CHAPTER IV
Iambic and hexameter, farewell! In that moment the poet died in Thomas; I mean, the poet who had to dig his expressions of life out of ink-pots. Things boil up quickly and unexpectedly in the soul; century-old impulses, undreamed of by the inheritor; and when these bubble and spill over the kettle's lip, watch out. There is an island in the South Seas where small mud-geysers burst forth under the pressure of the foot. Fate had stepped on Thomas.
As he sprang out of his bunk he was a reversion: the outlaw in Lincoln-green, the Yeoman of the Guard, the bandannaed smuggler of the southeast coast. Quickly he got into his uniform. He went about this affair the right way, with foresight and prudence; for he realized that he must act instantly. He sought the purser, who was cordial.
"I'm not feeling well," began Thomas; "and the doctor is ashore. Where's there an apothecary's shop?"
"Two blocks straight out from the pier entrance. You'll see red and blue lights in the windows. Tummy?"
"I'm subject to dizzy spells. Where's Jameson?" Jameson was the surly cabin-mate.
"Quit. Gone over to the Cunard. Fool. Like a little money advanced? Here's a bill, five dollars."
"Thank you, sir." Twenty shillings, ten pence. "Doesn't Jameson take his peg a little too often, sir?"
"He's a blighter. Glad to get rid of him. Hurry back. And don't stop at Mike's or Johnny's,"—smiling.
"I never touch anything heavier than ale, sir." Mike's or Johnny's; it saved him the trouble of asking. Tippling pubs where stewards foregathered.
His uniform was his passport. Nobody questioned him as he passed the barrier at a dog-trot. Outside the smelly pier (sugar, coffee and spices, shipments from Killigrew and Company) he paused to send a short prayer to heaven. Then he approached a snoozing stevedore.
"Where's Mike's?"
"Lead y' there, ol' scout!"
"No; tell me where it is. Here's a shilling."
Explicit directions followed; and away went Thomas at a dog-trot again: the lust to punish, maim or kill in his heart. He was not a university man; he had not played cricket at Lord's or stroked the crew from Leander; but he was island-born, a chap for cold tubbings, calisthenics and long tramps into the country on pleasant Sundays. Thomas was slender, but sound and hard.
Jameson was not at Mike's nor at Johnny's; but there were dozens of other saloons. He did not ask questions. He went in, searched, and strode out. In the lowest kind of a drinking dive he found his man. A great wave of dizziness swept over Thomas. When it passed, only the bandannaed smuggler remained, cautious, cunning, patient.
The quarry was alone in a side-room, drinking gin and smiling to himself. For an hour Thomas waited. His palms became damp with cold sweat and his knees wabbled, but not in fear. Four glasses of ale, sipped slowly, tasting of wormwood. In the bar-mirror he could watch every move made by Jameson. No one went in. He had evidently paid in advance for the bottle of gin. Thomas ordered his fifth glass of ale, and saw Jameson's head sink forward a little. Thomas' sigh almost split his heart in twain. Jameson's head went up suddenly, and with a drunken smile he reached for the bottle and poured out a stiff potion. He drank it neat.
Thomas wiped his palms on his sleeves and ordered a cigar.
"Lonesome?" asked the swart bartender. This good-looking chap was rather a puzzle to him. He wasn't waiting for anybody, and he wasn't trying to get drunk. Five ales in an hour and not a dozen words; just an ordinary Britisher who didn't know how to amuse himself in Gawd's own country.
Jameson's head fell upon his arms. With assured step Thomas walked toward the corridor which divided the so-called wine-rooms. At the end of the corridor was a door. He did not care where it led so long as it led outside this evil-smelling den. He found the room empty opposite Jameson's. He went in quietly. The shabby waiter followed him, soft-footed as a cat.
"A bottle of Old Tom," said Thomas.
The waiter nodded and slipped out. He saw the sleeper in the other room, and gently closed the door.
"Gink in number two wants a bottle o' gin. He's th' kind. Layer o' ale an' then his quart. Th' real souse."
"So that's his game, huh?" said the bartender. "How's th' gink in number four?"
"Dead t' th' world."
"Tip th' Sneak. There may be a chancet t' roll 'em both. Here y' are. Soak 'im two-fifty."
Half an hour longer Thomas waited. Then he rose and tiptoed to the door, drawing it back without the least sound. Jameson's had not latched. Taking a deep long breath (strange, how one may control the heart by this process!) Thomas crossed the corridor and entered the other room; entered prepared for any emergency. If Jameson awoke, so much the worse for him. The gods owe it to the mortals they keep in bondage to bestow a grain of luck here and there along the way to Elysium or Hades. His cabin-mate's stentorian breathing convinced the trespasser that it was the stupidest, heaviest kind of sleep.
