CHAPTER XXII
THE REFUGEE'S RETURN
Sabatini's attitude of indolence lasted only until they had turned from the waterway into the main river. Then he sat up and pointed a little way down the stream.
"Can you cross over somewhere there?" he asked.
Arnold nodded and punted across towards the opposite bank.
"Get in among the rushes," Sabatini directed. "Now listen to me."
Arnold came and sat down.
"You don't mean to tire me," he remarked.
Sabatini smiled.
"Do you seriously think that I asked you to bring me on the river for the pleasure of watching your prowess with that pole, my friend?" he asked. "Not at all. I am going to ask you to do me a service."
Arnold was suddenly conscious that Sabatini, for the first time since he had known him, was in earnest. The lines of his marble-white face seemed to have grown tenser and firmer, his manner was the manner of a man who meets a crisis.
"Turn your head and look inland," he said. "You follow the lane there?"
"Quite well," he admitted.
"At the corner," Sabatini continued, "just out of sight behind that tall hedge, is my motor car. I want you to land and make your way there. My chauffeur has his instructions. He will take you to a village some eight miles up the river, a village called Heslop Wood. There is a boat-builder's yard at the end of the main street. You will hire a boat and row up the river. About three hundred yards up, on the left hand side, is an old, dismantled-looking house-boat. I want you to board it and search it thoroughly."
Sabatini paused, and Arnold looked at him, perplexed.
"Search it!" he exclaimed. "But for whom? For what?"
"It is my belief," Sabatini went on, "that Starling is hiding there. If he is, I want you to bring him to me by any means which occur to you. I had sooner he were dead, but that is too much to ask of you. I want him brought in the motor car to that point in the lane there. Then, if you succeed, you will bring him down here and your mission is ended. Will you undertake it?"
Arnold never hesitated for a moment. He was only too thankful to be able to reply in the affirmative. He put on his coat and propelled the punt a little further into the rushes.
"I'll do my best," he asserted.
Sabatini said never a word, but his silence seemed somehow eloquent. Arnold sprang onto the bank and turned once around.
"If he is there, I'll bring him," he promised.
Sabatini waved his hand and Arnold sped across the meadow. He found the motor car waiting behind the hedge, and he had scarcely stepped in before they were off. They swung at a great speed along the narrow lanes, through two villages, and finally came to a standstill at the end of a long, narrow street. Arnold alighted and found the boat-builder's yard, with rows of boats for hire, a short distance along the front. He chose one and paddled off, glancing at his watch as he did so. It was barely a quarter of an hour since he had left Sabatini.
The river at this spot was broad, but it narrowed suddenly on rounding a bend about a hundred yards away. The house-boat was in sight now, moored close to a tiny island. Arnold pulled up alongside and paused to reconnoiter. To all appearance, it was a derelict. There were no awnings, no carpets, no baskets of flowers. The outside was grievously in need of paint. It had an entirely uninhabited and desolate appearance. Arnold beached his boat upon the little island and swung himself up onto the deck. There was still no sign of any human occupancy. He descended into the saloon. The furniture there was mildewed and musty. Rain had come in through an open window, and the appearance of the little apartment was depressing in the extreme. Stooping low, he next examined the four sleeping apartments. There was no bedding in any one of them, nor any sign of their having been recently occupied. He passed on into the kitchen, with the same result. It seemed as though his journey had been in vain. He made his way back again on deck, and descended the stairs leading to the fore part of the boat. Here were a couple of servant's rooms, and, though there was no bedding, one of the bunks gave him the idea that some one had been lying there recently. He looked around him and sniffed—there was a distinct smell of tobacco smoke. He stepped lightly back into the passageway. There was nothing to be heard, and no material indication of any one's presence, yet he had the uncomfortable feeling that some one was watching him—some one only a few feet away. He waited for almost a minute. Nothing happened, yet his sense of apprehension grew deeper. For the first time, he associated the idea of danger with his enterprise.
"Is any one about here?" he asked.
There was no reply. He tried another door, which led into a sort of pantry, without result. The last one was fastened on the inside.
"Is Mr. Starling in there?" Arnold demanded.
There was still no reply, yet it was certain now that the end of his search was at hand. Distinctly he could hear the sound of a man breathing.
"Will you tell me if you are there, Mr. Starling?" Arnold again demanded. "I have a message for you."
Starling, if indeed he were there, seemed now to be even holding his breath. Arnold took one step back and charged the door. It went crashing in, and almost at once there was a loud report. The closet—it was little more—was filled with smoke, and Arnold heard distinctly the hiss of a bullet buried in the woodwork over his shoulder. He caught the revolver from the shaking fingers of the man who was crouching upon the ground, and slipped it into his pocket. With his other hand, he held his prisoner powerless.
