains stirred and rustled at the open window behind him, but he sat looking into the flickering fire, seeing there pictures of the future, and the future was full of a happiness beyond words, for in every picture Hermione moved.

All at once he started and glanced swiftly around, his lounging attitude changing to one of watchful alertness, for he had heard a sound that drew rapidly nearer—the hiss and pant of breath drawn in quick gasps. Silently he arose and turned to see the curtains swing apart and a shapeless something stagger forward and fall heavily. Then he reached out to the switch beside the hearth, and the room was flooded with brilliant light; the figure kneeling just inside the swaying curtains uttered a strangled cry and threw up a hand before his face, a hand dark with spattering blood.

"Oh, Geoff—oh, Geoff!" panted Spike, "I ain't—come thievin' this time—honest t' God, I ain't!"

"Why, you're hurt—what's the matter?"

"They see me down th' road as I came an' shot me, but this ain't nothin'. Out th' lights, Geoff—out 'em—quick!"

But Ravenslee had crossed the room, had seized the lad's arm, and was examining the ugly graze that bled so freely.

"That ain't nothin'—douse th' lights, Geoff—out 'em quick. Bud's coming here close behind—Bud an' Heine—they mean t' plug you—oh, put out th' lights—"

Instinctively Ravenslee turned, but even as he did so Spike uttered a hoarse cry.

"No, ye don't, Bud—not this time, by God!" and sprang upon the form that towered between the curtains; came the sound of fierce scuffling, a deafening report, and running forward, Ravenslee caught Spike as he staggered back; heard a rush and trample of feet along the terrace, the sound of blows and fierce curses behind the swaying curtains, heard the Spider's fierce shout and Joe's deep roar, two more shots in rapid succession, and the swift patter of feet in flight and pursuit.

"How is it, Spike? Are you hurt, old chap?"

But Spike just then was beyond words, so Ravenslee bore the swooning boy to a settee, and laying him there, began to search hastily for the wound.

But now the door was flung wide and Hermione was beside him.

"Geoffrey—oh, my love! Have they hurt you?"

"No, dear—thanks to Spike, here!"

"Arthur! Oh, thank God—did he—?"

"Took the bullet meant for me, Hermione. I owe your brother my life!"

She was down on her knees and very soon her skilful fingers had laid bare the ugly wound in the lad's white arm. But now came Mrs. Trapes, looking taller and bonier than ever in a long, very woolly garment, and while she aided Hermione to bandage the wound, Ravenslee brought water and brandy, and very soon Spike sighed and opened his eyes.

"Hello, Hermy!" he said faintly. "Don't worry, I'm all O. K. Bud shot me an' I'm glad, because now I can ask you t' forgive me. Y' see, he'd have got old Geoff sure if it hadn't been for me, so you—you will forgive me, won't you?"

For answer Hermione bent and kissed his pallid cheek.

"I'll go and 'phone for the doctor," said Ravenslee.

"Which," said Mrs. Trapes, "I done ten minutes ago, Mr. Geoffrey. Doctor'll be right along."

Ravenslee turned to Spike.

"How are you now, old fellow?"

"Only a bit sick, like. But say, Geoff—I know I played it low down on you, but—will you—shake an' try t' forget?"

Ravenslee took and held the boy's outstretched hand.

"I think we're going to be better friends than ever, Spike!"

"Good!" said Spike, smiling wearily, "but say, Geoff—dear old Geoff—if I got t' die I don't mind—because I guess this makes us quits at last—don't it, Geoff?"

RETRIBUTION

Half-stunned by a blow from Joe's mighty fist, M'Ginnis saw Heine felled by Spider, who, having promptly and scientifically kicked him unconscious, snatched the revolver from his lax fingers and turned to pursue. As he came M'Ginnis fired rapidly but, dazed by the blow, his aim was wild, so he turned and ran, with the Spider in hot pursuit. The moon was down, and it was very dark, and soon M'Ginnis found himself in the denser gloom of trees. On he ran, twisting and doubling, on and on, until spent and breathless, he paused to hearken. Far away, voices shouted to each other, voices that gradually grew more distant; so, finally having caught his breath, M'Ginnis went on again. But the wood was full of noises—strange rustling and sudden, soft night sounds—and at every sound the fugitive paused to listen, finger on trigger. And ever as he went the wild blood throbbed and pulsed within his brain, sounding now like the pad-pad of pursuing feet that would not be shaken off, and again like a voice that mumbled and muttered querulous words in the air about him, and at such times he glanced around upon the dark, but the words would not be stilled:

"She's married—married—married! You drove her into his arms—you did—you did—you did! And he's alive still and with her, alive—alive—alive!"