For a moment he looked down at the man contemptuously. To have befuddled his brain at such a time! Or was it because the wretch knew that he, Thomas, would not dare cry out over his loss? He stepped behind the sleeping man. He wanted to fall upon him, beat him with his fists. Ah, if he had not found him!
The night, fortunately, was warm and thick. Jameson had carelessly thrown open his coat and vest. Underneath he wore the usual sailor-jersey. Thomas steeled his arms. With one hand he pulled the roll collar away from the man's neck and with the other sought for the string: sought in vain. The light, the four drab walls, the haze of tobacco smoke, all turned red.
"Where is it, you dog? Quick!" Thomas shook the man. "Where is it? Quick, or I'll throttle you!"
"Lemme 'lone!" Jameson sagged toward the table again.
Thomas bent him back ruthlessly and plunged a hand into the inside pocket of the man's coat. The touch of the chamois-bag burned like fire. He pulled it out and transferred it to his own pocket and made for the door. He did not care now what happened. Found! Woe to any one who had the ill-luck to stand between him and the exit.
Outside the door stood the shabby waiter, grinning cheerfully. He was accompanied by a hulking, shifty-eyed creature.
"Roll 'im, ol' sport? Caught in th' act, huh?" gibed the waiter.
Thomas had the right idea. He struck first. The waiter crashed against the wall. The hulking, shifty-eyed one fared worse. He went down with his face to the cracks in the floor. Thomas dashed for the exit.
CHAPTER V
Outside he found himself in a kind of court. He ran about wildly, like a rat in a trap. He plumped into the alley, accidentally. Down this he fled, into the street. A voice called out peremptorily to him to stop, but he went on all the faster, swift as a hare. He doubled and circled through this street and that until at last he came out into a broad, brilliant thoroughfare. An iron-pillared railway reared itself skyward and trains clamored past. Bloomsbury: millions of years and miles away! He would wake up presently, with the sunlight (when it shone) pouring into his room, and the bright geraniums on the outside window-sill bidding him good morning.
He was on the point of rushing up the station stairway, when he espied a cab at the far corner. A replica of a London cab, something which smacked of home; he could have hugged for sheer joy the bleary-eyed cabby who touched his rusty high hat.
"Free?"
"Free 's th' air, bo. Where to?"
"Pier 60, White Star Line. How much?"—quite his old-time self again.
"Two dollars,"—promptly.
"All right. And hurry!" Thomas climbed in. He was safe.
As the crow flies it was less than a ten-minutes' jog from that corner to Pier 60. Thomas had not gone far; he had merely covered a good deal of ground. Cabby drove about for three-quarters of an hour and then drew up before the pier.
Back to his cabin once more, weak as a swimmer who had breasted a strong tide. He opened his trunk and rammed the chamois-bag into the toe of one of his patent-leather boots. In the daytime he would wear it about his neck, but each night back into the shoe it must go. He flung himself on the bunk, not to sleep, but to think and wonder.
Meantime there was great excitement in the dive. The waiter was rocking his body, wailing and holding his jaw. His companion was sitting on the floor. In the wine-room two policemen and a thick-set, black-mustached man in a derby hat were asking questions.
"Robbed!" moaned Jameson.
The man in the derby hat shook him roughly. "Robbed o' what, y' soak?"
"Robbed!"
"Mike," said the man in the derby, "put th' darbies on th' Sneak. We'll get something for our trouble, anyhow. An' tell that waiter t' put th' brakes on his yawp. Bring him in here. Now, you, what's happened?"
"Why, the gink in uniform comes in…"
The bartender interrupted. "A gink dressed like a ship-steward comes in an' orders ale. Drinks five glasses. Goes out int' th' wine-room 'cross th' hall an' orders a bottle o' gin. An' next I hears Johnny howlin' murder. Frame-up, Mr. Haggerty. Nothin' t' do with it, hones' t' Gawd! Th' boss ain't here."
Jameson lurched toward the bartender. "Young lookin'? Red cheeks? 'Old himself like a sojer?"
"That's 'im," agreed the bartender.
"What were y' robbed of?" demanded Haggerty.
Jameson looked into a pair of chilling blue eyes. His own wavered drunkenly. "Money."
"Y' lie! What was it?" Haggerty seized Jameson by the collar and swung him about. "Hurry up!"
"I tell you, my money. Paid off t'dy. 'E knew it. Sly." Jameson had become almost sober. Out of the muddle one thing loomed clearly: he could not be revenged upon his cabin-mate without getting himself into deep trouble. Money; he'd stick to that.
