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diff --git a/old/51939-0.txt b/old/51939-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 4279259..0000000 --- a/old/51939-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,10492 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of From Now On, by Frank L. Packard - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most -other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of -the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - - - -Title: From Now On - -Author: Frank L. Packard - -Release Date: May 2, 2016 [EBook #51939] -Last Updated: March 13, 2018 - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FROM NOW ON *** - - - - -Produced by David Widger from page images generously -provided by the Internet Archive - - - - - - - - - -FROM NOW ON - -By Frank L. Packard - -Author Of “The Night Operator,” - -“The Adventures Of Jimmie Dale,” Etc. - -The Copp, Clark Co., Limited Toronto - -1919 - -TO - -C. C. B. - -[Illustration: 0001] - -[Illustration: 0009] - - - - - -FROM NOW ON - - - - -BOOK I: THE CHASE - - - - -I--ONE HUNDRED THOUSAND DOLLARS - - -A WILD and prolonged roar came from every quarter of the race track. -It swelled in volume. It came again and again. Pandemonium itself seemed -loosed. - -Outside the enclosure, a squat, fat man, the perspiration rolling in -streams down his face, tugged at his collar with frantic, nervous jerks, -as he leaned in over the side of a high-powered car, and with his other -hand gripped at the arm of the young man in the driver's seat. - -“Dave, listen to 'em! My God, listen to 'em!” snarled the fat man. - -Dave Henderson, with the toe of his boot, moved the little black satchel -that the other had dropped on the floor of the car farther to one side; -and, by way of excuse for disengaging his arm, reached into his pocket -for his cigarettes. - -“I can hear 'em--even a yard away out here!” he said imperturbably. -“Sounds like a great day for the bookies--not!” - -The fat man secured his grip on Dave Henderson's arm again. - -“I'm wiped out--every last cent--all I've made in years,” he said -hoarsely. “You get that, don't you? You know it! I'm cleaned out--and -you don't seem to give a damn!” - -“Why should I?” inquired Dave Henderson calmly. “I guess it's _their_ -turn, ain't it?” - -Bookie Skarvan's red-rimmed little gray eyes narrowed, and he swallowed -hard. - -“I've played square, I have!” he whined. “And I'm wiped out!” - -“Yes--square as hell!” amended Dave Henderson. - -“You don't give a damn!” shrilled Bookie Skarvan. “That's like you! -That's like the lot of you! Where would you have been if I hadn't taken -you up--eh?” - -“God knows!” said Dave Henderson dispassionately. “I'm not blaming you -for trying to make a crook of me.” - -An apoplectic red heightened Bookie Skarvan's flushed and streaming -face. - -“Well, that's one thing I didn't make a bull of, at any rate!” he -retorted viciously. - -Dave Henderson shifted his cigarette from one corner of his mouth to -the other with the tip of his tongue. There was a curious smile, half -bitter, half whimsical, on his lips, as he leaned suddenly toward the -other. - -“I guess you're right, Bookie!” He shrugged his shoulders. “But I've -only just found it out myself, so if you think there's any congrats -coming to you and you're sore because you didn't get 'em before, you -know why now.” - -The scowl on Bookie Skarvan's face deepened, then cleared abruptly, and -the man forced a nervous, wheezy chuckle. - -“You won't feel so blamed cool about it to-morrow morning when you come -to size this up!” He was whining again, but plaintively now. “I'm wiped -out, I tell you, and it's too hard a crack for Tydeman to give me any -more backing after he's squared this up--so what are you going to do, -eh?” - -Dave Henderson glanced at the car's clock. It was already after three. - -“I'm going up to 'Frisco--if I ever get started!” he said brusquely. -“I've missed the train, as it is, and that means a ninety-mile run--and -we're still wasting time! Get down to cases! You got Tydeman on the long -distance--what did he say?” - -“I couldn't help your missing the train!” Bookie Skarvan's voice had -grown almost ingratiating. “There wasn't any use of you going until I -knew Tydeman was at home, and unless I got hold of him before the banks -closed, was there? And if I'd been able to get him at once we might have -had time to arrange it by wire with a bank here--if they were carrying -that much in ready cash--and you wouldn't have needed to go at all. But -I didn't get him until just a few minutes ago. You know that! I couldn't -help it, could I--and the run won't hurt you. You can grab the evening -train back. I can stave this gang of wolves off until then by telling -'em Tydeman's making good.” - -“All right!” Dave Henderson was apparently much more intent upon the -starting mechanism of the car, than he was upon either his companion -or his companion's words. The engine was already purring softly when he -looked up at Bookie Skarvan again. “Well, what's the arrangement?” - -“Tydeman will have the money in cash at his house--one hundred thousand -dollars. You go there and get it, and bring it back on the train -to-night.” - -“Anything else?” - -“No; that's all.” Bookie Skarvan mopped at his face with the back of his -sleeve, glanced in the direction