Keith did not inform Hope of her brother's death until the following morning, but had the body properly prepared for burial, and devoted the remainder of the night to searching for General Waite and, incidentally, for both Hawley and Scott. Both Hickock and Fairbain assisted in this effort to learn the whereabouts of the dead boy's father, but without the slightest result, nor did Keith's investigations reveal the gambler at any of his accustomed resorts, while Scott had apparently made a complete get-away. These disappearances merely served to convince him as to the truth of his first suspicions; Scott might have departed for good, but Hawley would certainly reappear just so soon as assured his name had not been mentioned in connection with the tragedy. To Neb alone did the plainsman candidly confide his belief in the guilt of these two, and when other duties called him elsewhere, he left the negro scouring the town for any possible reappearance of either.
Heavy-eyed from lack of sleep, heavy-hearted with his message, yet fully decided as to what advice he should offer, Keith returned to the hotel, and requested an interview with Hope. Although still comparatively early, some premonition of evil had awakened the girl, and in a very few moments she was prepared to receive her visitor. A questioning glance into his face was sufficient to assure her of unpleasant news, but, with one quick breath, she grasped his arm as though his very presence afforded her strength.
“How tired you look! Something has occurred to keep you out all night—and—and I know you have brought me bad news. Don't be afraid to tell me; I can bear anything better than suspense. Is it about father?”
“No, Hope,” and he took her hand, and led her to a chair. Bending above her he gave her the whole story of the night, and she scarcely interrupted with a question, sitting there dry-eyed, with only an occasional sob shaking her slender form. As he ended, she looked up into his face, and now he could see a mist of unshed tears in her eyes.
“What shall I do, Captain Keith? I am all alone with this, except for you.”
“I have considered that, Hope,” he answered, gravely, “and it seems to me your present duty is more to the living than the dead. You should remain here until we learn something definite regarding your father, and discover the truth of this conspiracy formed against him. If Fred could know the trouble his chance words have caused, he would wish you to do this. With him gone, we are going to find the unravelling harder than ever. It is my judgment, Hope, your brother should be buried here.”
She shuddered, her hands pressed to her eyes.
“Oh, on that horrible 'Boots Hill'?”
“Only temporarily, little girl,” his voice full of deepest sympathy. “In a few weeks, perhaps, it could be removed East.”
She was silent for what seemed to him a long while; then she looked up into his face, clinging to his arm.
“Yes,” she said, “that will be best.”
That same afternoon, the sun low in the west, they placed the dead boy in his shallow grave on “Boots Hill.” It was a strange funeral, in a strange environment—all about the barren, deserted plains; far away to the east and west, the darker line marking the railroad grade, and just below, nestled close in against the foot of the hill, the squalid town of tents and shacks. There were not many to stand beside the open grave, for few in Sheridan knew the lad, and funerals were not uncommon—some cronies, half-drunk and maudlin, awed somewhat by the presence of the marshal, Doctor Fairbain, Keith, and Hope. That was all excepting the post chaplain from Fort Hays, who, inspired by a glimpse of the girl's unveiled face, spoke simple words of comfort. It was all over with quickly, and with the red sun still lingering on the horizon, the little party slowly wended their way back, down the steep trail into the one long street of Sheridan.
At the hotel Neb was waiting, the whites of his eyes shining with excitement, his pantomime indicating important news. As soon as he could leave Hope, Keith hurried down to interview his dusky satellite, who appeared about to burst with restrained information. As soon as uncorked that individual began to flow volubly:
“I sho' done seed 'em, Massa Jack; I done seed 'em both.”
“Both? Both who?”
“Massa Waite, sah, an' dat black debble dat we was huntin' fo'. It was a mos' surprisin' circumstance, sah—a mos' surprisin' circumstance.”
“Well, go on; where did you see them? Do you mean they were together?”
The negro took a long breath, evidently overcome by the importance of his message, and unable to conjure up words wholly satisfactory to his ideas.
“It sho' am de strangest t'ing, Massa Jack, ebber I prognosticated. I was jest comin' roun' de corner ob Sheeny Joe's shebang, back dar by de blacksmith shop, when—de Lawd save me!—yere come ol' Massa Waite, a ridin' 'long on a cream colo'd pinto just as much alibe as ebber he was. Yas, sah; he's whiskers was blowin' round, an' I could eben yeah him cussin' de hoss, when he done shy at a man what got up sudden like from a cart-wheel he was settin' on. I done took one look at dat secon' fellar, and seed it was dat black debble from down Carson way. Den I ducked inter de blacksmith shop out 'er sight. I sho' didn't want Mister Hawley to git no chance at dis nigger—I sho' didn't.”
“Did they speak to one another?” Keith asked, anxiously. “Did you hear what was said?”
“Sho' dey talked, Massa Jack. I sorter reckon dey was dar for dat special purpose. Sutt'nly, sah, dey went right at talkin' like dey hed som't'ing on dey minds. Ol' Massa Waite was a sittin' straight up on de hoss, an' dat black debble was a standin' dar in front ob him. Ol' Massa Waite he was mad from de first jump off, an' I could heah most eberyt'ing he said, but Mr. Hawley he grin de same way he do when he deal faro, an' speaks kinder low. De ol' man he swear fine at him, he call him eberyt'ing—a damn liar, a damn scoundrel—but Mr. Hawley he jest grin, and say ober de same ting.”