"Who is he?"
"Name's Webb; firs'-class steward on th' Celtic. Damn 'im!"
"Lock this fool up till morning," said Haggerty. "I'll find out what he's been robbed of."
"British subject!" roared Jameson.
"Not t'night. Take 'im away. Think I saw th' fellow running as I came by. Yelled at him, but he could run some. Take 'im away. Something fishy about this. I'll call on my friend Webb in th' morning. There might be something in this."
And Haggerty paid his call promptly; only, Thomas saw him first. The morning sun lighted up the rugged Irish face. Thomas not only saw him but knew who he was, and in this he had the advantage of the encounter. One of the first things a detective has to do is to surprise his man, and then immediately begin to bullyrag and overbear him; pretend that all is known, that the game is up. Nine times out of ten it serves, for in the same ratio there is always a doubtful confederate who may "peach" in order to save himself.
Thomas never stirred from his place against the rail. He drew on his pipe and pretended to be stolidly interested in the sweating stevedores, the hoist-booms and the brown coffee-bags.
A hand fell lightly on his shoulder. Haggerty had a keen eye for a face; he saw weak spots, where a hundred other men would have seen nothing out of the ordinary. The detective always planned his campaign upon his interpretation of the face of the intended victim.
"Webb?"
Thomas lowered his pipe and turned. "Yes, sir."
"Where were you between 'leven an' twelve last night?"
"What is that to you, sir?" (Yeoman of the Guard style.)
"What did Jameson take away from you?"
"Who are you, and what's your business with me?" The pipe-stem returned with a click to its ivory vise.
"My name is Haggerty, of th' New York detective force; American Scotland Yard, 'f that'll sound better. Better tell me all about it."
"I'm a British subject, on board a British ship."
"Nothing doing in m' lord style. When y' put your foot on that pier you become amenable t' th' laws o' th' United States, especially 'f you've committed a crime."
"A crime?"
"Listen here. You went int' Lumpy Joe's, waited till Jameson got drunk, an' then you rolled him."
"Rolled?"—genuinely bewildered.
"Picked his pockets, if you want it blunt. Th' question is, did he take it from you 'r you from him? I can arrest you, Mr. Webb, British subject 'r not. 'S up t' you t' tell me th' story. Don't be afraid of me; I don't eat up men. All y' got t' do is t' treat me on th' level. You won't lose anything 'f you're honest."
"Come with me, sir." (The smuggler was, in his day, a match in cunning for any or all of His Majesty's coast-guards.)
Haggerty followed the young man down the various companionways. Instinctively he knew what was coming, the pith of the matter if not the details. Thomas pulled out his trunk, unlocked it, threw back the lid, and picked up an old leather box.
"Look at this, sir. It was my mother's. And I'd be a fine chap, would I not, to let a drunken scoundrel steal it and get away with it."
It was a Neapolitan brooch, of pink coral, surrounded by small pearls. Haggerty balanced it on his palm and appraised it at three or found hundred dollars. He glanced casually into the leather box. Some faded tin-types, some letters, a very old Bible, and odds and ends of a young man's fancy: Haggerty shrugged. It looked as if he had stumbled into a mare's-nest.
"He said you took money."
"He lied,"—tersely.
"Do y' want t' appear against him?"
"No. We sail at seven to-morrow. So long as he missed his shot, let him go."
"Why didn't y' lodge a complaint against him?"
"I'm not familiar with your laws, Mr. Haggerty. So I took the matter in my own hands."
"Don't do it again. Sorry t' trouble you. But duty's duty. An' listen. Always play your game above board; it pays."
"Thanks."
Haggerty started to offer his hand, but the look in the gray eyes caused him to misdoubt and reconsider the impulse. So Thomas made his first mistake, which, later on, was to cost him dear. Coconnas shook hands with Caboche the headsman, and escaped the "question extraordinary." Truth is, Thomas was not an accomplished liar. He could lie to the detective, but he could not bring himself to shake hands on it.
On the way down the plank Haggerty mused: "An' I thought I had a hunch!"
Thomas sighed. "Play your game above board; it pays." Into what a labyrinth of lies he was wayfaring!
That same night, on the other side of the Atlantic, the ninth Baron of Dimbledon sailed for America to rehabilitate his fortunes. He did and he didn't.
CHAPTER VI
Thomas was a busy man up to and long after the hour of sailing. His cabins were filled with about all the variant species of the race: two nervous married women with their noisy mismanaged children, three young men on a lark, and an actress who was paying her husband's expenses and gladly announced the fact over and through the partitions. Three bells tingled all day long, and the only thing that saved Thomas from the "sickbay" was the fact that the bar closed at eleven. And a rough passage added to his labors. No Henley this voyage, no comfy loafing about the main-deck in the sunshine. A busy, miserable, dejected young man, who cursed his folly and yet clung to it with that tenacity which makes prejudice England's first-born.