And sometimes as he stumbled along through that place of gloom, he cursed bitterly beneath his breath, and sometimes he ground sweating jaws since needs must he hearken to that taunting devil-voice:

"Alive and with his wife beside him—alive! And yours the fault—yours—yours! Your shot at Spike so near the house lost you the game—lost—lost! Your shot at Spike was a call for help—saved the life of the man you came to kill! Your shot at Spike lost you the game—lost—lost!"

So, followed by the pad-pad of running feet, haunted by the querulous demon-voice, M'Ginnis stumbled out upon the road—a lonely road at most times but quite desolate at this hour. The fugitive hastened along, dogged by sounds that none but he might hear, yet to him these sounds were dreadfully real, so real that once, goaded to a paroxysm of blind fury, he whirled about and fired wildly—a shot that seemed to split asunder the deep night silence, filling it with a thousand echoes. Once more he turned and ran, ran until his breath laboured painfully and the sweat ran from him, but ever the sounds were close about him.

At last he beheld lights that moved, and reaching a way-side halt, clambered aboard a late trolley and crouched as far from the light as possible. But even so, his disordered dress, his pallor, and the wild glare of his eyes drew the idle glances of the few passengers.

"Looks like you'd been through th' mill, bo!" said one, a great, rough fellow; but meeting M'Ginnis's answering glare, he quailed and shrank away.

Dawn was at hand when at last he reached O'Rourke's saloon and, letting himself in, strode into the bar. The place was deserted at this hour, but from a room hard by came the sound of voices, hoarse laughter, and the rattle of chips that told a poker game was still in progress.

Scowling, M'Ginnis stood awhile to listen. Then, lifting the flap of the bar, he passed through the narrow door beyond, along the passage and so to that dingy office, from the open door of which a light streamed.

Scowling still, M'Ginnis strode in, then stood suddenly still, lifted his right hand toward his breast, then paused as Soapy, turning about in the swing chair, took a heavy, ivory-handled revolver from where it had lain on the desk beside a packet of letters tied up in a faded blue ribbon.

"Lock th' door, Bud, lock th' door!" said he softly. "So!" he nodded, as M'Ginnis obeyed. "'N' say, Bud, take that hand away from y'r gun an'—keep it away—see?" And the lamplight glittered on the long barrel that rested on Soapy's knee.

"So—this is th' game—hey?" demanded M'Ginnis hoarsely, his bloodshot eyes fixed on Soapy unwinkingly.

"'S right, Bud. Y' see, I been takin' a peek int' that little tin safe o' yours—say, it looks like you'd had a bit of a rough house, Bud!"

Soapy's cigarette quivered and was still again, while M'Ginnis watched him, breathing thickly but speaking no word, and Soapy went on again:

"I been takin' a peek into that little tin safe o' yours, an' I found some papers you'd been kind o' treasurin' up about me, so I burnt 'em, Bud—not as they mattered very much, there ain't nobody t' worry when I snuff it—but I found as you'd got other papers about other guys as would matter some t' them, I guess—so I burnt 'em too, Bud."

"Burnt 'em!" cried M'Ginnis in a strangled voice, "burnt 'em—you—"

"It ain't no use t' get riled, Bud; I burnt 'em—there's th' ashes!"

M'Ginnis glanced at the heap of ash by the stove and burst into a frenzy of curses and fierce invective, while Soapy, lounging back in the chair, watched him unmoved until he had done, then he spoke again:

"Also I found—letters, Bud, a packet tied up in blue ribbon—an', Bud, they matter a whole lot. Here they are—look at 'em!"

For a moment Soapy's baleful eye turned aside to the desk as he reached for the letters, and in that moment M'Ginnis's pistol spoke, and Soapy, lurching sideways, sagged to his knees, his back against the desk. Again and again M'Ginnis's weapon clicked, but no report followed, and Soapy slowly dragged himself to his feet. His cigarette fell and lay smouldering, and for a moment he stared at it; then he laughed softly and glanced at M'Ginnis.

"You fool, Bud, you dog-gone fool! Forgot t' load up y'r gun, eh? But I guess you got me all right, anyway—you're shootin' better t'night than you did in the wood that time—eh, Bud? Now I want t' tell you—" He was choked suddenly with a ghastly coughing, and when he spoke again, his voice was fainter, and he held a smartly-bordered handkerchief to his mouth.

"They say God made this world, Bud—if He did, I guess He was asleep when you was made, Bud—anyway, remembering little Maggie, you ain't got no right to breathe any longer—so that's for me—an' that's for her!"