“What was that, Neb?”
“Som't'ing 'bout a gal, Massa Jack—an' a law suit—an' how de ol' man better settle up widout no fightin'. I jest didn't git de whole ob it, he talked so low like.”
“What did Waite say?”
“Well, mostly he jest cussed. He sho' told dat black debble 'bout what he thought ob him, but he didn't nebber once call him Hawley—no, sah, not once; he done call him Bartlett, or somet'ing or odder like dat. But he sutt'nly read dat man's pedigree from way back to de time ob de flood, I reck'n. An' he done swore he'd fight for whatebber it was, papers or no papers. Den Hawley, he got plumb tired ob de ol' man swearin' at him, an' he grabbed a picter out ob he's pocket, an' says, 'Damn you; look at dat! What kind ob a fight can yo' make against dat face?' De ol' man stared at it a while, sorter chokin' up; den he say softer like: 'It's Hope; where did yo' ebber get dat?' and de black debble he laughed, an' shoved de picter back into he's pocket. 'Hope, hell!' he say, 'it's Phyllis, an' I'll put her before any jury yo're mind to get—oh, I've got yo' nailed, Waite, dis time.'”
“Was that all?”
“De ol' gin'ral he didn't seem ter know what ter say; he done set dar lookin' off ober de prairie like he was clar flumegasted. He sho' did look like dat black debble hed hit him mighty hard. Den he says slow like, turnin' his hoss 'round: 'Bartlett, yo' am puttin' up a good bluff, but, by Gawd, I'm goin' ter call yo'. Yo' don't get a cent ob dat money 'less yo' put up de proof. I'll meet yo' whar yo' say, but ef I can git hol' ob some papers dat's missin' I'll take dat grin off yo' face.' De odder one laughed, an' de ol' gin'ral started fo' ter ride away, den he pull up he's hoss, an' look back. 'Yo' sorter herd wid dat kind ob cattle, Bartlett,' he say, sharp like, 'maybe yo' know a gambler roun' yere called Hawley?' De black debble nebber eben lose he's grin. 'Do yo' mean Black Bart Hawley?' 'Dat's the man, where is he?' 'Dealin' faro fo' Mike Kenna in Topeka a week ago—friend ob yours?' 'Dat's none ob yo' damned business,' snorted de ol' gin'ral, givin' his hoss de spur. Sho', Massa Jack, he nebber knowed he was talkin' ter dat same Hawley, an' dat black debble jest laughed as he rode off.”
“When was all this, Neb?”
“'Bout de time yo' all went up on de hill, I reck'n. I done come right yere, and waited.”
Keith walked across the room, selected a cigar, and came back, his mind busy with the problem. Hawley had in some manner, then, got into communication with Waite, and was threatening him. But Waite evidently knew the man under another name—his given name—and the gambler had sent him off on a false trail. The lost papers apparently contained the solution to all this mystery. Waite believed Hawley possessed them, but did not suspect that Bartlett and Hawley were the same person. What would he most naturally do now? Seek Hawley in Topeka probably; seize the first opportunity of getting there. Keith turned impatiently to the clerk.
“Any train running east?”
“Well, they generally start one out every day,”, with a glance toward the clock, “'long 'bout this time. Maybe it's gone, and maybe it hasn't.”
It was already nearly dark outside as the two men hastened toward the depot. They arrived there barely in time to see the red lights on the last car disappear. No inquiries made of those lounging about brought results—they had been interested in a lot of drunken graders loaded on the flat cars by force, and sent out under guard—and not one could tell whether any man answering Waite's description was in the single passenger coach. Convinced, however, that the General would waste no time in prosecuting his search, Keith believed him already on his way east, and after dismissing Neb, with instructions to watch out closely for Hawley, he made his own way back to the hotel.
It seemed strange enough how completely he was blocked each time, just as he thought the whole baffling mystery was about to be made clear. Hawley was playing in rare luck, all the cards running easily to his hand, thus, at least, gaining time, and strengthening his position. There could no longer be any doubt that the gambler possessed some knowledge which made him a formidable adversary. From Waite's statement it was the loss of the papers which left him helpless to openly resist the claim being made upon him on behalf of the mysterious Phyllis. His only hope, therefore, lay in recovering these; but, with time limited, he had been sent back on a wild goose chase, while Keith alone knew, with any degree of positiveness, where those documents really were. Hawley certainly had them in his possession the day before, for he had taken them to Miss Maclaire to thus convince her as to the truth of his statements. And Hawley was still in Sheridan. However, it was not likely the man would risk carrying documents of such value, and documents connecting him so closely with that murder on the Santa Fé Trail, about upon his person. At best, life was cheap in that community, and Black Bart must possess enemies in plenty. Yet if not on his person—where? Scott was only a tool, a mere ignorant desperado, not to be trusted to such a degree—yet apparently he was the only one working with the gambler in this deal, the only one cognizant as to his plans. Christie—Keith came to a stop in the street at the recurrence of the woman's name. Why not? If she had been convinced, if she really believed that these papers proved her right to both property and parentage, then she would guard them as a tigress does her young. And Hawley would know that, and must realize they would be far safer in her hands than in his pocket. She could not use them without his aid and guidance, and yet, whatever happened to him, they would still be safely beyond reach. True, this might not have been done; the gambler might not yet have felt that he had sufficient hold upon the woman to trust her thus far, but it was, at least, a possibility to be considered, and acted upon.