"What the devil do you mean by that?" he cried, fiercely.
Starling—for it was Starling—seemed to have no words. Arnold dragged him out into the light and for a moment found it hard to recognize the man. He had lost over a stone in weight. His cheeks were hollow, and his eyes had the hunted look in them of some wild animal.
"What do you want with me?" he muttered. "Can't you see I am hiding here? What business is it of yours to interfere?"
Arnold looked at him from head to foot. The man was shaking all over; the coward's fear was upon him.
"What on earth are you in this state for?" he exclaimed. "Whom are you hiding from? You have been set free. Is it the Rosario business still? You have been set free once."
Starling moistened his lips rapidly.
"They set me free," he muttered, "because one of their witnesses failed. They had no case; they wouldn't bring me up. But I am still under surveillance. The sergeant as good as told me that they'd have me before long."
"Well, at present, I've got you," Arnold said coolly. "Have you any luggage?"
"No! Why?"
"Because you are coming along with me."
"Where?"
"I am taking you to Count Sabatini," Arnold informed him. "He is at his villa about ten miles down the river."
Starling flopped upon his knees.
"For the love of God, don't take me to him!" he begged.
"Why not?"
"He is a devil, that man," Starling whispered, confidentially. "He would blow out my brains or yours or his own, without a second's hesitation, if it suited him. He hasn't any nerves nor any fear nor any pity. He will laugh at me—he won't understand, he is so reckless!"
"Well, we're going to him, anyhow," Arnold said. "I don't see how you can be any worse off than hiding in this beastly place. Upstairs and into the boat, please."
Starling struggled weakly to get away but he was like a child in Arnold's hands.
"You had much better come quietly," the latter advised. "You'll have to come, anyway, and if you're really afraid of being arrested again, I should think Count Sabatini would be the best man to aid your escape."
"But he won't let me escape," Starling protested. "He doesn't understand danger. I am not made like him. My nerve has gone. I came into this too late in life."
"Jump!" Arnold ordered, linking his arm into his companion's.
They landed, somehow, upon the island. Arnold pointed to the boat.
"Please be sensible," he begged, "now, at any rate. There may be people passing at any moment."
"I was safe in there," Starling mumbled. "Why the devil couldn't you have left me alone?"
Arnold bent over his oars.
"Safe!" he repeated, contemptuously. "You were doing the one thing which a guilty man would do. People would have known before long that you were there, obviously hiding. I think that Count Sabatini will propose something very much better."
"Perhaps so," Starling muttered. "Perhaps he will help me to get away."
They reached the village and Arnold paid for the hire of his boat. Then he hurried Starling into the car, and a moment or two later they were off.
"Is it far away?" Starling asked, nervously.
"Ten minutes' ride. Sabatini has arranged it all very well. We get out, cross a meadow, and find him waiting for us in the punt."
"You won't leave me alone with him on the river?" Starling begged.
"No, I shall be there," Arnold promised.
"There's nothing would suit him so well," Starling continued, "as to see me down at the bottom of the Thames, with a stone around my neck. I tell you I'm frightened of him. If I can get out of this mess," he went on, "I'm off back to New York. Any job there is better than this. What are we stopping for? Say, what's wrong now?"
"It's all right," Arnold answered. "Step out. We cross this meadow on foot. When we reach the other end, we shall find Sabatini. Come along."
They turned toward the river, Starling muttering, now and then, to himself. In a few minutes they came in sight of the punt. Sabatini was still there, with his head reclining among the cushions. He looked up and waved his hand.
"A record, my young friend!" he exclaimed. "I congratulate you, indeed. You have been gone exactly fifty-five minutes, and I gave you an hour and a half at the least. Our friend Starling was glad to see you, I hope?"
"He showed his pleasure," Arnold remarked dryly, "in a most original manner. However, here he is. Shall I take you across now?"
"If you please," Sabatini agreed.
He sat up and looked at Starling. The latter hung his head and shook like a guilty schoolboy.
"It was so foolish of you," Sabatini murmured, "but we'll talk of that presently. They were civil to you at the police court, eh?"
"I was never charged," Starling replied. "They couldn't get their evidence together."
"Still, they asked you questions, no doubt?" Sabatini continued.
"I told them nothing," Starling replied. "On my soul and honor, I told them nothing!"