of another sudden outburst of delirious -cheering, and mopped at his face again. “That'll be another long -shot--everybody's playing 'em--damn 'em! For God's sake, don't miss that -train back, Dave! It leaves at nine o'clock. Some of these pikers that -never turned a red in their lives before 'll be laying me out if I don't -flash the long green then. You get me, Dave? I'll have all I can do to -stave 'em off that long. I wish I could go with you and get out of here, -but they'd think I was running away, and----” - -“I get you!” said Dave Henderson. “They all love Bookie Skarvan! Well, -it's your car, and you've got a right there, but get off the step -unless you're coming!” He threw in the clutch, and the car shot forward. -“So-long, Bookie!” he flung out over his shoulder. - -An hour passed. Out in the free sweep of country, the car was running -at terrific speed. And now, from the road ahead, Dave Henderson's dark -eyes, cool and self-reliant, strayed to the little black handbag at his -feet as they had done many times before, while the tight lips parted -slightly in a smile; and suddenly, over the rush of the wind and the -roar of the speeding car, he spoke aloud. - -“One hundred thousand dollars--_in cash_,” said Dave Henderson -meditatively. “Well, it looks like the chance I've been waiting -for--what? Only I can't go and let old Tydeman hand it over to me and -trust me with it, and then beat it and give him the doublecross, can -I? Once he shoves it at me, and says, 'Dave, my boy, take this back to -Skarvan,' I'm stung, and there's nothing doing! That's right, ain't it? -Well then, what's the answer?” - -The broad, muscular shoulders set a little more rigidly over the -steering wheel, and the square jaws clamped in a sort of dogged defiance -in the face of his self-propounded problem. His mind, as though -seeking therefrom the solution he demanded, was reviewing the facts -and circumstances that had placed that little black hand-bag, with its -suggestive possibilities, at his feet. It had been a bad day for the -bookmakers, and a particularly bad day for Bookie Skarvan--for it was -the culmination of several extremely bad days for Bookie Skarvan. -Shots at odds that were staggering had won again and again. There was -absolutely no question but that the man was wiped out--a good many -times over. True, Tydeman was coming to the rescue, but that did not -put Bookie Skarvan on his feet again; it only paid the bills, and saved -Bookie Skarvan from being used as a street cleaning device in the shape -of a human mop! The curious thing about it was that Tydeman was in -any way connected with Bookie Skarvan! Everybody knew that Skarvan was -crooked from his boot soles up--except Martin K. Tydeman. But that was -Tydeman's way! Tydeman must have been told often enough, but Tydeman -wouldn't believe it. That was Tydeman's way! Once, years ago, Skarvan -had tipped Tydeman off that one of his string was being “doctored.” It -did not matter that Skarvan had juggled his information, and had -tried first to play both ends to the middle by blackmailing and then -doublecrossing the man who had done the “doctoring”--Tydeman did not -know that--and Tydeman from that moment was unshaken in his belief that -there was no squarer man on the circuit than Bookie Skarvan. It had -resulted in Tydeman becoming a silent partner of Bookie Skarvan--and the -betting fraternity had been not a little pleased, for Tydeman's -millions went up on the board better than even against Bookie Skarvan's -trickiness. - -Dave Henderson nodded his head. It was quite true. Martin K. Tydeman -was getting to be quite an old man now, but Martin K. Tydeman was still -hailed as the squarest, garnest sporting gentleman California had ever -known--and it would be a little rough on that king of sports. It was too -bad that it wasn't Bookie Skarvan! Skarvan was crooked from the ground -up--and who knew it any better than he, Dave Henderson, who had worked -for Skarvan for several years now? But, as it was, Tydeman would simply -have to cough up a second hundred thousand out of his millions, that -was all. No, it wasn't all! It depended entirely upon whether he, Dave -Henderson, could get his hands on the money without accepting it as a -trust from the old millionaire. - -“You're a poor fool!” Dave Henderson informed himself, with a sharp -laugh. “What's the difference? You pinch it either way, don't you?” - -He shook his head, as the car tore forward. - -“Mabbe,” he muttered, “mabbe I am, and mabbe there ain't any -difference--but there's nothing doing that way. I got a little -reputation myself--left. No guy ever put a bean in my mitt that he -didn't get a square deal on, and that's on the level--in spite of -Skarvan! Damn Skarvan! He wouldn't have had a look-in on a two-bit -bet for more seasons than one if I hadn't been running the cases for -him--nobody'd have trusted him!” - -Again Dave Henderson relapsed into silence. He drove in a purely -mechanical way. His mind was rankling now in a sort of bitter -speculation over the years that reached back as far as he could -remember. They were not an altogether pleasing memory; and that was why -he wanted, and not only wanted, but had made up his mind to have--one -hundred thousand dollars. He did not remember either his father or his -mother. They hadn't had any money, but he had an impression that they -had been rather decent people--only they had died. He had been a kid -when it happened--he didn't know how old--just a kid. Some one had put -him in a school, an orphan school. It had been a hell of a place. And -at ten he had run away. After that, beginning by making himself useful -around one of the training stables, he had lived on the race courses -ever since--and had risen to the heights of becoming Bookie Skarvan's -clerk! - -His jaws clamped hard. It was a piker life, but here was a chance to get -out of it! He had been looking for the chance--and here it was--if he -could get away with it. There had been lots of chances before, chances -for a few thousand dollars--but the bet hadn't been good enough. He -had even a little better than three thousand dollars himself, for that -matter, and it was pulling interest, too; he had loaned it to Square -John Kelly, who ran the Pacific Coral Saloon down on the Barbary Coast -in 'Frisco. And he had a couple of hundred dollars in his pocket now, -too, for that matter. But it was all chicken feed. He had won it, and -he might win as much more again some time--or he might lose it. The -game wasn't any good. It didn't get anywhere. Maybe it was the interest -coming in on that three thousand that showed up where the odds stood on -a hundred thousand. There wasn't anything else involved. Was it a -good gamble? The interest on a hundred thousand would make a blooming -gentleman of independent means out of him at one crack. Sure, it was -worth the risk! If he got caught, well then--_good-night!_ If he got -away with it, well then--_zowie!_ - -Yes--but how? That was the question. - -If he wouldn't go to Tydeman and let Tydeman trustfully hand the money -over to him, how was he to get the cash into his possession? He was -quite willing to accept the risk of pursuit and capture, given a few -hours' start, he was quite willing to pit his wits against the machinery -of the law, that was the gambling chance he ran; and it would be very -simple to let Tydeman, in Tydeman's own library, say, assist in packing -the little black hand-bag full of money, and then, instead of taking the -train back to Stockton--to disappear. The strong jaws clamped harder. -But--. nothing doing! Not that way! He'd go the limit, and he meant to -have that hundred thousand, and he would have it, and, once decided -upon getting it, he would drop in his tracks before he would give up -the attempt, and he would drop in his tracks, if the attempt were -successful, before he relinquished his grip on the money--but that way -was _raw_. Rotten raw! To get away with a hundred thousand dollars was -a sporting proposition, a gambling and a fighting chance, but to -double-cross a man who placed that money in one's keeping in good faith -was in Bookie Skarvan's line--not his! - -Well then--how? - -The miles and the minutes and the half-hours passed. Tight-lipped, the -clean-shaven face set and hard, the dark eyes introspective as they held -on the road ahead, Dave Henderson sat there, almost motionless, bent -over the wheel. Once he stopped to replenish his supply of gasoline, and -then the car roared on again, rocking in its speed. He drove perilously -fast, in a sort of subconscious physical synchronism with his racing -brain. One hundred thousand dollars--that was the stake. In another hour -or so that hundred thousand dollars would be his--some way! There was no -question about that! But how? There was something ironical in the fact -that Tydeman was waiting to throw it at him, and that while he racked -his mind for a method of getting the money into his possession, he must -also rack his mind for a method that would prevent it being forced upon -him! He laughed out sharply. - -“Now wouldn't that sting you!” mumbled Dave Henderson. “Say, wouldn't -that sting you!” - -And then, abruptly, Dave Henderson stopped the car at the side of the -road. He had it now--almost. It had come, the germ of it, in a flash. -And now he wanted to think it out without the distraction of handling -the machine. There came a smile, and the smile broadened--and he laughed -again. There was a picture before his mind's-eye now that afforded him a -grim sense of humor. He could see the great bare dormitory in the -orphan school, a room whose walls were decorated with huge scrolled -mottoes--and there was the one on the end wall with its great red -painted letters, and the same old crack in the plaster that zigzagged -its way through the words. Sure, he could see it! “Virtue Is Its Own -Reward.” He had never taken much stock in mottoes, but it looked now as -though that one wasn't all to the bad! By refusing to allow himself to -double-cross old Tydeman, he had now found a very much better way. He -wouldn't have to take the risk of pursuit now if he had any luck, for -the very simple reason that there wouldn't be any pursuit; and instead -of it being a self-evident fact that he had got away with the money, he -would not now appear in the affair at all. - -He began to elaborate the germ very carefully in his mind. He knew old -Tydeman's house well, almost every inch of it, for he had been there on -errands for Skarvan many times. Tydeman had secured the money from the -bank just before closing time, and had taken it to his home. Tydeman's -habit was to dine about half-past six. These three facts woven together -offered a most