Still wrestling with the intricate problem, Keith entered the dining-room, and weaved his way, as usual, through the miscellaneous crowd, toward the more exclusive tables at the rear. A woman sat alone at one of these, her back toward the door. His first thought was that it must be Hope, and he advanced toward her, his heart throbbing. She glanced up, a slight frown wrinkling her forehead, and he bowed, recognizing Christie Maclaire.
The opportunity thus so unexpectedly afforded was not one to be wasted, and Keith accepted it with swift determination. The expression in the woman's face was scarcely one of welcome, yet his purpose was sufficiently serious to cause him to ignore this with easy confidence in himself.
“I am, indeed, most fortunate to discover you alone, Miss Maclaire,” he said, avoiding her eyes by a swift glance over the table, “and evidently at a time when you are only beginning your meal. May I join you?”
She hesitated for an instant, debating with herself, and as quickly deciding on disagreeable tactics.
“I presume this is a public table, and I consequently have little choice in the matter, if you insist,” she replied, her voice more civil than her words. “Still, Mr. Keith, I am not accustomed to associating with criminals.”
He smiled, holding his temper in check, more than ever determined to win.
“Then, possibly, you may rather welcome a new diversion. I can assure you our criminals out here are the most interesting portion of our population. I wish I might have your permission.”
Standing there before her, bare-headed, his slightly tanned face strong and manly, his gray eyes filled with humor, Miss Maclaire recognized again that he was not of the common herd, and the innate coquetry of her nature obtained mastery. What harm could it do for her to chat with him for half an hour? It was better than eating a lonely meal, and, besides, she might learn something of value to report to Hawley. Her own eyes brightened, the slight frown disappearing.
“You are certainly an illustration of your theory,” she said pleasantly. “I shall have to say yes, but, really, I did not suppose you would enjoy being ranked among that class.”
He drew out a chair, and sat down facing her, leaning slightly forward upon the intervening table.
“Nor would I, only I recognize you do not comprehend. The source of your information is a bit polluted, Miss Maclaire. There are those whose good opinion I do not seek, and you should not form your decisions on the unsupported testimony of a personal enemy.”
“Oh, indeed,” rather resenting the words, and already regretful of her compliance. “Surely I have as much reason to trust my informant as I have you. He, at least, has proven himself a friend.”
“I wish I could feel as fully assured of that as you do,” he returned honestly. “I would then have every temptation to meddle further taken away from me. Do you realize that my interest is very largely upon your account?”
“Oh, no,” laughing, “I couldn't believe that. I—I have heard it whispered it might be because of the other girl.”
“The other girl!” in complete surprise at this swift return.
“Yes, sir,” conscious of having attained the upper hand. “Miss Hope Waite.”
“Some more of Mr. Hawley's fancies,” he retorted, perplexed that so much should be suspected. “Have you seen her?”
“Why, of course. I am a woman, Mr. Keith, with all the natural curiosity of my sex. In this case I had special reason to be interested. One does not meet her counterpart every day.”
“The resemblance between you is certainly most striking.”
“Sufficiently so,” she said slowly, her eyes on his face, “to abundantly confirm in my mind the truth of all that has been told me.”
The waiter approached with the orders, and the two remained in silence until he had deposited his load upon the table, and departed. She was watching the face opposite through lowered lashes that veiled her eyes, but Keith was first to break the stillness.
“I wish I might be told what that was.”
“To what do you refer?” apparently forgetful as to where their conversation had been broken.
“To Hawley's proposition.”
“No doubt,” her lips smiling, “but you have come to the wrong market, Mr. Jack Keith.”
“Yet,” he insisted earnestly, “if this is all straight, with no fraud concealed anywhere, if you have the proofs in your hands, why are you afraid to talk openly? The very manner in which Hawley works should convince you he is himself afraid to face the truth.”
“No, you are wrong. There are perfectly satisfactory reasons why we should for the present keep our plans secret. There are details yet to be decided upon, and Mr. Hawley's present objection to publicity is only ordinary prudence.”
She leaned toward him, her fingers playing nervously with a knife.
“Mr. Keith, I cannot help but like you, and I also feel most kindly disposed toward Mr. Hawley. I wish in this I was no longer compelled to consider you an enemy to us both. There is no reason why I should, except for your blind prejudice against this other man who is my friend. I know you have some cause, for he has told me the entire story, yet I am sure he did no more than his actual duty. He let me realize how very sorry he was that the marshal at Carson City had called upon him for assistance.”
“Who? Hawley?” Keith questioned, hardly trusting his own ears.
“Yes; indeed he is a very different man from what you have been led to believe. I know he is a gambler, and all that, but really it is not altogether his fault. He told me about his life, and it was very sad. He was driven from home when only a boy, and naturally drifted into evil company. His one ambition is, to break away, and redeem himself. I am so anxious to help him, and wish you could realize his purpose, as I do, and become his friend. Won't you, for my sake? Why, even in this affair he has not the slightest mercenary purpose—he has only thought of what was rightfully mine.”