"It was very wise of you," Sabatini said. "It might have led to disappointments—to trouble of many sorts. So you told them nothing, eh? That is excellent. After we have landed, I must hand you over to my valet. Then we will have a little talk."
They were in the backwater now, drifting on toward the lawn. Starling shrank back at the sight of the two women.
"I can't face it," he muttered. "I tell you I have lost my nerve."
"You have nothing to fear," Sabatini said quietly. "There is no one here likely to do you or wish you any harm."
Fenella came down to the steps to meet them.
"So our prodigal has returned," she remarked, smiling at Starling.
"We have rescued Mr. Starling from a solitary picnic upon his house-boat," Sabatini explained, suavely. "We cannot have our friends cultivating misanthropy."
Mr. Weatherley, who had returned from the boat-builder's, half rose from his chair and sat down again, frowning. He watched the two men cross the lawn towards the house. Then he turned to Ruth and shook his head.
"I have a great regard for Count Sabatini," he declared, "a great regard, but there are some of his friends—very many of them, in fact—whose presence here I could dispense with. That man is one of them. Do you know where he was a few nights ago, Miss Lalonde?"
She shook her head.
"In prison," Mr. Weatherley said, impressively; "arrested on a serious charge."
Her eyes asked him a question. He stooped towards her and lowered his voice.
"Murder," he whispered; "the murder of Mr. Rosario!"
CHAPTER XXIII
TROUBLE BREWING
Through the winding lanes, between the tall hedges, honeysuckle wreathed and starred with wild roses, out onto the broad main road, Sabatini's great car sped noiselessly on its way back to London. They seemed to pass in a few moments from the cool, perfumed air of the country into the hot, dry atmosphere of the London suburbs. Almost before they realized that they were on their homeward way, the fiery glow of the city was staining the clouds above their heads. Arnold leaned a little forward, watching, as the car raced on to its goal. This ride through the darkness seemed to supply the last thrill of excitement to their wonderful day. He glanced towards Ruth, who lay back among the cushions, as though sleeping, by his side.
"You are tired?"
"Yes," she answered simply.
They were in the region now of electric cars—wonderful vehicles ablaze with light, flashing towards them every few minutes, laden with Sunday evening pleasure seekers. Their automobile, however, perfectly controlled by Sabatini's Italian chauffeur, swung from one side of the road to the other and held on its way with scarcely abated speed.
"You have enjoyed the day?" he asked.
She opened her eyes and looked at him. He saw the shadows, and wondered.
"Of course," she whispered.
His momentary wonder at her reticence passed. Again he was leaning a little forward, looking up the broad thoroughfare with its double row of lights, its interminable rows of houses growing in importance as they rushed on.
"It is we ourselves who pass now along the lighted way!" he exclaimed, holding her arm for, a moment. "It is an enchanted journey, ours, Ruth."
She laughed bitterly.
"An enchanted journey which leads to two very dreary attic rooms on the sixth floor of a poverty-stricken house," she reminded him. "It leads back to the smoke-stained city, to the four walls within which one dreams empty dreams."
"It isn't so bad as that," he protested.
Her lips trembled for a moment; she half closed her eyes. An impulse of pain passed like a spasm across her tired features.
"It is different for you," she murmured. "Every day you escape. For me there is no escape."
He felt a momentary twinge of selfishness. Yet, after all, the great truths were incontrovertible. He could lighten her lot but little. There was very little of himself that he could give her—of his youth, his strength, his vigorous hold upon life. Through all the tangle of his expanding interests in existence, the medley of strange happenings in which he found himself involved, one thing alone was clear. He was passing on into a life making larger demands upon, him, a life in which their companionship must naturally become a slighter thing. Nevertheless, he spoke to her reassuringly.
"You cannot believe, Ruth," he said, "that I shall ever forget? We have been through too much together, too many dark days."
She sighed.
"There wasn't much for either of us to look forward to, was there, when we first looked down on the river together and you began to tell me fairy stories."
"They kept our courage alive," he declared. "I am not sure that they are not coming true."
She half closed her eyes.
"For you, Arnold," she murmured. "Not all the fancies that were ever spun in the brain of any living person could alter life very much for me."
He took her hand and held it tightly. Yet it was hard to know what to say to her. It was the inevitable tragedy, this, of their sexes and her infirmity. He realized in those few minutes something of how she was feeling,—the one who is left upon the lonely island while the other is borne homeward into the sunshine and tumult of life. There was little, indeed, which he could say. It was not the hour, this, for protestation.