Night after night, stretched out wearily on his bunk, the sordid picture of Lumpy Joe's returned to him. By a hair's breadth! It was always a source of amazement to recall how quickly and shrewdly his escape had been managed. He felt reasonably safe. Jameson would never dare tell what he knew, to incriminate himself for the sake of revenge. To have got the best of him and to have pulled the wool over the eyes of a keen American detective!
In Liverpool he deliberately threw away a full sovereign in motion-pictures and music-halls. But he drank nothing, not even his customary ale. Not so long ago he had tasted his first champagne; very expensive, something more than two hundred pounds. Stupid ass! And yet… The very life he had always been longing for, dreaming of, behind his counters: to be free, to rove at will, to seek adventure.
"Then," said Sir Tristram, "I will fight with you unto the uttermost." "I grant," said Sir Palomides, "for in a better quarrel keep I never to fight, for and I die of your hands, of a better knight's hands may I not be slain."…
Off for America again; and the Book of Marvelous Adventures, to be opened wide by a pair of Irish blue eyes, deep as the sea, glancing as the sunlight on its crests.
"You are my steward, I believe?"
In his soul of souls Thomas hoped so. "Yes, miss—indeed, yes, if you occupy this cabin."
"Here are the tickets"; and the young lady signed the slip of paper he gave her: Mr. and Mrs. Daniel Killigrew, Miss Killigrew and maid. "I shall probably keep you very busy." There was a twinkle in her eyes, but he was English and did not see it.
"That is what I am here for, miss." He smiled reassuringly.
"Never ask my father if he wishes tea and toast"—gravely.
"Yes, miss"—with honest gravity. Thomas knew nothing of women, young or old. With the habits and tastes of the male biped he was tolerably familiar. He was to learn.
"Hot water-bottles for my mother every night, and a pot of chocolate for myself. I shall always have my breakfast early in the saloon. I'm a first-rate sailor."
A rush, a whir.
"Kitty, you darling! They have put us on the other side of the ship."
Thomas was genuinely glad of it. With a goddess and a nymph to wait upon, heaven knew how many broken dishes he'd have to account for. Never in the park, never after the matinees, never in all wide London, had he seen two such lovely types: Titian and Greuse.
"No!" said the Greuse.
"Stupid mistake at the booking-office," replied the Titian. "Come up on deck. They are putting off."
"Just a moment. Put the small luggage, Mr…"
"Webb."
"Mr. Webb. Put the small luggage on the lounge. Never mind the straps. That is all."
"Yes, miss."
The two young women hurried off. Thomas stared after them, his brows bent in a mixture of perplexity, dazzlement and diffidence.
"A very good-looking steward."
"Kitty, you little wretch!"
"Why, he is good-looking."
"Princes, dukes, waiters, cabbies, stewards; all you do is look at them, and they become slaves. You've more mischief in you than a dozen kittens."
"I have met cabbies whom I much prefer to certain dukes."
"But I've a young man picked out for you. He's an artist."
"Good night!" murmured Kitty. "If there is one kind of person in the world dad considers wholly useless and incompetent, it's an artist or a poet."
"But this artist makes fifteen thousand and sometimes twenty thousand the year."
"Then he's no artist. What is his name?"
"Forbes, J. Mortimer Forbes."
"Oh. The pretty-cover man."
"My dear, he is one of the nicest young men in New York. His family is one of the best, and he goes everywhere. And but for his kindness…"
"What?"
"Some day I'll tell you the story. Here we go! Good-by, England!"
"Good-by, sapphires!" said Kitty, so low that the other did not hear her.
At dinner Thomas was called to account by the chief steward for permitting his thumb to connect with the soup. But what would you, with Titian and Greuse smiling a soft "Thank you!" for everything you did for them?
"Night, daddy."
"Good night, Kittibudget."
Crawford smiled after the blithe, buoyant figure as it swung confidently down the deck.
"I don't know what I'm going to do," mused Killigrew, looking across the rail at the careening stars.
"What about?"
"That child. I can't harness her."
"Somebody's bound to"—prophetically.
"It's got to be a whole man, or he'll wish he'd never been born. She's had her way so long that she's spoiled."
"Not a bit of it."
"Yes, she is. I told her not to wear those sapphires that night. And, by the way, I've been hoping they'd turn up like that ruby of yours. How do you account for that?"
The coal of Crawford's cigar waxed and waned and the ash lengthened.