Keith listened, feeling to the full the woman's earnestness, the impossibility of changing her fixed conviction. Hawley had planted his seed deep and well in fruitful soil.
“You make a strong and charming advocate, Miss Maclaire,” he returned, feeling the necessity of saying something. “I should like to have you equally earnest on my side. Yet it will be hard to convince me that 'Black Bart' is the paragon of virtue you describe. I wish I might believe for your sake. Did he also explain how he came into possession of these papers?”
“Oh, yes, indeed; there is no secret about that. They were entrusted to him by an old man whom he discovered sick in Independence, and who died in his rooms three years ago. Mr. Hawley has been searching ever since for the old man's grand-daughter. It is remarkable how he was finally convinced that I was the one.”
“A photograph, was it not?”
A gleam of sudden suspicion appeared in the brown eyes, a slight change in facial expression.
“That was a clue, yes, but far from being all. But why should I tell you this?—you believe nothing I say.”
“I believe that you believe; that you are fully convinced of the justice of your claim. Perhaps it is just, but I am suspicious of anything which Bart Hawley has a hand in. Miss Christie, you really make me wish to retain your friendship, but I cannot do so if the cost includes faith in Hawley. Do you know that is not even his name—that he lives under an alias?”
“Is there anything strange in that out here?” she asked stoutly. “I told you how deeply he regretted his life; that alone would be sufficient cause for him to drop his family name. Did you ever learn his true name?”
He was not sure—only as Neb had reported what Waite had called the man, yet ventured a direct reply.
“Bartlett, I believe—he uses it now as a prefix.”
“Bartlett!—Bartlett!” her hands clasping, and unclasping nervously. “Why, what a strange coincidence!”
“How? What do you mean?”
“Oh, nothing—nothing,” biting her lips in vexation. “The name merely recalled something. But really I must go, Mr. Keith, or I shall be late at the theatre. You have not attended since I came?”
“No,” arising from the table with her. “However, I have heard you sing before, and hope I may again.”
“How tenderly you dwell on that word 'hope,'” she said banteringly, “it almost makes me envious.”
“Your resemblance almost makes me forget.”
“But not quite?”
“No, not quite,” he confessed, smiling back into her quizzing eyes.
They went out into the hall together, only to meet with Doctor Fairbain at the door. The latter stared at the two with some embarrassment, for a moment forgetful of his purpose. His gaze settled on the face of the lady.
“Always getting you two mixed,” he blurted forth. “Never saw such resemblance—positively uncanny—same hotel too means trouble—this Miss Waite?”
“No, Doctor; I am Miss Maclaire.”
“Ought to have known it—if I knew as much about faces as I do about anatomy never would make such mistake—very sorry—what fooled me was seeing you with Keith—thought he was after the other one—gay dog though—never satisfied—was hunting after you.”
“After me?” evidently amused.
“Certainly—you—went to the room—then to the clerk—said you were in at supper—just occurred to me streets here bad at night—thought I'd ask you to let me escort you to theatre and back—a bit of lunch later—” he glanced suspiciously at Keith—“probably got here too late.”
“Well really you have, Doctor,” she replied sweetly, veiling her eyes to hide their laughter. “But I can assure you it is not Mr. Keith,” courtesying slightly to the latter, “for he has not honored me; we merely met by chance at the table. I am sure I should enjoy your company exceedingly, but to-night I must plead a previous engagement.”
“Ah—ah, some other night?”
“With pleasure, yes.”
The doctor faded away into the office, not wholly satisfied because Keith still lingered. Miss Christie extended her hand.
“Isn't he a funny man? But I do like him—someway I like so many people whom perhaps I ought not, including you, Mr. Jack Keith. Please think over what I told you about Mr. Hawley, won't you?”
“Certainly; you have given me food for thought. I presume he is to be your escort?”
She bowed, evidently resenting the question.
“Yes, and it may interest you to know that he has something of the utmost importance to tell me to-night—he has actually seen my guardian. Don't you wish you could be there?”
She gave him a tantalizing smile, withdrawing her hand, and running up the stairs before he could answer. Over the railing of the landing she glanced down, and then disappeared.
No sooner had Miss Maclaire vanished than Keith's thoughts turned toward Hope Waite. She would need someone in her loneliness to take her mind from off her brother's death, and, besides, much had occurred of interest since the funeral, which he desired to talk over with her. Beyond even these considerations he was becoming aware of a pleasure in the girl's company altogether foreign to this mystery which they were endeavoring together to solve. He yearned to be with her, to look into her face, to mark how clearly the differing soul changed her from Christie Maclaire. He could not help but like the latter, yet somehow was conscious of totally different atmospheres surrounding the two. With one he could be flippant, careless, even deceitful, but the other aroused only the best that was in him, her own sincerity making him sincere.
Yet there was reluctance in his steps as he approached the door of “15,” a laggardness he could not explain, but which vanished swiftly enough at Hope's greeting, and the sudden smile with which she recognized him.
“I was sure you would come,” she declared frankly, “and I took an early lunch so as to be certain and be here. It has seemed a long time since.”