They passed along Piccadilly, across Leicester Square, and into the Strand. The wayfarers in the streets, of whom there were still plenty, seemed to be lingering about in sheer joy of the cooler night after the unexpected heat of the day, the women in light clothes, the men with their coats thrown open and carrying their hats. They passed down the Strand and into Adam Street, coming at last to a standstill before the tall, gloomy house at the corner of the Terrace. Arnold stepped out onto the pavement and helped his companion to alight. The chauffeur lifted his hat and the car glided away. As they stood there, for a moment, upon the pavement, and Arnold pushed open the heavy, shabby door, it seemed, indeed, as though the whole day might have been a dream.
Ruth moved wearily along the broken, tesselated pavement, and paused for a moment before the first flight of stairs. Arnold, taking her stick from her, caught her up in his arms. Her fingers closed around his neck and she gave a little sigh of relief.
"Will you really carry me up all the way, Arnie?" she whispered. "I am so tired to-night. You are sure that you can manage it?"
He laughed gayly.
"I have done it many times before," he reminded her. "To-night I feel as strong as a dozen men."
One by one they climbed the flight of stone steps. Curiously enough, notwithstanding the strength of which he had justly boasted, as they neared the top of the house he felt his breath coming short and his heart beating faster, as though some unusual strain were upon him. She had tightened her grasp upon his neck. She seemed, somehow, to have come closer to him, yet to hang like a dead weight in his arms. Her cheek was touching his. Once, toward the end, he looked into her face, and the fire of her eyes startled him.
"You are not really tired," he muttered.
"I am resting like this," she whispered.
He stood at last upon the top landing. He set her down with a little thrill, assailed by a medley of sensations, the significance of which confused him. She seemed still to cling to him, and she pointed to his door.
"For five minutes," she begged, "let us sit in our chairs and look down at the river. To-night it is too hot to sleep."
Even while he opened his door, he hesitated.
"What about Isaac?" he asked.
She shivered and looked over her shoulder. They were in his room now and she closed the door. On the threshold she stood quite still for a moment, as though listening. There was something in her face which alarmed him.
"Do you know, I believe that I am afraid to go back," she said. "Isaac has been stranger than ever these last few days. All the time he is locked up in his room, and he shows himself only at night."
Arnold dragged her chair up to the window and installed her comfortably. He himself was thinking of Isaac's face under the gaslight, as he had seen him stepping away from the taxicab.
"Isaac was always queer," he reminded her, reassuringly.
She drew him down to her side.
"There has been a difference these last few days," she whispered. "I am afraid—I am terribly afraid that he has done something really wrong."
Arnold felt a little shiver of fear himself.
"You must remember," he said quietly, "that after all Isaac is, in a measure, outside your life. No one can influence him for either good or evil. He is not like other men. He must go his own way, and I, too, am afraid that it may be a troublous one. He chose it for himself and neither you nor I can help. I wouldn't think about him at all, dear, if you can avoid it. And for yourself, remember always that you have another protector."
The faintest of smiles parted her lips. In the moonlight, which was already stealing into the room through the bare, uncurtained window, her face seemed like a piece of beautiful marble statuary, ghostly, yet in a single moment exquisitely human.
"I have no claim upon you, Arnold," she reminded him, "and I think that soon you will pass out of my life. It is only natural. You must go on, I must remain. And that is the end of it," she added, with a little quiver of the lips. "Now let us finish talking about ourselves. I want to talk about your new friends."
"Tell me what you really think of them?" he begged. "Count Sabatini has been so kind to me that if I try to think about him at all I am already prejudiced."
"I think," she replied slowly, "that Count Sabatini is the strangest man whom I ever met. Do you remember when he stood and looked down upon us? I felt—but it was so foolish!"
"You felt what?" he persisted.
She shook her head.
"I cannot tell. As though we were not strangers at all. I suppose it is what they call mesmerism. He had that soft, delightful way of speaking, and gentle mannerism. There was nothing abrupt or new about him. He seemed, somehow, to become part of the life of any one in whom he chose to interest himself in the slightest. And he talked so delightfully, Arnold. I cannot tell you how kind he was to me."
Arnold laughed.
"It's a clear case of hero worship," he declared. "You're going to be as bad as I have been."
"And yet," she said slowly, "it is his sister of whom I think all the time. Fenella she calls herself, doesn't she?"
"You like her, too?" Arnold asked eagerly.
"I hate her," was the low, fierce reply.
Arnold drew a little away.
"You can't mean it!" he exclaimed. "You can't really mean that you don't like her!"
Ruth clutched at his arm as though jealous of his instinctive disappointment.