Lounging still, he fired twice from the hip and M'Ginnis, twisting upon his heels, fell and lay with his face at his slayer's feet. Then, spying the packet of letters that lay upon the grimy floor, Soapy stooped painfully and fired rapidly four times; when the smoke cleared, of those tear-blotted pages with their secret of a woman's anguish, there remained nothing but a charred piece of ribbon and a few smouldering fragments of paper. And now Soapy was seized with another fit of coughing, above which he heard hoarse shouts and hands that thundered at the door. Lazily he stood upon his feet, turned to glance from that scorched ribbon to the still form upon the floor and, lifting a lazy foot, ground his heel into that still face, then, crossing unsteadily to the door, unlocked it. Beyond was a crowd, very silent now, who drew back to give him way, but Soapy paused in the doorway and leaned there a moment.

"What's doin'?" cried a voice.

"Say, run f'r a doctor, somebody—quick—Soapy's hurt bad, I reckon—"

"Hurt?" said Soapy, in soft, lazy tones. "'S right! But—say—fellers, there's a son of a dog in there—waitin' f'r a spade—t' bury him!" Then Soapy laughed, choked, and groping before him blindly, staggered forward, and pitching sideways, fell with his head beneath a table and died there.

OF THE OLD UN AND FATE

Spike leaned back among his cushions and, glancing away across close-cropped lawns and shady walks, sighed luxuriously.

"Say, Ann," he remarked. "Gee whiz, Trapesy, there sure ain't no flies on this place of old Geoff's!"

"Flies," said Mrs. Trapes, glancing up from her household accounts, "you go into the kitchen an' look around."

"I mean it's aces up."

"Up where?" queried Mrs. Trapes.

"Well, it's a regular Jim-dandy cracker-jack—some swell clump, eh?"

"Arthur, that low, tough talk don't go with me," said Mrs. Trapes, and resumed her intricate calculations again.

"Say, when'll Geoff an' Hermy be back?"

"Well, considerin' she's gone to N' York t' buy more clo'es as she don't need, an' considerin' Mr. Ravenslee's gone with her, I don't know."

"An' what you do know don't cut no ice. Anyway, I'm gettin' lonesome."

"What, ain't I here?" demanded Mrs. Trapes sharply.

"Sure. I can't lose you!"

"Oh! Now I'll tell you what it is, my good b'y—"

"Cheese it, Trapes, you make me tired, that's what."

"If you sass me, I'll box your young ears—an' that's what!"

"I don't think!" added Spike. "Nobody ain't goin' t' box me. I'm a sure enough invalid, and don't you forget it."

"My land!" exclaimed Mrs. Trapes, "a bit of a hole in his arm, that's all."

"Well, I wish you got it, 'stead o' me—it smarts like sixty!"

"Shows it's healin'. Doctor said as it'll be well in a week."

"Doctor!" sniffed Spike, "he don't know what I suffer. I may be dyin' for all he knows."

"You are!" sighed Mrs. Trapes, with a gloomy nod.

"Eh—what?" exclaimed Spike, sitting up.

"So am I—we all are—by the minute. Every night we're a day's march nearer home! So now jest set right there an' go on dyin', my b'y!"

"Say, now, cut it out," said Spike, wriggling. "That ain't no kind o' way t' cheer an invalid."

"It's th' truth."

"Well, it don't cheer me more, so let's have a lie for a change."

Mrs. Trapes snorted and fell to adding and subtracting busily.

"Say, Ann," said he after awhile, "if you got any more o' that punkin pie I could do some right now. I'm hungry."

"It ain't eatin' time yet."

"But—Gee! ain't I a invalid?"

"Sure! Consequently you must be fed slow an' cautious."

"Oh, fudge! What's th' good of a guy bein' a invalid if a guy can't feed when he wants to?"

"What's a hundred an' ninety-one from twenty-three?" enquired Mrs. Trapes.

"Skidoo!" murmured Spike sulkily. But after Mrs. Trapes had subtracted and added busily he spoke again.

"You ain't such a bad old gink—sometimes," he conceded.

"Gink?" said Mrs. Trapes, glaring.

"I mean you can be a real daisy when you want to."

"Can I?"

"Sure! Sometimes you can be so kind an' nice I like you a whole lot!"

"Is that so?"

"You bet it is—honest Injun."

"Arthur, if it's that pie you want—"

"It ain't!"

"Well, what is it?"

"How d' ye know I want anything?"

"Oh, I just guess, maybe."

"Well, say—if you could cop me one o' Geoff's cigarettes—one o' them with gold letterin' onto 'em—"

"You mean—thieve you one!"

"Why, no, a cigarette ain't thievin'. Say, now, dear old Trapesy, I'm jest dyin' for a gasper!"

"Well, you go on dyin', an' I'll set right here an' watch how you do it."

"If I was t' die you'd be sorry for this, I reckon."

"Anyway, I'd plant some flowers on you, my lad, an' keep your lonely grave nice—"

"Huh!" sniffed Spike, "a lot o' good that 'ud do me when I was busy pushin' up th' daisies. It's what I want now that matters."