“And you might have even thought I had forgotten,” he answered, releasing her hand reluctantly, “if you could have looked into the dining-room since, instead of staring out of these windows.”
“Why? How forgotten?” her eyes opening wide in surprise.
“I had the pleasure of taking supper with Miss Maclaire.”
“Oh!” the exclamation decidedly expressive.
“Yes, I come at once to you with the confession. However, our meeting was purely accidental, and so I hope for pardon.”
“Pardon from me? Why, what difference can it possibly make to me?”
“Would you have me consort with the enemy?” he asked, scarcely daring to press his deeper meaning.
“Oh, no, of course not. What did you talk about? Do you mind telling?”
“Not in the least; our conversation was entirely impersonal. She was telling me about Hawley; what a wonderfully good man he is. I have begun to suspect the fellow has fascinated the poor girl—he is a good looking devil, possessed of a tongue dripping with honey.”
“Surely you do not mean she has fallen in love with him,” and Hope shuddered at the thought. “Why—why that would be impossible for—for a good woman.”
“Standards of morality are not always the same,” he defended gravely. “Miss Maclaire's environment has been vastly different from yours, Hope. She is a variety hall singer; probably, from her own account, a waif since childhood; and Hawley has come to her in the character of a friend, appealing both to her interest and sympathy. I do not know she is in love with him, I merely suspect she may be; certainly she is ready to do battle on his behalf at the slightest opportunity. She believes in him, defends him, and resents the slightest insinuation directed against him. He even escorts her back and forth from her work.”
“You know this?”
“I certainly do,” and he laughed at the recollection. “Fairbain met us coming out of the dining-room,—you know what a delightful, blunt, blundering old fellow he is! Well, Miss Christie must have made an impression even on his bachelor heart, for he actually requested the privilege of escorting her to the Trocadero, and back to the hotel after the performance to-night—hinted at a lunch, the gay old dog, and pranced about like a stage-door Johnnie. It was a treat to watch her face when he blurted it all out, snapping his sentences as if he swung a whip-lash. She excused herself on the score of a previous engagement.”
“But that was not necessarily with Hawley.”
“I asked her directly, after the doctor had disappeared.”
“You must have become very familiar,” questioning once again in her voice.
“So Miss Maclaire evidently thought, judging from her manner. However she answered frankly enough, and, even defiantly, added the information that the gentleman had something to impart to her of the utmost importance, sarcastically asking me if I didn't wish I could be there and overhear. But sit down, Hope, until I tell you all that has occurred.”
He went over the various events in detail, watching eagerly the expression upon her face as she listened intently, only occasionally interrupting with some pertinent inquiry. The light fell so that she sat partially in the shadow, where her eyes could not be read, yet he experienced no difficulty in comprehending the various moods with which she met his narrative, the color changing in her cheeks, her supple form bending toward him, or leaning backward in the chair, her fingers clasping or unclasping in nervous attention. He began with Neb's report, repeating, word by word, as nearly as he could recollect, what had passed between Hawley and her father. He paused to inquire if she had ever heard the name Bartlett, but her reply was merely a negative shake of the head. When he described their missing the train, she was, apparently, not convinced as to the General's departure upon it, although finally agreeing that, if he really believed the report that the man sought was elsewhere, it would be characteristic of him to accept the first means of getting there. “If he only knew I was here,” she exclaimed wearily, “it might be so different, but, oh, we are all of us just groping in the dark.” Then Keith turned to his chance meeting with Miss Maclaire, and repeated carefully their conversation, dwelling particularly upon the few admissions which had slipped through her lips. These did not seem important to either, although they treasured them up and talked them over. Then, having exhausted the topic, silence fell between them, Keith asking the privilege of lighting a cigar. Hope, after watching him apply the match, thinking what a fine face he had as the ruddy flame brought it forth with the clearness of a cameo, leaned back, drawing aside the semblance to a lace curtain, and staring forth, without seeing, into the street.
Somehow it was hard for her to fully realize the situation, and how closely it affected her. The swiftly passing events, the complication arising so suddenly, apparently out of nothing, left her feeling as though she must surely awake from a dream. She could not comprehend what it was all about; the names Bartlett and Phyllis had no clear meaning, they represented nothing but shadows; and this other woman—this music hall singer—what could there be in common between them? Yet there must be something—something of vital importance to her father—something which had already cost her brother's life. That was the one thing which made it seem an actuality—which brought it home to her as a rugged fact. But for that—and Keith—Keith sitting there before her—she would have doubted it all. And yet even Keith had come into her life so suddenly, so unexpectedly, as to leave her dazed and uncertain. So strongly did this feeling grip her in the silence, that she extended her hand and touched him, as though to make sure of his actual presence.
“What is it, Hope?”
“Oh, nothing—nothing,” her voice breaking in a little sob. “It is so silly, but I was just wondering if you were real—everything seems so impossible. I cannot bring my mind to grasp the situation.”
He did not smile, but only took the groping hand into both of his own.
“I think I understand, little girl,” he said gravely. “You are totally unused to such life. Almost without a moment's warning you have been plunged into a maelstrom of adventure, and are all confused. It is different with me—since the first shot at Sumter my life has been one of action, and adventure has grown to be the stimulus I need, and upon which I thrive. But I assure you,” pressing the soft hand warmly, “I am real.”