"I know that it's brutally ungracious," she declared. "It's a sort of madness, even. But I hate her because she is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen here in life. I hate her for that, and I hate her for her strength. Did you see her come across the lawn to us to-night, Arnold?"
He nodded enthusiastically.
"You mean in that smoke-colored muslin dress?"
"She has no right to wear clothes like that!" Ruth cried. "She does it so that men may see how beautiful she is. I—well, I hate her!"
There was a silence. Then Ruth rose slowly to her feet. Her tone was suddenly altered, her eyes pleaded with his.
"Don't take any notice of me to-night, Arnold," she implored. "It has been such a wonderful day, and I am not used to so much excitement. I am afraid that I am a little hysterical. Do be kind and help me across to my room."
"Is there any hurry?" he asked. "It hasn't struck twelve yet."
"I want to go, please," she begged. "I shall say foolish things if I stay here much longer, and I don't want to. Let me go."
He obeyed her without further question. Once more he supported her with his arms, but she kept her face turned away. When he had reached her door he would have left her, but she still clutched his arm.
"I am foolish," she whispered, "foolish and wicked to-night. And besides, I am afraid. It is all because I am overtired. Come in with me for one moment, please, and let me be sure that Isaac is all right. Feel how I am trembling."
"Of course I will come," he answered. "Isaac can't be angry with me to-night, anyhow, for my clothes are old and dusty enough."
He opened the door and they passed across the threshold. Then they both stopped short and Ruth gave a little start. The room was lit with several candles. There was no sign of Isaac, but a middle-aged man, with black beard and moustache, had risen to his feet at their entrance. He glanced at Ruth with keen interest, at Arnold with a momentary curiosity.
"What are you doing here?" Ruth demanded. "What right have you in this room?"
The man did not answer her question.
"I shall be glad," he said, "if you will come in and shut the door. If you are Miss Ruth Lalonde, I have a few questions to ask you."
CHAPTER XXIV
ISAAC AT BAY
Arnold had a swift premonition of what had happened. He led Ruth to a chair and stood by her side. Ruth gazed around the room in bewilderment. The curtained screen which divided it had been torn down, and the door of the inner apartment, which Isaac kept so zealously locked, stood open. Not only that, but the figure of a second man was dimly seen moving about inside, and, from the light shining out, it was obviously in some way illuminated.
"I don't understand who you are or what you are doing here," Ruth declared, trembling in every limb.
"My name is Inspector Grant," the man replied. "My business is with Isaac Lalonde, who I understand is your uncle."
"What do you want with him?" she asked.
The inspector made no direct reply.
"There are a few questions," he said, "which it is my duty to put to you."
"Questions?" she repeated.
"Do you know where your uncle is?"
Ruth shook her head.
"I left him here this morning," she replied. "He has not been out for several days. I expected to find him here when I returned."
"We have been here since four o'clock," the man said. "There was no one here when we arrived, nor has any one been since. Your uncle has no regular hours, I suppose?"
"He is very uncertain," Ruth answered. "He does newspaper reporting, and he sometimes has to work late."
"Can you tell me what newspaper he is engaged upon?"
"The Signal, for one," Ruth replied.
Inspector Grant was silent for a moment.
"The Signal newspaper offices were seized by the police some days ago," he remarked. "Do you know of any other journal on which your uncle worked?"
She shook her head.
"He tells me very little of his affairs," she faltered.
The inspector pointed backwards into the further corner of the apartment.
"Do you often go into his room there?" he asked.
"I have not been for months," Ruth assured him. "My uncle keeps it locked up. He told me that there had been some trouble at the office and he was printing something there."
The inspector rose slowly to his feet. On the table by his side was a pile of articles covered over with a tablecloth. Very deliberately he removed the latter and looked keenly at Ruth. She shrank back with a little scream. There were half a dozen murderous-looking pistols there, a Mannerlicher rifle, and a quantity of ammunition.
"What does your uncle need with these?" the inspector asked dryly.
"How can I tell?" Ruth replied. "I have never seen one of them before. I never knew that they were in the place."
"Nor I," Arnold echoed. "I have been a constant visitor here, too, and I have never seen firearms of any sort before."
The inspector turned towards him.
"Are you a friend of Isaac Lalonde?" he asked.
"I am not," Arnold answered. "I am a friend of his niece here, Miss Ruth Lalonde. I know very little of Isaac, although I see him here sometimes."
"I should like to know your name, if you have no objection," the inspector remarked.
"My name is Chetwode," Arnold told him. "I occupy a room on the other side of the passage."
"When did you last see Isaac Lalonde?"