"I've no doubt that you've been mighty curious since that morning. Perhaps you read the tale in the newspapers. I know of only one man who would return the Nana Sahib's ruby. Sentiment; for I believe the poor devil was really fond of me. A valet. With me for ten years. He was really my comrade; always my right-hand on my exploration trips; back-boned, fearless, reliable in a pinch, and a scholar in a way; though I can't imagine how and where he picked up his learning. He saved my life at least twice by his quick wit. In those days I was something of a stick; never went out. I hired him upon his word and because he looked honest. And he was for ten years. He gave his name as Mason, said he was born in central New York. We got along without friction of any sort. And I still miss him. Stole a hundred thousand dollars' worth of gems; hid them in the heels of my old shoes and nearly got away with them. Haggerty, the detective, thought for weeks that I was the man. I still believe that I was the innocent cause of Mason's relapse; for Haggerty was certain that somewhere in the past Mason had been a criminal. You see, I had a peculiar fad. I used to buy up old safes and open them for the sport of it. Crazy idea, but I found a good deal of amusement in it."
"You don't say!" gasped Killigrew, who had never heard of this phase before.
"It's my belief that Mason got his inspiration from watching me. I am devilish sorry."
"Then you believe that he is up to his old tricks again?"
"Yes,"—reluctantly. "The man who took my wife's ruby, took your daughter's sapphires. It needed a clever mind to conceive such a coup. Three other carriages were entered, with more or less success. In a dense fog; a needle in a haystack. And they'll never find him."
"It's up to you to put the detectives on the right track."
"I suppose I'll have to do it."
"If he returns to America he'll be caught. I'll give Haggerty the tip."
"I have my doubts of Mason committing any such folly. He picked up a small fortune that night. Strange mix-up."
"Here, try one of these," urged Killigrew, as the butt of Crawford's cigar went overboard.
"Thanks."
Thomas moved away from the ventilator. Mix-up, indeed! He stole down to the promenade deck, where the stewardess informed him that Miss Killigrew had just ordered her chocolate. He flew to the kitchens. It was a narrow escape. To have been found wanting the first night out!
"Come in," said a voice in answer to his knock.
[Illustration: "Come in," said a voice.]
He set the tray down on the stool, his heart insurgent and his fingers all thumbs. He might live to be a steward eighty years old, but he never would get over the awe, the embarrassment of these invasions by night. Each time he saw a woman in her peignoir or kimono he felt as though he had committed a sacrilege. True, he understood their attitude; he was merely a serving machine and for the time wiped off the roster of mankind.
A long blue coat of silk brocade enveloped Kitty from her throat to her sandals; sleeves which fell over her hands; buttoned by loops over corded knots. An experienced traveler could have told him that it was the peculiar garment which any self-respecting Chinaman would wear who was in mourning for his grandfather. Kitty wore it because of its beauty alone.
"Thank you," she said, as Thomas went out backward, court style. Kitty smiled across at her maid who was arranging the combs and brushes preparatory to taking down her mistress' hair. "He looked as if he were afraid of something, Celeste."
Celeste smiled enigmatically. "Ma'm'selle shoult haff been born in Pariss."
This was translatable, or not, as you pleased. Kitty sipped the chocolate and found it excellent. At length she dismissed the maid, switched off the lights, and then remembered that there was no water in the carafe. She rang.
Thomas replied so promptly that he could not have been farther off than the companionway. "You rang, miss?"
"Yes, Webb. Please fill this carafe."
"Is it possible that it was empty, miss?"
"I used it and forgot to ring for more."
All this in the dark.
Thomas hurried away, wishing he could find some magic spring on board. For what purpose he could not have told.
As for Kitty, she remained standing by the door, profoundly astonished.
CHAPTER VII
Third day out.
Kitty smiled at the galloping horizon; smiled at the sunny sky; smiled at the deck-steward as he served the refreshing broth; smiled at the tips of her sensible shoes, at her hands, at her neighbors: until Mrs. Crawford could contain her curiosity no longer.
"Kitty Killigrew, what have you been doing?"
"Doing?"
"Well, going to do?"—shrewdly.
Kitty gazed at her friend in pained surprise, her blue eyes as innocent as the sea—and as full of hidden mysterious things. "Good gracious! can't a person be happy and smile?"
"Happy I have no doubt you are; but I've studied that smile of yours too closely not to be alarmed by it."
"Well, what does it say?"
"Mischief."
Kitty did not reply to this, but continued smiling—at space this time.