“Of course I know that; it makes me glad to know it. If I could only do something myself, and not just sit here, it would all become real enough to me.”
She rose suddenly to her feet, clasping her hands together, her face changing with new animation.
“Why couldn't I? I am sure I could. Oh, Mr. Keith, it has just come to me how I can help.”
He looked at her questioningly, thinking of her beauty rather than of what she said.
“Do—do I really appear so much like—like that woman?” she asked anxiously.
“Very much, indeed, excepting for the slight difference in age.”
“That would never be noticed in the dark, or a poor light. Am I the same height?”
“Practically, yes.”
“And my voice?—could you distinguish me from her by my voice?”
“I might; yet probably not, unless my suspicions were aroused. What is it you are thinking about?”
She took a deep breath, standing now directly facing him in the light.
“Of playing Miss Maclaire to-night,” she said quickly. “Of taking her place, and learning what it is of so much importance Hawley has to report. Don't you think it might be done?”
The sheer audacity of this unexpected proposal left him speechless. He arose to his feet, gripping the back of the chair, almost doubting if he could have heard aright, his eyes searching the girl's face which was glowing with excitement. Of course he could not permit of her exposure to such a risk; the scheme was impracticable, absurd. But was it? Did it not offer a fair chance of success? And was not the possible result worthy the risk assumed? He choked back the earlier words of protest unuttered, puzzled as to what he had best say. A quick-witted resourceful woman might accomplish all she proposed.
“It looks so simple,” she broke in impulsively, moving nearer him. “Don't you think I could do it? Would it be unwomanly?”
“The result, if accomplished, would abundantly justify the means, Hope,” he acknowledged at last. “I was not hesitating on that account, but considering the risk you would incur.”
“That would be so small—merely the short walk alone with him from the theatre to the hotel,” she pleaded. “Once here it could make no difference if he did discover my identity, for there would be plenty of men near at hand to come to my defence. Oh, please say yes.”
“If I do, then we must make the illusion perfect, and take as few chances of discovery as possible. I must learn exactly how the other dresses, and when she leaves the theatre. Fortunately for the success of your plan the Trocadero permits no one but performers to come behind the scenes, so that Hawley will be compelled to wait for the lady outside the stage door. I had better go at once, and see to these details.”
“Yes,” she said, her eyes sparkling with anticipation, “and I am so glad you are willing. I will be most discreet. You are not sorry I made the proposal?”
“Certainly not. At first it struck me as altogether wrong, but the more I think of it the stronger it appeals to me. It may reveal to us the whole conspiracy, and I cannot believe Hawley would venture upon any gross familiarity likely to cost him the good opinion of his ally. There is too much at stake. Wait here, Hope, and I will be back the very moment I learn all that is necessary.”
A glance at the office clock convinced Keith that, in all probability, Miss Maclaire had not, as yet, departed for the scene of her evening triumph. Still, it could not be long before she would, and he lit a cigar, sitting down in a corner partially concealed by the clerk's desk to wait her appearance. This required longer than anticipated, and fearing lest he might have missed the departure entirely, he was about to question the busy Thomas, when he beheld Hawley enter hurriedly from the street and run up the stairs. He then had been the laggard. All the better, as he would now have no opportunity to unfold his tale to the lady, as it would be necessary for them to hurry to the theatre. Whatever the nature of the revelation it would have to wait until the walk home. The excitement of the adventure was already creeping into Keith's blood, his pulse quickening.
The two returned almost immediately, conclusively proving that Miss Maclaire, fully dressed for the street, had been awaiting the arrival of her gallant with some impatience. Hawley was busily explaining his delay as they came down the stairs, and paid little attention to the seemingly deserted office. Indeed, Miss Christie monopolized all his thoughts. With quick scrutiny the watcher noted the more conspicuous articles of apparel constituting her costume—the white mantilla thrown over her head, the neatly fitting blue dress, the light cape covering the shoulders—surely it would not be difficult to duplicate these, so as to pass muster under the dim light of the streets. Far enough in their rear to feel safe from observation he followed, noting with increased pleasure the rapidity with which they covered the required distance. Clearly Miss Christie was already nervous lest she have not sufficient time remaining in which to properly dress for her act, and there would be no exchange of confidences on the outward journey. Hawley left her, as Keith anticipated, at the stage entrance, the lady hastening within. Her escort strolled leisurely back to the front of the house, and finally, purchasing a ticket, entered, the performance already having begun.