"An' what you want now, Arthur, is a rod of iron—good 'n' heavy. Discipline's your cryin' need, an' you're sure goin' t' get it."

"Oh? Where?"

"At college! My land, think of you at Yale or Harvard or C'lumbia—"

"Sure you can think; thinkin' can't cut no ice."

"Anyway, you're goin' soon as you're fit; Mr. Geoffrey says so."

"Oh, Geoff's batty—he's talkin' in his sleep. I ain't goin' t' no college—Geoff's got sappy in th' bean—"

"Well, you tell him so."

"Sure thing—you watch me!"

"No, I'll get you somethin' t' eat—some milk an'—"

"Say, what about that punkin pie?"

"You sit right there an' wait."

"Chin-Chin!" nodded Spike, and watched her into the house.

No sooner was he alone than he was out of his chair and, descending the steps into the garden, sped gleefully away across lawns and along winding paths, following a haphazard course. But, as he wandered thus, he came to the stables and so to a large building beyond, where were many automobiles of various patterns and make; and here, very busy with brushes, sponge, and water, washing a certain car and making a prodigious splashing, was a figure there was no mistaking, and one whom Spike hailed in joyous surprise.

"Well, well, if it ain't th' old Spider! Gee, but I'm glad t' see you! Say, old sport, I'm a invalid—pipe my bandages, will ye?"

"Huh!" grunted the Spider, without glancing up from the wheel he was washing.

"Say, old lad," continued Spike, "I guess they told you how I put it all over Bud, eh?"

"Mph!" said the Spider, slopping the water about.

"Heard how I saved old Geoff from gettin' snuffed out, didn't yer?"

"Huh-umph!" growled the Spider.

"That's sure some car, eh? Gee, but it's good t' see you again, anyway. How'd you come here, Spider?"

"U-huh!" said the Spider.

"Say," exclaimed Spike, "quit makin' them noises an' say somethin', can't yer? If you can't talk t' a pal, I'm goin'."

"Right-o, Kid!" said the Spider; "only see as you don't go sheddin' no more buttons around."

"B-buttons!" stammered Spike. "What yer mean? What buttons?"

The Old Un, who happened to have been dozing in the limousine that stood in a shady corner, sat up suddenly and blinked.

"Why, I mean," answered the Spider, wringing water from the sponge he held and speaking very deliberately, "I mean the button as you—left behind you—in th' wood!"

Spike gasped and sat down weakly upon the running-board of a car, and the Old Un stole a furtive peep at him.

"So you—know—?"

"Sure I know—more 'n I want t' know about you, so—chase yourself out o' here—beat it!"

Spike stared in mute amazement, then flushed painfully.

"You mean—you an' me—ain't goin' t' be pals no longer?" he asked wistfully.

"That's what!" nodded the Spider, without lifting his scowling gaze from the sponge. "Kid, I ain't no Gold-medal Sunday-school scholar nor I ain't never won no prizes at any Purity League conference, but there's some guys too rotten even f'r me!"

"But I—I—saved his life, didn't I?"

"That ain't nothin' t' blow about after what you did in that wood. Oh, wake up an' see just how dirty an' rotten you are!"

Spike rose and stood, his hands tight-clenched, and though he tried to frown, he couldn't hide the pitiful twitching of his lips nor the quaver in his voice.

"I guess you mean you're goin' t' give me th' throw-down?"

"Well," answered the Spider, scowling at the sponge in his hand, "there's jest two or three things as I ain't got no use for, an' one of 'em's—murder!"

Hereupon Spike shrank away, and the Old Un, reaching out stealthily, opened the door of the limousine while the Spider fell to work again, splashing more than ever. Thus as Spike crept away with head a-droop, the Old Un, all unnoticed, stole after him, his old eyes very bright and birdlike, and, as he followed, keeping in the shade of hedge and tree as much as possible, he whispered a word to himself over and over again:

"Lorgorramighty!"

But Spike went on with dragging feet, ignorant that any one followed, lost in a sudden sense of shame such as he had never known before—a shame that was an agony: for though his bodily eyes were blinded with bitter tears, the eyes of his mind were opened wide at last, and he saw himself foul and dirty, even as the Spider had said. So on stumbling feet Spike reached a shady, grassy corner remote from all chance of observation and, throwing himself down there, he lay with his face hidden, wetting the grass with the tears of his abasement.

When at last he raised his head, he beheld a little old man leaning patiently against a tree near by and watching him with a pair of baleful eyes.

"Hello!" said Spike wearily. "Who are you?"

"I'm Fate, I am!" nodded the Old Un. "Persooin' Fate, that's me."

"What yer here for, anyway?" enquired the lad, humble in his abasement.

"I'm here to persoo!"