satisfactory solution to the problem. One hundred -thousand dollars in bills of the denominations that Tydeman would be -likely to call for in order to make it convenient for Bookie Skarvan's -use, would be too bulky for Tydeman to carry around in his pocket. -Therefore the money wouldn't be on Tydeman's person when the old -millionaire sat down to his high-falutin' dinner with his butler at -his elbow at half-past six. The money would be in the library most -likely--and the library was accessible--thanks to the hedge that flanked -the driveway to the house. - -Dave Henderson selected another cigarette from his package, and lighted -it thoughtfully. So far, so good! And the rest wasn't so dusty either! -He had the whole thing now. As soon as he reached 'Frisco he would drive -down to that shabby little street where he kept the shabby room in which -he lived during the off seasons on the turf, and leave the car standing -in front of the house. From his room he could easily gain the shed at -the rear of the place, and from the shed he could gain the lane--and all -this without the slightest chance of being observed. He should be able -to go to Tydeman's house and return in, say, an hour, or an hour and a -half at the outside. If any one noticed the car in front it would seem -only natural that he had gone to his room to wash up and perhaps change -his clothes after a ninety-mile run, especially in view of the fact that -the train he was supposed to take back to Stockton did not leave until -nine o'clock. - -He leaned back in his seat, and blew a smoke ring into the air -complacently. - -“Sure!” observed Dave Henderson. “I guess I've got the odds switched--to -a little better than even money. I'll be back with that hundred thousand -and no one the wiser, but I've got to hide it somewhere--what? And I -can't make the fool play of hiding it in my room.” - -Another smoke ring followed the first. Almost any place would do--so -that it was easy to get at, and at the same time would not attract -attention to him when he went back to it. Well--the shed, then? He -nodded his head suddenly. Yes, of course--Mrs. Tooler's old pigeon-cote -in the shed! It was the one place in a million! The money would be -perfectly safe there, and he could get it again any time at a minute's -notice. Again he nodded his head. The whole thing was as good as done -now. After the money was hidden, he had only to get into the car, drive -to Tydeman's house, mount the steps with the little black satchel in -his hand--and request of Mr. Martin K. Tydeman, Esquire, the money that -Bookie Skarvan had sent him for, and which he had motored a matter of -some ninety miles to obtain! - -Dave Henderson's lips parted in a sudden smile, though the outthrust, -dogged jaw was in no degree relaxed. There would be one whale of -a hullabaloo! But the last man who could by the wildest stretch -of imagination have had anything to do with the robbery was--Dave -Henderson! - -After that, maybe he _would_ accept a second hundred thousand from -Tydeman--and take it back to Bookie Skarvan, too! That was all he had to -do--play the game. In six months it would be soon enough to dig up and -beat it out of the West for keeps. There wasn't any hurry. Being already -a man of affairs, it would take him some time to get those affairs -settled up! There was old Square John Kelly and that three thousand -dollars, for instance. Kelly couldn't produce the cash at an instant's -notice, it was invested in Kelly's business; but if he tipped old Kelly -off that he was thinking of chucking up the West, Kelly would have it -for him at the end of a few months. There wasn't any hurry. - -Dave Henderson glanced at the car's clock--and flipped the butt of his -cigarette away. It was ten minutes of five. He started the car forward -again--but now he drove leisurely. The plan he had decided upon no -longer demanded an excess of speed. He was getting in pretty close to -'Frisco, and he did not now want to reach the city until at least a few -minutes after six. - -There was something superbly insouciant about the man, as, far back in -his seat, his hands rested in a sort of masterful negligence upon the -steering wheel. Of ethics Dave Henderson knew little, and cared much -less--ethics had been missing from the curriculum of the school in which -he had been brought up. He wanted a hundred thousand dollars, because -with a hundred thousand dollars he was fixed for life; and, having -weighed the betting odds that stood between him and his goal, and having -decided to accept those odds, it became simply a question of winning, -or of being wiped out. If he got wiped out, he would neither whimper nor -whine--he would simply swallow his medicine. He was taking a sporting -chance--he was staking his liberty, quite possibly his life, against -Martin K. Tydeman's hundred thousand dollars. And Tydeman could afford -to lose. He wasn't for putting Tydeman, or any one else, on the rocks; -that wasn't the sort of game he had any use for--but a hundred thousand -to Tydeman was street-car fare. He admitted that he would have preferred -it should have been some one other than Tydeman, in the sense that he -possessed an unbounded admiration for Tydeman--for Tydeman, even though -he was too old to take much of an active part in anything, was still the -gamest sport on record. But it _was_ Tydeman, it