Keith knew perfectly the arrangement of the theatre—the seats in front; tables all through the centre; a gallery filled with benches; a noisy orchestra beneath the stage; a crowded audience of men, with only here and there a scattered representative of the gentler sex; busy waiters dodging in and out among the tables, and down the aisles, filling orders for liquids from the nearby saloon. The air would be pungent with the odor of drink, thick with the fumes of tobacco, and noisy with voices, except as some special favorite on the stage won temporary attention. The Trocadero possessed but one redeeming feature—no doorway connected stage and auditorium, and the management brooked no interference with his artists. It had required some nerve to originally enforce this rule, together with a smart fight or two, but at this period it was acknowledged and respected. No sooner had Hawley vanished than Keith found occasion to enter into casual conversation with the door-keeper, asking a number of questions, and leaving impressed upon the mind of that astute individual the idea that he was dealing with a “gent” enamored of one of the stage beauties. A coin slipped quietly into the man's hand served to deepen this impression, and unlocked discreet lips otherwise sworn to secrecy. Out of much general information a little of real value was thus extracted—Miss Maclaire's act began at 9:45 and was over promptly at 10:10. It required about twenty minutes more for her to change again into street clothes, and she usually left the theatre immediately after, which would be about 10:30. Yes, there was a vestibule outside the stage door, and on bad nights, those waiting for the ladies could slip in there. But on such a night as this they generally hung around outside. No, there was no watchman, but the manager was frequently prowling around. He'd be busy, however, at 10:30, getting the stage ready for the “Flying Hermanns.” Abundantly satisfied and resisting the door-keeper's professional suggestion that he'd better buy a ticket and take a look at the show, Keith slipped away, and hastened back to the hotel. The more he investigated the more feasible appeared the girl's plan, and he was now fully committed to it.
Hope discovered very little difficulty in duplicating the outer garments Keith reported Miss Maclaire as wearing. The colors, indeed, were not exactly the same, yet this difference was not sufficient to be noticeable at night by the eyes of a man who had no reason to suspect deceit. The girl was in a flutter of nervous excitement as she hastened about the room, donning her few requirements of masquerade, yet Keith noted with appreciation that she became perceptibly cooler as the moment of departure approached. With cheeks aflame and eyes sparkling, yet speaking with a voice revealing no falter, she pressed his arm and declared herself prepared for the ordeal. The face under the shadow of the mantilla was so arch and piquant, Keith could not disguise his admiration.
“Am I Christie Maclaire?” she asked laughingly.
“Sufficiently so to fool our friend,” he returned, “but I am ready to swear that lady never looked so charming.”
“A compliment, and spoken as though you really meant it.”
“Have I not been honest enough with you in the past, to be credited with honesty now?” he protested, a little hurt by the bantering tone.
“Of course you have; I merely talk lightly to keep my courage up. You can have no idea how afraid I am.”
“Then you are truly an actress, for you appear the picture of enjoyment. But we must go, or Hawley will be there before us, and thus spoil all our plans.”
They passed out through the office together, seeing no one familiar to either, Hope keeping her face partially concealed. The east side of the street was less frequented than the other, having fewer saloons along its way, and they chose its darkness. As they advanced, the long habit of frontier life caused Keith to glance behind before they had progressed a block, and he was thus made aware that they were being followed. Conversing lightly, and without a word to alarm the girl, he yet managed to observe every movement of the dimly outlined figure which advanced with them, timing every motion to theirs. Long before they crossed the street to the Trocadero he was convinced there was no mistake—the fellow, whoever he might be, was trailing them. Keith smiled grimly to himself, resolving that, as soon as he had left the lady, he would teach the spy a lesson not soon to be forgotten.
They barely entered the outer circle of the Trocadero lights, noting a group of men thronging about the doors, and hearing the sound of the band within, and then turned swiftly down the narrow dark alley-way leading toward the stage entrance. Keith, having been there before, advanced confidently, but Hope, her heart beating wildly, clung to his arm, scarcely venturing a word in reply to his whispered assurances. Fortunately they encountered no one, and Keith, feeling cautiously in the dark, easily succeeded in locating the opening to the vestibule. Listening intently he became convinced that no one occupied the little shed. He had intended to remain with the girl until the time came for her to emerge, but the remembrance of that figure dogging them all the way from the hotel now caused a change of plan. He held her hand closely clasped in his.
“Now, Hope, I am going to leave you,” he whispered, “and your own wit will have to carry you through. I know you will play your part all right, and it will be mine to wait for Christie, and give her some explanation of why Hawley failed to meet her as he promised. It will never do for her to suspect, until you time to learn all possible. You are not afraid?”
“Yes, I am,” clinging to him, “but—but I am going through it just the same.”
“The truest kind of courage, my girl. Now slip inside, but hold the door ajar. Hawley will certainly be here within ten minutes, and you must join him at once, or else the other might appear. You can judge as to its being him even in this darkness. Good-bye.”
The longing to clasp her in his arms, to speak the language of his heart, was almost overwhelming, yet the memory of that figure slinking along behind them, and the brief time before Hawley's probable appearance, for he would leave the theatre at the conclusion of Miss Maclaire's act, restrained all demonstration. This was a moment for action, not for words of love; no delay should hazard the success of their undertaking. He heard the slight creak of the door as the girl slipped within the concealment of the vestibule, and then he glided away through the darkness with the stealthy silence of an Indian. There was no one in the alley-way, which was narrow and easily explored, but the glow from the front windows plainly revealed the shadow of a man near the entrance, and Keith slipped up toward him, hugging the side of the building for concealment, prepared to resort to harsh measures. As he reached out, gripping the astonished loiterer by the collar, the two stared at one another in surprise, and the gripping hand as instantly released its hold.
“You, Fairbain! What the devil does this mean? What are you spying on us for?”
Clearly taken aback, yet not greatly disturbed, his eyes showing pugnacious and his jaw set, the Doctor rubbed his throat where Keith's knuckles had left a red welt.