Arnold did not hesitate for a moment. What he had seen at Hampstead belonged to himself. He deliberately wiped out the memory of it from his thoughts.
"On Thursday evening here."
The inspector made a note in his pocket-book. Then he turned again to Ruth.
"You can give me no explanation, then, as to your uncle's absence to-night?"
"None at all. I can only say what I told you before—that I expected to find him here on my return."
"Was he here when you left this morning?"
"I believe so," Ruth assured him. "He very seldom comes out of his room until the middle of the day, and he does not like my going to him there. As we started very early, I did not disturb him."
"Have you any objection," the inspector asked, "to telling me where you have spent the whole of to-day?"
"Not the slightest," Arnold interposed. "We have been to Bourne End, and to a village in the neighborhood."
The inspector nodded thoughtfully. Ruth leaned a little forward in her chair. Her voice trembled with anxiety.
"Please tell me," she begged, "what is the charge against my uncle?"
The inspector glanced over his shoulder at that inner room, from which fitful gleams of light still came. He looked down at the heap of pistols and ammunition by his side.
"The charge," he said slowly, "is of a somewhat serious nature."
Ruth was twisting up her glove in her hand.
"I do not believe," she declared, "that Isaac has ever done anything really wrong. He is a terrible socialist, and he is always railing at the rich, but I do not believe that he would hurt any one."
The inspector looked grimly at the little pile of firearms.
"A pretty sort of armory, this," he remarked, "for a peace-loving man. What do you suppose he keeps them here for, in his room? What do you suppose—"
They all three heard it at the same time. The inspector broke off in the middle of his sentence. Ruth, shrinking in her chair, turned her head fearfully towards the door, which still stood half open. Arnold was looking breathlessly in the same direction. Faintly, but very distinctly, they heard the patter of footsteps climbing the stone stairs. It sounded as though a man were walking upon tiptoe, yet dragging his feet wearily. The inspector held up his hand, and his subordinate, who had been searching the inner room, came stealthily out. Ruth, obeying her first impulse, opened her lips to shriek. The inspector leaned forward and his hand suddenly closed over her mouth. He looked towards Arnold, who was suffering from a moment's indecision.
"If you utter a sound," he whispered, "you will be answerable to the law."
Nobody spoke or moved. It was an odd little tableau, grouped together in the dimly lit room. The footsteps had reached the last flight of stairs now. They came slowly across the landing, then paused, as though the person who approached could see the light shining through the partly open door. They heard a voice, a voice almost unrecognizable, a voice hoarse and tremulous with fear, the voice of a hunted man.
"Are you there, Ruth?"
Ruth struggled to reply, but ineffectually. Slowly, and as though with some foreboding of danger, the footsteps came nearer and nearer. An unseen hand cautiously pushed the door open. Isaac stood upon the threshold, peering anxiously into the room. The inspector turned and faced him.
"Isaac Lalonde," he said, "I have a warrant for your arrest. I shall want you to come with me to Bow Street."
With the certainty of danger, Isaac's fear seemed to vanish into thin air. He saw the open door of his ransacked inner room and the piled-up heap of weapons upon the table. Face to face with actual danger, the, courage of a wild animal at bay seemed suddenly vouchsafed to him.
"Come with you to Hell!" he cried. "I think not, Mr. Inspector. Are these the witnesses against me?"
He pointed to Ruth and Arnold. Ruth clutched her stick and staggered tremblingly to her feet.
"How can you say that, Isaac!" she exclaimed. "Arnold and I have only been home from the country a few minutes. We walked into the room and found these men here. Isaac, I am terrified. Tell me that you have not done anything really wrong!"
Isaac made no reply. All the time he watched the inspector stealthily. The latter moved forward now, as though to make the arrest. Then Isaac's hand shot out from his pocket and a long stream of yellow fire flashed through the room. The inspector sprang back. Isaac's hand, with the smoke still curling from the muzzle of his pistol, remained extended.
"That was only a warning," Isaac declared, calmly. "I aimed at the wall there. Next time it may be different."
There was a breathless silence. The inspector stood his ground but he did not advance.
"Let me caution you, Isaac Lalonde," he said, "that the use of firearms by any one in your position is fatal. You can shoot me, if you like, and my assistant, but if you do you will certainly be hanged. It is my duty to arrest you and I am going to do it."
Isaac's hand was still extended. This time he had lowered the muzzle of his pistol. The inspector was only human and he paused, for he was looking straight into the mouth of it. Isaac slowly backed toward the door.
"Remember, you are warned!" he cried. "If any one pursues me, I shoot!"