happened that it _was_ -Tydeman; and so, well---- Dave Henderson shrugged his shoulders. - -“Step up, gentlemen, and place your bets!” murmured Dave Henderson -softly. “And take a tip from me--bunch your wads on the dark horse!” - - - - -II--THE THEFT - - -IT was in front of a shabby frame house in a shabby street that Dave -Henderson stopped the car. It was five minutes after six. He lifted up -the seat, and, leaning down, surreptitiously conveyed to his pocket -a cold-chisel from the car's complement of tools. Lacking any of the -accessories of a professional burglar, the chisel would make a most -excellent substitute for a steel jimmy. He replaced the seat, picked -up the little black hand-bag, alighted, entered the house, and from the -musty hallway, after unlocking the door, stepped through into a room -on the right. He closed the door behind him, and stood surveying his -surroundings in a sort of half grim, half quizzical contempt. - -It was possible that old Tooler upstairs, on hearing the car, and -hearing him, Dave Henderson, enter the house, might come down; on the -other hand, it was quite equally possible that old Tooler would not. It -was, however, wise to wait a few minutes and see. That was part of the -plan. He, Dave Henderson, was supposed to be here in his room while -some one else made that little raid on Martin K. Tydeman's library! If, -therefore, Tooler should come down, and find no one---- A shrug of his -shoulders completed the obvious deduction. - -His eyes traveled around the room. This was his home--that is, if -he could claim a home anywhere, this was his home. It was dingy, -comfortless and uninviting. There was only the one window that faced the -street, and the window was inadequate, and the light seemed to be imbued -with a niggardly hesitation about coming in at all--which was perhaps -just as well. The furnishings weren't out of any prize collection! - -He dug his hands impulsively into his side-pockets--and, one hand -encountering the chisel, he smiled with a kind of cool, composed -satisfaction. Between this barren and God-forsaken hole and this bit -of steel there had been been a connection that was both intimate and -pertinent. For nine years, ever since he had run away from school, the -kind of existence this place stood for had got his goat--that was the -reason why he had put the chisel in his pocket. - -The room had served its purpose better than any other place of like -circumstances and surroundings would have served him--he had, indeed, -chosen this particular room very carefully--but the place had always -got his goat. He had had to have a room somewhere--he had taken it here. -There were many reasons why he had selected this one. It was cheap; and -it was among the only class of people with whom he had ever had a chance -to associate--the hangers-on of the race-tracks, the dance-hall crowd -of the Barbary Coast, the night world of 'Frisco. He knew every one -here--he knew the crooks and the lags of the underworld. These latter -had time and again even tried to inveigle him into active membership in -their fraternity. They wanted him. They had even paid him the compliment -of telling him he would make the slickest crook in the United States. He -had refused. The game didn't look good enough. It was all piker stuff. -It wasn't morality that had held him back... his morality was the -morality of his environment... nine years of it... what was morality -anyhow?... as far as he could make out it was simply a question of -whatever you do don't get caught. And he had seen some of the upper -crust playing at morality, too! Sure, he knew what morality was--he had -seen a lot of it in his nineteen years! - -“Well, what do you know about that!” said Dave Henderson aloud, in a -sort of surprised voice. “Sounds like I'm arguing with myself whether I -ought to do this or not. Say, wouldn't that sting you! There's nothing -to it! It's what you get for waiting--a lone hand that cops the -sweepstakes, and sets you up for keeps like a nabob!” - -He went to the door, opened it slightly, and listened. Upstairs he could -hear Tooler moving about. That was another reason why he had, having -once taken the room, remained on as the sole lodger in this house. -Tooler minded his own business--and Mrs. Tooler couldn't help minding -hers. Mrs. Tooler was a paralytic. They were a couple well beyond middle -age, and, having been thrifty in their early days, had purchased this -house here some fifteen years ago. The neighborhood, even if still a -cheap neighborhood at that time, had been a little more refined in those -days. It had changed for the worse since then, but having invested their -savings the subsequent changes had to be borne, that was all. It hadn't -apparently affected Tooler very much. The man was naturally sour anyhow, -and Mrs. Tooler's illness hadn't changed him into what might be called, -by any stretch of the imagination, genial! He was a mechanic of some -sort; but his work had been spasmodic--Mrs. Tooler could not always be -left alone. - -Dave Henderson frowned. Tooler evidently wasn't coming down; but Tooler, -for all that, must, if the necessity arose, be the means of establishing -an alibi, and that required something of at least a definite recognition -by Tooler of his, Dave Henderson's, presence. He stepped abruptly out -into the hall. - -“Heh, Tooler!” he