On the ship crossing to Naples in February their chairs on deck had been together; they had become acquainted, and this acquaintance had now ripened into one of those intimate friendships which are really sounder and more lasting than those formed in youth. Crawford had heard of Killigrew as a great and prosperous merchant, and Killigrew had heard of Crawford as a millionaire whose name was very rarely mentioned in the society pages of the Sunday newspapers. Men recognize men at once; it doesn't take much digging. Before they arrived in Naples they had agreed to take the Sicilian trip together, then up Italy, through France, to England. The scholar and the merchant at play were like two boys out of school; the dry whimsical humor of the Scotsman and the volatile sparkle of the Irishman made them capital foils.
Killigrew dropped his Rodney Stone.
"Say, Crawford," he began, "after seeing ten thousand saints in ten thousand cathedrals, since February, I'd give a hundred dollars for a ringside ticket to a scrap like that one,"—indicating the volume on his knee.
Crawford lay back and laughed.
"Well," said his wife, with an amused smile, "why don't you say it?"
"Say what?"
"'So would I!'"
"Men are quite hopeless," sighed Mrs. Killigrew, when the laughter had subsided.
"You oughtn't object to a good shindy, Molly," slyly observed her husband. "You'll never forgive me that black eye."
"I'll never forgive the country you got it in,"—grimly. "But what's the harm in a good scrap between two husky fellows, trained to a hair to slam-bang each other?"
"It isn't refined, dad," said Kitty.
He sent a searching glance at her; he never was sure when that girl was laughing. "Fiddle-sticks! For four months now I've been shopping every day with you women, and you can't tell me prize-fights are brutal."
Crawford applauded gently.
"By the way, Crawford, you know something about direct charity." Killigrew threw back his rug and sat up. "I've got an idea. What's the use of giving checks to hospitals and asylums and colleges, when you don't know whether the cash goes right or wrong? I'm going to let Molly here start a home-bureau to keep her from voting; a lump sum every year to give away as she pleases. I'm strong for giving boys college education. Smooths 'em out; gives them a start in life; that is, if they are worth anything at the beginning. Like this: back the boy and screw up his honor and interest by telling him that you expect to be paid back when the time comes. There's no better charity in the world than making a man of a boy, making him want to stand on his own feet, independent. When you help inefficient people, you throw your money away. What do you think of the idea?"
"A first-rate one. I'd like to come in."
"No; this is all my own and Molly's. But how'll I start her off?"
"Get an efficient young man to act as private secretary; a fairly good accountant; no rich man's son, but some one who has had a chance to observe life. Make him a buffer between Mrs. Killigrew and the whining cheats. And above all, no young man who has social entrée to your house. That kind of a private secretary is always a fizzle."
"Any one in mind?"
"No."
"I have," said Kitty, rising and going toward the companion-ladder to the lower decks.
"What now?" demanded Killigrew.
"Let her be; Kitty has a sensible head on her shoulders, for all her foolery." Mrs. Killigrew laid a restraining hand on her husband's arm.
But Mrs. Crawford smiled a replica of that smile which had aroused her curiosity in regard to Kitty. And then her face grew serious.
Kitty had a mind like her father's. Her ideas were seldom nebulous or slow in forming. They sprang forth, full grown, like those mythological creatures: Minerva was an idea of Jove's, as doubtless Venus was an idea of Neptune's. Men with this quality become captains-general of armies or of money-bags. In a man it signifies force; in a woman, charm.
Kitty searched diligently and found the object of her quest on the main-deck, starboard, leaning against one of the deck supports and reading from a book which lay flat on the broad teak rail, in a blue shadow. The sea smiled at Kitty and Kitty smiled at the sea. Men are not the only adventurers; they have no monopoly on daring. And what Kitty proposed doing was daring indeed, for she did not know into what dangers it might eventually lead her.
"Mr. Webb?"
Thomas looked up. "You are wanting me, miss?"
"If you are not too busy."
"Really, no. I have been reading." He closed the book, loose-leafed from frequent perusals. "I am at your service."
"Do you read much, Mr. Webb?"
The reiteration of the prefix to his name awakened him to the marvelous fact that for the present he was no longer the machine; she was recognizing the man.
"Perhaps, for a man in my station, I read too much, Miss Killigrew."
Kitty's scarlet lips stirred ever so slightly. It was the first time he had added the name to the prefix: he in his turn was recognizing the woman. And this rather pleased her, for she liked to be recognized.
"May I ask what it is you are reading?"
He offered the book to her. Morte d'Arthur. Kitty's eyebrows, a hundred years or more ago, would have stirred to tender lyrics the quills of Prior and Lovelace and Suckling: arched when interested, a funny little twist to the inner points when angered, and when laughter possessed her… Let Thomas indite the sonnet! Just now they were widely arched.