"Say, now, what's your game; what yer want?"

"I want you, me lad."

"Well, say—beat it, please—I want t' be alone."

"Not much, me lad. I'm Fate, I am, an' when Fate comes up agin murder, Fate ain't t' be shook off."

"Murder!" gasped Spike. "Oh, my God! I—I ain't—"

The lad sprang to his feet and was running on the instant, but turning to glance back, tripped over some obstacle and fell. Swaying he rose and stumbled on, but slower now by reason of the pain in his wounded arm. Thus, when at last he came out upon the road, the Old Un was still close behind him.

IN WHICH GEOFFREY RAVENSLEE OBTAINS HIS OBJECT

Mrs. Trapes glanced sadly around her cosy housekeeper's room and sighed regretfully; she was alone, and upon the table ready to hand lay her neat bonnet, her umbrella, and a pair of white cotton gloves, beholding which articles her lips set more resolutely, her bony arms folded themselves more tightly, and she nodded in grim determination.

"The labourer is worthy of his hire!" she sighed, apparently addressing the bonnet, "but, if so be the labourer ain't worthy, why then, the sooner he quits—"

A sound of quick, light feet upon the stair and a voice that laughed gaily, a laugh so full of happiness that even Mrs. Trapes's iron features relaxed, and her grim mouth curved in her rare smile. At that moment the door opened and Hermione appeared, a radiant Hermione who clasped Mrs. Trapes in her arms and tangled her up in her long motor veil and laughed again.

"Oh, Ann, such a day!" she exclaimed, laying aside her long dust-coat. "New York is a paradise—when you're rich! No more bargain days and clawing matches over the remnant counter, Ann! Oh, it's wonderful to be able to buy anything I want—anything! Think of it, Ann, isn't it just a dream of joy? And I've shopped and shopped, and he was so dear and patient! I bought Arthur a complete outfit—"

"Arthur!" said Mrs. Trapes, and groaned.

"And you, Ann, you dear thing, I bought you—guess what? But you never could! I bought you a gold watch, the very best I could find, and he bought you a chain for it, a long one to go around your dear neck, set with diamonds and rubies, I mean the chain is—it's the cutest thing, Ann! You remember you used to dream of a gold chain set with real diamonds, some day? Well, 'some day's' to-day, Ann."

"But—oh, Hermy, I—I—"

"He wants to give it you himself, because he says you're the best friend he ever had and—oh, here he is! You did say so, didn't you, Geoffrey?"

"And I surely mean it!" answered Ravenslee, tossing his driving gauntlets into a chair, "though you certainly threw cold water upon my peanut barrow, didn't you, Mrs. Trapes?"

"Oh, Geoffrey, dear, do give her that precious package; I'm dying to see her open it!"

So Ravenslee drew the jeweller's neat parcel from his pocket and put it into Mrs. Trapes's toil-worn hand. For a moment her bony fingers clutched it, then she sighed tremulously and, placing it on the table, rose and stood staring down at it. When at last she spoke, her voice was harsher than usual.

"Hermy, dear—I mean Mrs. Ravenslee, ma'am, I—can't—take 'em!"

"But, dear—why not?"

"Because they're coals o' fire."

"But you must take them, dear; we bought them for you and—"

"Which jools, ma'am, I can in no wise accept."

"Why, Ann, dear, whatever—"

"Which jools, ma'am, having been a dream, must for me so remain, me not bein' faithful in my dooties to you an' Mr. Geoffrey. Consequently I begs to tender you now my resignation, yieldin' up my post in your service to one better worthy, and returnin' t' th' place wherefrom I come."

Here Mrs. Trapes put on her bonnet, setting it a little askew in her agitation.

"Th' labourer is worthy of his hire, but if he ain't—so be it!"

Here Mrs. Trapes tied her bonnet strings so tightly and with such resolute hands that she choked.

"Why, Ann dear," cried Hermione, "whatever do you mean? As if I could bear to part with you!" Here she untied the bonnet strings. "As if I could ever let you go back to Mulligan's!" Here she took off the bonnet. "As if I could ever forget all your tender love and care for me in the days when things were so hard and so very dark!" Here she tossed the bonnet into a corner.

"My land!" sighed Mrs. Trapes, "me best bonnet—"

"I know, Ann. I made it for you over a year ago, and it's time you had another, anyway! Now, open that parcel—this minute!"

But instead of doing so, Mrs. Trapes sank down in the chair beside the table and bowed her head in her hands.

"Hermy," said she, "oh, my lamb, he's gone! You left Arthur in my care an'—he's gone, an' it's my fault. Went away at five o'clock, an' here it is nigh on to ten—an' him sick! God knows I've searched for him—tramped to th' ferry an' back, an' th' footmen they've looked for him an' so have th' maids—but Arthur's gone—an' it's my fault! So, Hermy—my dear—blame me an' let me go—"

The harsh voice broke and, bowing her head, she sat silent, touching the unopened packet of jewellery with one long, bony finger.