called. “Tooler!” - -A door opened somewhere above. - -“Hello!” snapped a gruff voice. - -“It's me,” announced Dave Henderson. - -“I heard you!” grunted Tooler. - -“I just came in for a wash-up,” explained Dave Henderson. “Came up in -Skarvan's car. I'm going back to-night by train.” - -“All right!” Tooler grunted again. - -“How's the wife?” - -The only answer was the closing of a door upstairs. Dave Henderson -smiled pleasantly, and re-entered his own room. When it came to -sociability Tooler was a star! Well, so much the better! He had no -complaint to register on that score--especially to-night! He crossed -to where his trunk stood against the wall at the lower end of the room, -opened the trunk, lifted out the tray, and from somewhere in the lower -recesses possessed himself of an automatic pistol and a generous supply -of reserve ammunition. With this in his pocket, he closed the trunk -again, and, sitting down on the edge of the bed, unlaced and removed his -shoes. - -And now Dave Henderson, silent as a cat in his movements, his shoes -tucked under one arm, the black hand-bag under the other, made his -way out into the hall. The car standing in front of the house was mute -evidence that he was still in his room. Later on, when he returned, in -the course of an hour, say, he would call up to Tooler again to say that -he was going. It was a perfectly good alibi! - -He crept on along the hall, reached the back door, opened it cautiously -without a sound, and stepped through into the shed that connected with -the house. Here, he spent several minutes in a careful examination of -the old pigeon-cote. He had never been very much interested in Mrs. -Tooler's abandoned pigeon-cote before--he was very much interested in it -now! There was a small side window in the shed, and it gave just light -enough to enable him to see. It was many years since Mrs. Tooler had -kept any pigeons, or anything else, save the bare threads of her life -together; but the old pigeon-cote was still here at the end of the shed, -just above the door that opened on the lane. It wasn't anything very -elaborate, just a sort of ceiling platform, boarded in, and with a -little door in it. Standing on the ground he could just reach up to the -door, and he opened it tentatively. Yes, it would serve excellently. It -was instantly accessible at any time, either from the house or from the -lane, and certainly Mrs. Tooler's long-forgotten shelter for her bygone -pets was not a thing to excite suspicion--especially in view of the fact -that there never would be any suspicion excited on any score as far as -he was concerned! - -He put on his shoes again, and, opening the shed door at the rear, -stepped out into the lane--and a moment later was walking quickly along -a side street away from the house. - -Martin K. Tydeman's house was on the Hill. Dave Henderson smiled a -little grimly at the airy lightness of the empty black bag in his hand. -It would be neither as light nor as empty on the way hack--if he had any -luck! He pulled the slouch hat he was wearing a little farther down over -his eyes. A man carrying a bag wasn't anything out of the ordinary, or -anything to attract particular attention--he was much more concerned in -avoiding the chance of personal recognition. And, anyway, the bag was a -necessity. If the money, for instance, was in customary banded sheaves -of banknotes, and loose, how else could he carry it? Not in his -pockets--and he couldn't very well make a parcel of them in Tydeman's -library! Of course, the bank might have made up a sealed package of -the whole, but even then a sealed package would have to be kept out of -sight. - -The slouch hat was drawn down still a little lower, and by the less -frequented streets Dave Henderson made his way along. At the expiration -of some twenty minutes he had emerged, a block away, on the street upon -which the millionaire's home fronted. The hurried pace was gone now, and -he dropped into a leisurely and nonchalant saunter. It was a very select -neighborhood. There was little or no traffic, and the majority of -the houses possessed, to a greater or less extent, their own grounds. -Tydeman's house, for example, was approached by a short driveway that -was flanked on both sides by a high and thick hedge. Dave Henderson -nodded his head complacently. He had pictured that driveway a dozen -times on the run up from Stockton, and particularly he had pictured that -hedge! It was a most convenient hedge! And it was exceedingly thoughtful -of Martin K. Tydeman, Esquire, to have provided it! If one crouched low -enough there was nothing, unless some one were especially on the watch, -to prevent one reaching the library windows at the side-rear of the -house, and of accomplishing this without the slightest chance of being -seen. - -He was close to the driveway entrance now, and his eyes swept narrowly -up and down the street. For the moment there appeared to be no one in -sight--and, with a quick side-step, he slipped suddenly in from the -street under the shelter of the hedge. - -He moved swiftly now, running, half bent over. It was a matter of but a -few seconds--and now, darting across the driveway where it branched off -to circle around to the front entrance, he gained the side wall of -the house, and crouched, listening intently, beneath the window of the -library. - -A minute passed, another--there