"I am very fond of the book," explained Thomas diffidently. "I love the pompous gallantry of these fairy chaps. How politely they used to hack each other into pieces!"
"Are you by chance a university man?"
"No. I am self-educated, if one may call it that. My father was a fellow at Trinity. For myself, I have always had to work."
"Do you like your present occupation?"
"It was the best I could find." How he would have liked to throw discretion to the winds and tell her the whole miserable story!
"Are you good at accounting?"
"Fairly." What was all this about? He began to riffle the leaves of the book, restively.
"Could you tell an honest man from a dishonest one?"
"I believe so." Thomas had eyebrows, too, but he did not know how to use them properly. Tell an honest man from a dishonest one, forsooth!
Kitty found the situation less easy than she had anticipated. The more questions she asked, the more embarrassed she grew; and it angered her because there was no clear reason why she should become embarrassed. And she also remarked his uneasiness. However, she went on determinedly.
"Have you ever had any contact with real poverty?"
"Yes,"—close-lipped. "Pardon me, Miss Killigrew, but…"
"Just a moment, Mr. Webb," she interrupted. "I dare say my questions seem impertinent, but they have a purpose back of them. My mother and I are looking for a private secretary for a charitable concern which we are going to organize shortly. We desire some one who is educated, who will be capable of guarding us from persons not worthy of benefactions, who will make recommendations, seek into the affairs of those considered worthy. We shall, of course, expect to find room for you. It will not be a chatter-tea-drinking affair. You will have the evenings to yourself and all of Sundays. The salary will be two hundred a month."
"Pounds?" gasped Thomas.
"Oh, no; dollars. I do not expect your answer at this moment. You must have time to think it over."
"It is not necessary, Miss Killigrew."
"You decline?"
"On the contrary, I accept with a good deal of gratitude. On condition," he added gravely.
"And that?"
"You will ask me no questions regarding my past."
Kitty looked squarely into his eyes and he returned the glance steadily and calmly.
"Very well; I accept the condition,"
Thomas was mightily surprised.
CHAPTER VIII
He had put forward this condition, perfectly sure that she would refuse to accept it. He could not understand.
"You accept that condition?"
"Yes." Having gone thus far with her plot, Kitty would have died rather than retreated; Irish temperament.
Thomas was moved to a burst of confidence. "I know that I am poor, and to the best of my belief, honest. Moreover, perhaps I should be compelled by the exigencies of circumstance to leave you after a few months. I am not a rich man, masquerading for the sport of it; I am really poor and grateful for any work. It is only fair that I should tell you this much, that I am running away from no one. Beyond the fact that I am the son of a very great but unknown scholar, a farmer of mediocre talents who lost his farm because he dreamed of humanity instead of cabbages, I have nothing to say." He said it gravely, without pride or veiled hauteur.
"That is frank enough," replied Kitty, curiously stirred. "You will not find us hard task-masters. Be here this afternoon at three. My father will wish to talk to you. And be as frank with him as you have been with me."
She smiled and nodded brightly, and turned away. He had a glimpse of a tan shoe and a slim tan-silk ankle, which poised birdlike above the high doorsill; and then she vanished into the black shadow of the companionway. She afterward confessed to me that her sensation must have been akin to that of a boy who had stolen an apple and beaten the farmer in the race to the road.
We all make the mistake of searching for our drama, forgetting that it arrives sooner or later, unsolicited.
Bewitched. Thomas should have been the happiest man alive, but the devil had recruited him for his miserables. Her piquant face no longer confronting and bewildering him, he saw this second net into which he had permitted himself to be drawn. As if the first had not been colossal enough! Where would it all end? Private secretary and two hundred the month—forty pounds—this was a godsend. But to take her orders day by day, to see her, to be near her… Poverty-stricken wretch that he was, he should have declined. Now he could not; being a simple Englishman, he had given his word and meant to abide by it. There was one glimmer of hope; her father. He was a practical merchant and would not permit a man without a past (often worse than a man with one) to enter his establishment.
Thomas was not in love with Kitty. (Indeed, this isn't a love story at all.) Stewards, three days out, are not in the habit of falling in love with their charges (Maundering and Drool notwithstanding). He was afraid of her; she vaguely alarmed him; that was all.
For seven years he had dwelt in his "third floor back"; had breakfasted and dined with two old maids, their scrawny niece, and a muscular young stenographer who shouted militant suffrage and was not above throwing a brickbat whenever the occasion arrived. There was a barmaid or two at the pub where he lunched at noon; but chaff was the alpha and omega of this acquaintance. Thus, Thomas knew little or nothing of the sex.