"Why, Ann—dear Ann—you're crying!" Hermione was down on her knees, had clasped that long bony figure in her arms. "You mustn't, Ann, you mustn't. I'm sure it wasn't your fault, so don't grieve, dear—there!" And she had drawn the disconsolate grey head down upon her shoulder and pillowed it there.

"But—oh, Hermy, he's gone! An' you told me to—look after him."

"Ann, if Arthur meant to go, I'm sure you couldn't have prevented him; he isn't a child any longer, dear. There, be comforted—we'll hunt for him in the car—won't we, Geoffrey?"

"Of course," nodded Ravenslee, "I'll 'phone the garage right away."

But as he opened the door he came face to face with Joe, who touched an eyebrow and jerked a thumb over his shoulder.

"S'cuse me, sir," said he, "but it's that Old Un, covered wi' dust 'e is, sir, an' wants a word wi' you. And, sir, 'e 's that mysterious as never was. Shall I let him come in, sir?"

"You try an' keep me out, my lad, that's all!" panted the Old Un, ducking under Joe's great arm, "I'm better man nor ever you'll be!"

So saying, the Old Un hobbled forward and, sinking into the nearest armchair, fanned himself with his hat, which, like the rest of his garments, bore the dust of travel.

"Greetin's, Guv!" said he, when he had caught his breath. "'Ere I be—a old man as 'as done more for ye than all th' young 'uns put t'gether. Mrs. Ravenslee, ma'am, best respex!"

"And what have you been doing now?" enquired Ravenslee, smiling.

"Well, Guv, I been an' got th' murderer for ye, that's all!"

Hermione caught her breath suddenly and gazed at the fierce, dusty old man with eyes full of growing terror; beholding which Ravenslee frowned, then laughed lightly and, seating himself on a corner of the table, swung his leg to and fro.

"So you've found him out, have you, Old Un?"

"Ah, that I have!"

"Are you sure?"

"Ah, quite sure, Guv."

"Well, where is he—trot him out."

"'E's comin' along—th' Spider's bringin' un. Ye see, he's a bit wore out same as I am—we been trampin' all th' arternoon. Look at me shoes, that's th' worst o' patent leather—they shows th' dust. Joe, my lad, jest give 'em a flick over with ye wipe."

But at this moment steps were heard slowly approaching, and Hermione uttered an inarticulate cry, then spoke in an agonised whisper: "Arthur!"

Pallid of cheek and drooping of head Spike stood in the doorway, his shabby, threadbare clothes dusty and travel-stained, his slender shape encircled by the Spider's long arm. At Hermione's cry he lifted his head and looked up yearningly, his sensitive mouth quivered, his long-lashed eyes swam in sudden tears, he strove to speak but choked instead; then Ravenslee's calm, pleasant voice broke the painful silence.

"Old Un," said he, rising, "I understand you are fond of jam—well, from now on you shall bathe in it if you wish."

"Spoke like a true sport, Guv!"

"Why, you see, you have surely done me a very great service."

"Meanin' because I found ye th' murderer."

"Murderer?" exclaimed Ravenslee, staring.

"Why, yes—there 'e is!" and the old man pointed a long finger at the shrinking Spike.

"Old Un," said Ravenslee, shaking his head, "don't joke with me—"

"I—I ain't jokin', Guv," cried the Old Un, rising. "Why—oh, Lorgorramighty, you don't mean t' say as this ain't 'im? Why, 'e 's confessed, Guv; I 'eard 'im!"

Ravenslee smiled gently and shook his head again.

"But he has been sick, Old Un; he was hurt, you know, when he saved my life."

"But, Lord, Guv, if 'e 's confessed—"

"He has been sick, Old Un, and when we are sick the wisest of us are apt to say silly things—even I did, so they tell me."

"What?" quavered the old man, "ain't I—ain't I found no murderer for ye, arter all, Guv?"

"You've done something much, very much better, Old Un—you've found me my brother!"

"Brother!" echoed Spike, "brother? Oh, Geoff—" he sighed deeply, and as Ravenslee crossed toward him he smiled wanly and sank swooning into the supporting arms of the Spider, who at a word from Hermione bore the boy up-stairs; but scarcely was he laid upon his bed than he opened his heavy eyes.