was no sound. He raised himself -guardedly then to an upright position, pressing close against the wall, -but keeping well back at one side of the window. The window sill was -shoulder high, and now, edging forward inch by inch, he obtained a -diagonal glance through the pane. The room, as far as he could see, for -the portières within were but partially drawn, was unoccupied. It was -what he had counted upon. Tydeman, if the millionaire were following his -usual custom, was at dinner, and the dining room was on the other side -of the house. No one of the household, either family or servants, -would ordinarily have any occasion to be in the library at this hour. -Ordinarily! A glint came into the dark eyes, and the eyes narrowed as in -a dogged, uncompromising challenge--and then the shoulders lifted in -a debonair shrug. Well, that was the chance he took! He was gambling -anyhow! - -His fingers crept to the window-sash, and tested it quietly. It would -not move. Whether it was locked above or not, he did not know--the -slight pressure that he was able to exert from the outside was at least -not sufficient to lift it--but the improvised steel jimmy would quickly -remedy that defect. He worked hurriedly now. The Western summer evenings -were long and it was still light, and every minute he stood there was -courting discovery. The edge of the chisel slipped in between the sill -and the window-sash, and with the leverage the window was raised an inch -or two. His question was answered. - -It had not been locked at the top. - -And now his fingers came into play again--under the window-sash. There -was not a sound. The window went up easily and silently; and with a -lithe, agile spring Dave Henderson swung himself up over the sill, -dropped with a soft _pad_ to the floor, and stood motionless, shrouded -in one of the portières. - -The room was empty. The door leading from the library, he could see as -he peered out, was closed. From the other side of the door, muffled, -there came a laugh, the murmur of voices, indeterminate little sounds. -The set, straight lips relaxed a little. The way was quite clear. The -chances in his favor were mounting steadily. The family was undoubtedly -at dinner. - -He made no sound as he stepped quickly now across the room. The rich, -heavy pile of the velvet rug beneath his feet deadened his footfalls. -And now he reached the massive flat-topped desk that stood almost in the -center of the room. It was the most likely place, the natural place, for -Tydeman to leave the money. If it was not here--again there came that -debonair shrug--well then, he would look further--upstairs in Tydeman's -bedroom, if necessary--or anywhere else, if necessary. One thing only -was certain, and that was that, having started on the job, he would get -the money, or they would get him--if he couldn't fight his way out. It -was quite natural! Of course, he would do that! What else would he do? -He had always done that! He had been brought up to it, hadn't he? Win -or lose--he had always played win or lose. Cold feet and bet hedging was -piker stuff--and that was in Bookie Skarvan's line, too, not his! - -Keen, alert, his ears were sentinels against the slightest external -sound. He was gnawing now in a sort of grim impatience at his lower lip, -as he pulled open, drawer after drawer. Strange how his mind worked! -The slickest crook in the U. S. A., they had said he would make. Well, -perhaps he would, but, even so, it neither allured nor interested him. -This was his first job--and his last. There was enough in this to see -him through for the rest of his life. It wouldn't have been worth the -risk otherwise, and he wouldn't have tackled it. Once East, and he could -pretend to amass money little by little until no one would be surprised -that he was worth a hundred thousand dollars. That was the trouble with -the bunch he knew! Some of them had brains, but they worked their brains -overtime--on small stuff--and they had to come again--to keep the living -expenses going--and sooner or later they came once too often--and then -it was the jug for theirs! - -He bent down suddenly to a lower drawer that was locked--the only one -that he had found locked--and pried it open with the cold chisel. - -“Sure!” said Dave Henderson imperturbably under his breath. “I guess -this looks like it--what? And all done up in a nice little package, too! -Even more thoughtful of 'em than I had hoped!” - -He took out a parcel from the drawer. It was securely tied with stout -cord, and heavily sealed with great blobs of red wax that bore a -bank's impression. There could indeed be but little doubt concerning the -contents; but Dave Henderson, nevertheless, made a slight opening in -one end of the wrapping paper--and disclosed to view crisp piles of -brand-new yellowbacks. He nodded pleasantly to himself, as he consigned -the package to the little black hand-bag. - -It was what he had come for--and got--one hundred thousand dollars. - -He closed the drawer, and knelt for an instant to examine it. Closed, it -did not show enough of the chisel's work to attract attention; open, it -at once became very apparent that the drawer had been forced. He smiled -in satisfaction. That was exactly what he wanted! When, a little later, -he drove up in Skarvan's car to the front door and requested the money, -it was only then