“Damn you, I think I'm the one to ask for an explanation,” he growled. “She said she was not going with you, and now you are around here together at this hour. I had a right to know whether I was being played with like that.”
“But, man, that was not Miss Maclaire I was with; it was Hope Waite. Come back here under the tent flap while I explain.”
Fearful of the coming of Hawley he fairly dragged the portly figure of the bewildered Doctor with him, striving, by quickly spoken words, to make him comprehend the situation. Knowing previously something of the issues involved, it was not difficult to make Fairbain grasp the meaning of this present movement, yet his sympathies were at once enlisted upon the side of Miss Christie. He'd be damned if he would have any part in such a scheme—if she had a right to the money he'd help her get it—it was a cowardly trick, and he'd fight if necessary, to keep her from becoming a victim. His voice rose, his arms brandishing violently, his sentences snapping like rifle shots. Keith angered, and fearful of a discovery which would leave Hope exposed, realized the futility of discussion and turned to physical force. Grasping the gesticulating man with both hands, he flung him backward and dragged him into the empty tent, kneeling on him as he throttled him to the earth.
“Now, Doctor, you listen to me,” he said sternly, “I'm through arguing. I hate to treat you like this, for you are my friend, but I'll not stand for interference here. Do you get that, you old fool? Lie still until I get through! I respect your feelings toward Miss Maclaire. She is a good girl, and I hope to heaven you get her if you want her. But you never will if you permit this affair to go on. Yes, I know what I am talking about. In all that Hope and I do we are serving you and Christie,—our only fight is with 'Black Bart' Hawley. Stop being a bullet-headed old fool, Fairbain, and understand this thing. Lie still, I tell you, and hear me out! Hawley is a liar, a thief, and a swindler. There is a swindle in this thing somewhere, and he hopes to pull out a big sum of money from it. He is merely using Christie to pull his own chestnuts out of the fire. She is innocent; we realize that, but this fellow is going to ruin the girl unless we succeed in exposing him. He's not only involving her in his criminal conspiracy, but he's making love to her; he's teaching her to love him. That's part of his scheme, no doubt, for then she will be so much easier handled. I tell you, Fairbain, your only chance to ever win the interest of Christie Maclaire is to help us down this fellow Hawley. Yes, you can sit up; I reckon you're beginning to see clearer, ain't you?”
Keith drew aside the flap of the tent to glance without, the light falling on Fairbain's face as he struggled to a sitting posture. He had had a new thought driven into him, yet failed to entirely grasp its significance.
“But, Jack,” he asked, still half angry, “how about the girl? Hasn't she any right to this money?”
“I don't know,” honestly, “we don't any of us know, but whatever she has the right to she is going to get. You can bet on that, old man. We're bucking Hawley not Christie Maclaire—get that into your head. He hasn't any right, that's certain, for he murdered and stole to get the papers—be quiet! Here the fellow comes now!”
They peered out together through the convenient tent flap, Fairbain scarcely less interested than the other, already dimly comprehending that his truly dangerous rival was the gambler, and that he could best serve the lady by helping to prove to her the real character of that individual. He was still blindly groping in the haze, yet out of Keith's sharp, stinging words there had come to him a guiding light. The latter gripped his arm in restraint.
“Easy, old man, easy—let him pass.”
Hawley turned into the alley whistling, evidently well pleased with the situation and anticipating other delights awaiting his coming. The glow of the Trocadero's lights served, an instant, to reveal his face, shaded by the broad brim of his hat, and then he vanished into the dark. Keith leaning far out, yet keeping well within the shadows, heard the faint creak of the vestibule door and the soft murmur of distant voices. Then he drew back suddenly, his hand again grasping Fairbain. Two figures—those of a man and woman—emerged into the dim light, and as quickly disappeared. Apparently her hand was upon his arm, and he was bending down so as to gain a glimpse of the face partially concealed by the folds of the mantilla. Only a word or two reached them, a little laugh, and the woman's voice:
“Why, of course I hurried; you said you had something of such importance to tell me.”
“Fairbain,” spoke Keith, his lips almost at the ear of the other. “That was Hope, all right, and she has got him going already. Now, man, will you help us out?”
“I? How?”
“Go back there, and meet Miss Maclaire. I don't care where you take her—lunch, anywhere; only keep her from the hotel as long as possible. You can do it far better than I, for she will not suspect you of any interest in this affair. Tell her any lie you can think up on account of Hawley's absence. Good Lord, old man, can't you see this is your chance; go in and win.”
Fairbain struggled to his feet, still a bit dazed and uncertain, yet tempted by the opportunity.
“You're perfectly sure, Keith, this isn't anything that will hurt the girl?”
“Sure! Of course I am. It's just Hawley I'm gunning after. For God's sake, haven't you got that clear yet?”
“I—I reckon I'm an old fool, Jack,” admitted the Doctor regretfully, “and when an old fool is in love he hasn't got any sense left. Anyhow I'll do what you want me to now. Where are you going?”
“To watch those others. There is no knowing what play Hawley might try to pull off, and I want to keep within gun-shot of him. Hurry up, man; that vestibule door creaked just then.”
He shoved him down the dark alley, and dodged back himself across the front of the tent out into the street. There was a crowd of men in front of the Trocadero, but the couple he sought were nowhere in sight.