"Say, Spider," said he wearily, "old Geoff sure does play square—even to a worm like me—well, I guess! No, don't go yet, I want yer to hear me try to explain the kind o' dirty dog I been—I guess he won't want t' call me 'brother' after that; no, siree, he'll cut me out same as you have an' serve me right too." Then turning toward where Ravenslee and Hermione stood he continued: "Geoff—Hermy, dear—ah, no, don't touch me, I ain't worth it. I'm too dirty—Spider says so—an' I guess he's right. Listen—I meant t' go away t'day an' leave you because I felt so mean, but th' old man followed me, an' I couldn't run because my arm pained some—y' see, I fell on it. So I let him bring me back because I guess it's up t' me t' let you know as I ain't fit t' be your brother, Geoff—or Hermy's." For a moment Spike paused, then with an effort he continued but kept his face averted. "Geoff, it was me—in the wood that time! Yes, it was me, an' I had a gun. I—I meant—t' do you in, Geoff—"

Spike's voice failed and he was silent again, plucking nervously at the sheet, while Hermione's proud head drooped and her hands clasped and wrung each other in an agony of shame; but to these painfully rigid hands came another hand, big and strong yet very gentle, at whose soothing touch those agonised fingers grew lax and soft, then clung to that strong hand in sudden, eager passion.

"Poor old Spike!" said Ravenslee, and his tone was as gentle as his touch.

"But—but, Geoff," stammered the boy. "I—oh, don't you see? I meant to—kill you?"

"Yes, I understand; you thought I deserved it—why?"

"Oh, I was crazy, I guess! Bud told me lies—an' I believed him—lies about you an' Hermy—he said—you'd make Hermy go—the same road—little Maggie Finlay went—so I came t' kill you—"

"Spike, if you believed that, if you really believed that, I don't blame you for trying a shot—"

"But I didn't—I couldn't! When I saw you sittin' there so unsuspectin', I just couldn't do it—I tried to, but I couldn't. An' somehow I dropped th' gun, an' then I heard a shot, an' when I looked up I saw you throw out your arms an' fall—my God, I'll never forget that! Then I saw Bud starin' down at you an' th' pistol smokin' in his hand. I meant t' do it but I couldn't, so Bud did it himself. I'm as bad as him, I reckon, but it was Bud shot you—Soapy saw him an' knows it was Bud—ask Soapy. An' now I've told you all; I guess I ain't fit t' stay here any longer."

Spike's voice choked upon a sob, he buried his face in the pillow, and so there fell a silence—a strange, tense hush, a pause so unexpected that he looked up and saw that Hermione's head was bowed no longer, but she stood, very proud and tall, gazing upon her husband, and in her eyes was a great and wondrous light; and as she looked on him so he gazed on her. They had no thought, no eyes for Spike just then, wherefore he hid his face again.

"I guess this about puts the kybosh on th' brother business!" he sighed miserably, "an' I sure ain't fit t' be th' Spider's pal, I reckon!"

But now the Spider spoke, rather quick and jerkily:

"Say, Kid—get onto this! I'm takin' back—everything I says t' you t'day, see? Because, oh, well—I guess you've sure woke up at last! So, Kid—give us your mitt!"

Eagerly Spike grasped the Spider's big fist, and they shook hands gravely and very deliberately, looking into each other's eyes the while. Then, still quick and jerkily, the Spider turned and hurried out of the room. Then Spike turned to Ravenslee.

"Geoff," he sighed, "I'm not goin' to ask you to forgive me yet, I can't—I'm goin' t' wait an' show you—"

But as he paused Ravenslee's hand was upon the lad's drooping shoulder.

"Arthur," said he, "from now on—from to-night—you are going to be my brother more than ever—a brother we shall both be proud of—what do you say?"

But Spike's eyes were wet, his mouth quivered, and instead of answering he buried his face in the pillow again.

"Say, Hermy," he mumbled, "take him away before I do th' tear-gushin' act! Take him down-stairs—give him a drink—light him a cigarette—kiss him! Only take him away before I get mushy. But, say—when I'm in bed, you'll—you'll come an'—say good night like—like you used to, Hermy dear?"

Swiftly she stooped and kissed that curly head.

"I'll come—oh, I'll come, boy, dear!" she murmured, and left him with Mrs. Trapes.

Down-stairs the fire glowed, filling the room with shadows, and side by side they stood looking down into the heart of the fire and were silent awhile, and, though she was so near, he didn't touch her.

"So it wasn't Arthur, after all!" he said at last.

"No," she answered softly, "it wasn't Arthur—thank God!"

"Amen!" said he, so fervently that she glanced up at him swiftly, then looked into the fire again. Seeing how the colour deepened in her cheek, he came a little nearer; but still he didn't touch her; instead, he took out tobacco pouch and pipe and began to fill it with strangely clumsy fingers, and Hermione saw that his hands were trembling.

"Let me!" she said gently. So he surrendered pipe and pouch and, watching, saw that her hands trembled also; when at last she had filled the pipe, he took it and laid it on the table.

"Aren't you going to smoke, dear?"