His departure was so sudden and so speedy that he was down the first flight of stairs before the inspector started. Arnold, who was nearest the door, made a movement as though to follow, but Ruth threw her arms around him. The policeman who had been examining the other room rushed past them both.
"You shall not go!" Ruth sobbed. "It is no affair of yours. It is between the police and Isaac."
"I want to stop his shooting," Arnold replied. "He must be mad to use firearms against the police. Let me go, Ruth."
"You can't!" she shrieked. "You can't catch him now!"
Then she suddenly held her ears. Three times quickly they heard the report of the pistol. There was a moment's silence, then more shots. Arnold picked Ruth up in his arms and, running with her across the landing, laid her in his own easy-chair.
"I must see what has happened!" he exclaimed, breathlessly. "Wait here."
She was powerless to resist him. He tore himself free from the clutch of her fingers and rushed down the stairs, expecting every moment to come across the body of one of the policemen. To his immense relief, he reached the street without discovering any signs of the tragedy he feared. Adam Street was deserted, but in the gardens below the Terrace he could hear the sound of voices, and a torn piece of clothing hung from the spike of one of the railings. Isaac had evidently made for the gardens and the river. The sound of the chase grew fainter and fainter, and there were no more shots. Arnold, after a few minutes' hesitation, turned round and reclimbed the stairs. The place smelt of gunpowder, and little puffs of smoke were curling upwards.
Arrived on the top landing, he closed the door of Isaac's room and entered his own apartment. Ruth had dragged herself to the window and was leaning out.
"He has gone across the gardens," she cried breathlessly. "I saw him running. Perhaps he will get away, after all. I saw one of the policemen fall down, and he was quite a long way ahead then."
"At any rate, no harm was done by the firing," Arnold declared. "I don't think he really shot at them at all."
They knelt side by side before the window-sill. The gardens were still faintly visible in the dim moonlight, but all signs of disturbance had passed away. She clung nervously to his arm.
"Arnold," she whispered, "tell me, what do you think he has done?"
"I don't suppose he has done anything very much," Arnold replied, cheerfully. "What I really think is that he has got mixed up with some of these anarchists, writing for this wretched paper, and they have probably let him in for some of their troubles."
They stayed there for a measure of time they were neither of them able to compute. At last, with a little sigh, he rose to his feet. For the first time they began to realize what had happened.
"Isaac will not come back," he said.
She clung to him hysterically.
"Arnold," she cried, "I am nervous. I could not sleep in that room. I never want to see it again as long as I live."
For a moment he was perplexed. Then he smiled. "It's rather an awkward situation for us attic dwellers," he remarked. "I'll bring your couch in here, if you like, and you can lie before the window, where it's cool."
"You don't mind?" she begged. "I couldn't even think of going to sleep. I should sit up all night, anyhow."
"Not a bit," he assured her. "I don't think it would be much use thinking about bed."
He made his way back into Isaac's apartments, brought out her couch and arranged it by the window. She lay down with a little sigh of relief. Then he dragged up his own easy chair to her side and held her hand. They heard Big Ben strike two o'clock, and soon afterwards Arnold began to doze. When he awoke, with a sudden start, her hand was still in his. Eastward, over the city, a faint red glow hung in the heavens. The world was still silent, but in the delicate, pearly twilight the trees in the gardens, the bridge, and the buildings in the distance—everything seemed to stand out with a peculiar and unfamiliar distinctness. She, too, was sitting up, and they looked out of the window together. Five o'clock was striking now.
"I've been asleep!" Arnold exclaimed. "Something woke me up."
She nodded.
"There is some one knocking at the door outside," she whispered. "That is what woke you. I heard it several minutes ago."
He jumped up at once.
"I will go and see what it is," he declared.
He opened the door and looked out onto the landing. The knocking was at the door of Isaac's apartment. Two policemen and a man in plain clothes were standing there.
"There is no one in those rooms," Arnold said. "The door shuts with a spring lock, but I have a key here, if you wish to enter."
The sergeant looked at Arnold and approved of him.
"I have an order to remove some firearms and other articles," he announced. "Also, can you tell me where the young woman—Ruth Lalonde—is?"
"She is in my room," Arnold replied. "She was too terrified to remain alone over there. You don't want her, do you?" he asked, anxiously.
The man shook his head.
"I have no definite instructions concerning her," he said, "but we should like to know that she has no intention of going away."
Arnold threw open the door before them.
"I am sure that she has not," he declared. "She is quite an invalid, and besides, she has nowhere else to go."