The women with whom he conversed, played the gallant, the hero, the lover (we none of us fancy ourselves as rogues!) were those who peopled his waking dreams. She was La Belle Isoude, Elaine, Beatrice, Constance; it all depended upon what book he had previously been reading. It is when we men are confronted with the living picture of some one of our dreams of them that women cease to dwell in the abstract and become issues, to be met with more or less trepidation. Back among some of his idle dreams there had been a Kitty, blue-eyed, black-haired, slender and elfish.
Kitty sat down in her chair. "Well," she said, "I have found him."
"Found whom?" asked Mrs. Crawford.
"The private secretary."
"What?" Killigrew swung his feet to the deck. "What the dickens have you been doing now? Who is it?"
"Webb."
"The steward?"
"Yes."
"Well, if that…" began Killigrew belligerently.
"Dad, either mother and I act as we please, or you may attend to the home-bureau yourself. Mother, it was agreed and understood that I should select any employee we might happen to need."
"It was, my dear."
"Very good. I want some one who will attend to the affairs honestly and painstakingly. There must be no idler about the house; and any young man…"
"Wouldn't an old one do?" suggested Killigrew.
"Whose set ideas would clash constantly with ours. And any young man we know would idle and look on the whole affair as a fine joke. I've had a talk with Webb. He's not a university man, but he's educated. I found him reading Morte d'Arthur."
"Ah!"—from Crawford.
"He became a steward because he could find nothing else to do at the present time. He has been poor, and I dare say he has known the pinch of poverty. You said only this morning, dad, that he was the most attentive steward you had ever met on shipboard. Besides, there is a case in point. Our butler was a steward before you engaged him, six years ago."
Killigrew began to smile. "How much have you offered him as a salary?"
"Two hundred a month, to be paid out of the funds."
"Janet," said Crawford, "it's a good thing I'm married, or I'd apply for the post myself."
"All right," agreed Killigrew; "a bargain's a bargain."
"A wager's a wager," thought Kitty.
"If you wake up some fine morning and find the funds gone…"
"Mother and I will attend to all checks, such as they are."
"Kitty, any day you say I'll take you into the firm as chief counsel. But before I approve of your selection, I'd like to have a talk with our friend Webb."
"He expects it. You are to see him on the main-deck at three this afternoon."
"Molly, how long have we been married?"
"Thirty years, Daniel."
"How old is Kitty?"
"Mother!"
"Twenty-two," answered Mrs. Killigrew relentlessly.
"Well, I was going to say that I've learned more about the Killigrew family in these four months of travel than in all those years together."
"Something more than ornaments," suggested Kitty dryly.
"Yes, indeed," replied her father amiably.
And when he returned to the boat-deck that afternoon for tea (which, by the way, he never drank, being a thorough-going coffee merchant), he said to Kitty: "You win on points. If Webb doesn't pan out, why, we can discharge him. I'll take a chance at a man who isn't afraid to look you squarely in the eyes."
At the precise time when Kitty retired and Thomas went aft for his good night pipe—eleven o'clock at sea and nine in New York—Haggerty found himself staring across the street at an old-fashioned house. Like the fisherman who always returns to the spot where he lost the big one, the detective felt himself drawn toward this particular dwelling. Crawford did not live there any more; since his marriage he had converted it into a private museum. It was filled with mummies and cartonnages, ancient pottery and trinkets.
What a game it had been! A hundred thousand in precious gems, all neatly packed away in the heels of Crawford's old shoes! And where was that man Mason? Would he ever return? Oh, well; he, Haggerty, had got his seven thousand in rewards; he was living now like a nabob up in the Bronx. He had no real cause to regret Mason's advent or his escape. Yet, deep in his heart burned the chagrin of defeat: his man had got away, and half the game (if you're a true hunter) was in putting your hand on a man's shoulder and telling him to "Come along."
He crossed the street and entered the, alley and gazed up at the fire-escape down which Mason had made his escape. What impelled the detective to leap up and catch the lower bars of the ground-ladder he could not have told you. He pulled himself up and climbed to the window.
Open!
Haggerty had nerves like steel wires, but a slight shiver ran down his spine. Open, and Crawford yet on the high seas. He waited, listening intently. Not a sound of any sort came to his ears. He stepped inside courageously and slipped with his back to the wall, where he waited, holding his breath.
Click! It seemed to come from his right.
"Come out o' that!" he snarled. "No monkey-business, or I'll shoot."
He flashed his pocket-lamp toward the sound, and aimed.
A blow on the side of the head sent the detective crashing against a cartonnage, and together the quick and the dead rolled to the floor. Instinctively Haggerty turned on his back, aimed at the window and fired.
Too late!