"No, not now. You'll remember that Arthur also suggested you should—"

"Give you something to drink!" she added a little breathlessly and crossed to the cellaret in the corner. "Will you have brandy and soda?"

"Thanks—yes—that will do," he answered absently, and when she dutifully brought the filled glass he took it and set it down untasted beside the pipe.

"Why, Geoffrey!" she said in murmurous surprise, "aren't you thirsty?"

"No, not now. You will probably remember that Arthur also suggested you should—"

"I know!" she breathed, "but, oh, Geoffrey, dear—wait—just a little longer."

"Why?" he demanded hoarsely.

"Because!" she answered, staring down at her clasped hands.

"Why?"

"Because, my Geoffrey, if—if I let myself—kiss you now, I—shall never be able to—tear myself away, and I must say good night to Arthur and—"

She paused as a knock sounded on the door, and Mrs. Trapes appeared.

"Why, dear land o' my fathers!" she exclaimed. "Ain't you had time t' take off your bonnet yet, Hermy?"

"Goodness me!" exclaimed Hermione, "I forgot it!" So saying, off it came, and there was the curl above her eyebrow more wantonly alluring than ever.

"An' there's that blessed b'y," continued Mrs. Trapes, "a-layin' up-stairs yearnin' for you, Hermy, an' him s' pale an' gentle—God bless him! An' it now bein' exackly twenty-two an' a half minutes past 'leven by my beautiful new watch as ticks most musical! Time as you was in bed—both of you! an' that reminds me, Hermy, I sent your maid t' bed like you told me, an' with my own two hands I laid out one o' them lovely noo nightdresses—the one with the short sleeves an' lace as you showed me last night an'—Land sakes, she's gone! Think o' that now—my, my! Mrs. Ravenslee's wonderful quick an' light on her feet, Mr. Geoffrey!"

Here Mrs. Trapes raised the watch to her ear and hearkened to its tick again, smiling at Ravenslee's broad back as he turned to reach his glass.

"Them nightdresses," she sighed, "as is all fluffs an' frills an' openwork, may be all right when you're young, but for true comfort give me—flannel, every time."

Here Ravenslee, in the act of sipping his brandy and soda, choked; when at last he glanced around, Mrs. Trapes was gone.

Then he drew a chair to the fire and, sitting down, took up his pipe and tried to light it, but Hermione's nervous white fingers had packed it too tightly for mortal suction, whereat he sighed and, yielding to the impossible, sat with it in his hand, lost in happy thought and waiting for the swift light footsteps he yearned to hear.

The clock in the hall without struck midnight, but long after the mellow chime had died away he sat there waiting; but the great house lay very still about him, and no sound broke the pervading quiet. Wherefore at last he grew restless, frowned at the dying fire, and his strong fingers clenched themselves fiercely about the pipe they still held.

All at once he started, rose to his feet, and turned toward the door eager-eyed, as a hand knocked softly; before he could speak it opened, and Mrs. Trapes reappeared; she was clad in a long flannel dressing gown, and as she paused in the shadows by the door he could vaguely define that she still held the precious watch to her ear.

"It do tick that musical," she said, "an' I can't sleep this night till I've tried t' thank ye both for—for all your goodness to a lonely woman. Ah, Mr. Geoffrey, I guess th' day as you came seekin' lodgin's at my little flat was a good day for Ann Angelina Trapes—why, my land, Mr. Geoffrey—ain't Hermy here?"

"No," answered Ravenslee a little bitterly. "Oh, no, I'm quite alone—as usual, Mrs. Trapes."

"Why, now, that's queer!"

"How queer?"

"Because I've jest been into her bedroom, an' there's her things—except that nightdress—but she—ain't!"

"Not there? She must be! Did you look in—her bed?"

"Lord, Mr. Geoffrey—her bed ain't been tetched!"

"Then where in the world is she?"

"Well," said Mrs. Trapes, consulting her watch again, "it is now exactly fifteen and three-quarter minutes after midnight, so I guess she's in bed somewhere. But this is a big house, an' there's lots of bedrooms, so if I was you, I'd go an' look—till I found her—"

Ravenslee was at the door so swiftly that Mrs. Trapes started, and she saw his eyes were very bright, and the hands he laid on her bony shoulders were quivering.

"Mrs. Trapes," said he, "I will!"

Then he stooped, very suddenly, and kissed the thin, grey hair above her grim eyebrow, and so—was gone.

"Find her?" mused Mrs. Trapes, glancing after him up the wide stairs. "Why, yes, I guess he will sure find her—where she should have been weeks ago. Lord, what a silly, beautiful, lovely thing love is!" and she stood awhile smiling down into the fire, and her smile was very tender.

Then she sighed, switched off the lights, and went softly away.