The sergeant gave a few orders respecting the movement of a pile of articles covered over by a tablecloth, which had been dragged out of Isaac's room. Before he had finished, Arnold ventured upon the question which had been all the time trembling upon his lips.
"This man Isaac Lalonde—was he arrested?"
The sergeant made no immediate reply.
"Tell me, at least, was any one hurt?" Arnold begged.
"No one was shot, if you mean that," the sergeant admitted.
"He very likely is by this time," the sergeant said. "As a matter of fact, he got away. A friend of yours, is he?"
"Certainly not," Arnold answered. "I have an attic on the other side of the landing there, and I have made friends with the girl. My interest in Isaac Lalonde is simply because she is his niece. Can you tell me what the charge is against him?"
"We believe him to be one of a very dangerous gang of criminals," the sergeant replied. "I can't tell you more than that. If you take my advice, sir," he continued, civilly, "you will have as little as possible to do with either the man or the girl. There's no doubt about the man's character, and birds of a feather generally flock together."
"I am perfectly certain," Arnold declared, vigorously, "that if there has been anything irregular in her uncle's life, Miss Lalonde knew nothing of it. We both knew that he talked wildly, but, for the rest, his doings have been as much a mystery to her as to me."
The sergeant was summoned by one of his subordinates. The two men stood whispering together for a few moments. He turned finally toward Arnold.
"I shall have to ask you to leave us now, sir," he said civilly.
"There's nothing more you can tell me about this affair, I suppose?" Arnold asked.
The sergeant shook his head.
"You will hear all about it later on, sir."
Arnold turned reluctantly back to his own room, where Ruth, was anxiously waiting. He closed the door carefully behind him.
"Isaac has escaped," he announced, "and no one was hurt."
She drew a little sigh of immense relief.
"Did they tell you what the charge was?"
"Not definitely," he replied. "So far as I could make out from what the sergeant said, it was keeping bad company as much as anything."
"The police are in the rooms now?" she asked.
"Three more of them," he assented. "I don't know what they want but evidently you'll have to stay here. Now I'm going to light this spirit-lamp and make some coffee."
He moved cheerfully about the room, and she watched him all the time with almost pathetic earnestness. Presently he brought the breakfast things over to her side and sat at the foot of her couch while the water boiled. He took her hand and held it caressingly.
"I shouldn't worry about Isaac," he said. "I don't suppose he is really very much mixed up with these fellows. He'll have to keep out of the way for a time, that's all."
"There were the pistols," she faltered, doubtfully.
"I expect they saddled him with them because he was the least likely to be suspected," Arnold suggested. "There's the water boiling already. Now for it."
He cut some bread and butter and made the coffee. They ate and drank almost in silence. Through the open window now the roar of traffic was growing every minute in volume. Across the bridge the daily stream of men and vehicles had commenced to flow. Presently he glanced at the clock and, putting down his coffee cup, rose to his feet.
"In a few minutes, dear, I must be off," he announced. "You won't mind being left, will you?"
Her lips trembled.
"Why should I?" she murmured. "Of course you must go to work."
He went behind his little screen, where he plunged his head into a basin of cold water. When he reappeared, a few minutes later, he was ready to start.
"I expect those fellows will have cleared out from your rooms by now," he said, throwing open the door. "Hullo, what's this?"
A trunk and hatbox had been dragged out onto the landing. A policeman was sitting on a chair in front of the closed door, reading a newspaper.
"We have collected the young lady's belongings, so far as possible, sir," he remarked. "If there is anything else belonging to her, she may be able to get it later on."
"Do you mean to say that she can't go back to her own rooms?" Arnold demanded.
"I am sorry, sir," the man replied, "but I am here to see that no one enters them under any pretext."
Arnold looked at him blankly.
"But what is the young lady to do?" he protested. "She has no other home."
The policeman remained unmoved.
"Sorry, sir," he said, "but her friends will have to find her one for the time being. She certainly can't come in here."
Arnold felt a sudden weight upon his arm. Ruth had been standing by his side and had heard everything. He led her gently back. She was trembling violently.
"Don't worry about me, Arnold," she begged. "You go away. By the time you come back, I—I shall have found a home somewhere."
He passed his arm around her. A wild flash in her eyes had suddenly revealed her thought.
"Unless you promise me," he said firmly, "that I shall find you on that couch when I return this evening, I shall not leave this room."
"But, Arnold,—"
"The business of Samuel Weatherley & Company," he interrupted, glancing at the clock, "will be entirely disorganized unless you promise."
"I promise," she murmured faintly.