that it was likely to be missed for the first time; and -certainly under such circumstances the last man on earth against whom -any suspicion could arise would be himself. He had told himself that -before. Well, why not repeat it? It was true, wasn't it? - -He retreated to the window, lowered himself to the ground, and regained -the street. The thing was done. He was in possession of one hundred -thousand dollars. There had not been the slightest difficulty or -obstacle. He hummed an air under his breath, as he went along. It had -been very simple--more so even than he had expected. It had been almost -tame! - - - - -III--THE TRAP - - -DAVE HENDERSON lost no time on his return journey. Within some fifteen -or twenty minutes after leaving the residence of Mr. Martin K. Tydeman, -he slipped into the lane at the rear of the shabby house on the shabby -street that he called his home, and, entering the shed, closed the door -softly behind him. Here, it was but the work of an instant to take the -sealed package of banknotes from the black hand-bag, reach up, slide -the package in through the little door of the old pigeon-cote, push the -package over into one corner, cover it with the chaff and old straw with -which, relics of bygone days of occupancy, the bottom of the pigeon-cote -was littered, and to close the little door again. - -He stooped then, and, unlacing his shoes quickly, removed them. He had -only one thing to guard against now, and his alibi was perfect, his -possession of one hundred thousand dollars secure. Tooler must not hear -him entering the house. Tooler must be morally convinced that he, Dave -Henderson, had never left the house. As soon as he got back to his room -again, he would put on his shoes, call up to Tooler that he was going, -and, with the empty black hand-bag, get into his car--and drive up to -Martin K. Tydeman's! - -“Some uproar!” confided Dave Henderson to himself. “When I ask old -Martin K. to fill the li'l old bag, and he goes for the cash, there'll -be------” - -His mental soliloquy ended abruptly. He had opened the door noiselessly -that led into the house, and was creeping without a sound along the -hallway toward the door of his room at the front of the house--and now -suddenly he stood rigid and motionless. Was it fancy, his imagination -playing tricks upon him, or had Tooler come down-stairs? It seemed as -though he had caught the sound of a lowered voice; and it seemed as -though it had come from his own room there along the hall. - -And then he smiled sarcastically at himself, and began to creep forward -again. He had complained of the whole thing being tame, and now he was -getting an attack of nerves when it was all over! How could he have -heard a lowered voice through the closed door of his room? It was a -physical impossibility. And Tooler, in any case, was not in the habit of -talking to _himself_ Tooler never talked to any one if he could help it. -The man always seemed to be nursing a perennial grudge that he hadn't -been born a mute! - -Dave Henderson's smile broadened at his little conceit--and the next -instant vanished entirely, as his lips compressed suddenly into a hard, -straight line. He had halted for the second time, hugged now close -against the wall. The door of his room was _not_ closed, and it was -_not_ Tooler--and it was _not_ nerves. The door was slightly ajar; -and the words came quite audibly; and the guarded voice had a haunting -familiarity about it: - -“Sure, I grabbed the train, an' Bookie stalled on being able to get old -Tydeman on the long-distance until after the train--an' me on it--was on -our way. Tumble?” - -Dave Henderson did not move. Into his face there had come, set in a -grayish-whiteness, a look that mingled stunned amazement and a gathering -fury. He had recognized that voice now--and, in a flash, what that -voice meant. It was Runty Mott, a miserable little red-haired rat of -a race-course tout and hanger-on. Runty Mott--Bookie Skarvan! He -remembered very well indeed that Bookie Skarvan could not get Tyde-man -on the long distance until after the train was gone! - -Another voice chuckled in malicious assent. - -“Take it from me”--it was Runty Mott again--“Bookie Skarvan's got some -head! _Some_ head! He was wiped out all right, but I guess this puts -him on Easy Street again. Fifty thousand for him, an' we split the -rest. Bookie says to me, he says, 'If Dave goes an' gets that money, -an' disappears afterwards,'-he says, 'it's a cinch, with the ragged -reputation he's got, that he stole it, an' beat it for parts unknown, -an' if them parts unknown,' he says, 'is a nice little mound of earth -somewheres in the woods about six feet long an' four feet deep, due -to Dave having collided with a blackjack, I guess the police'll be -concluding after a while that Dave was smart enough to give 'em the -slip, an' get away with the coin for keeps. You grab the train for -'Frisco, Runty,' he says, 'an' wise up Baldy Vickers to what I say. You -got a good two hours,' he says, 'to set the stage up there before Dave -blows in.'” - -Came that malicious chuckle again. - -“An' the poor boob went an' cracked the crib himself!” ejaculated Runty -Mott's companion--and chuckled once more. - -“Sure!” said Runty Mott. “Bookie called the turn all right on the guy's -reputation--he was born a crook. Well, it makes it all the easier, don't -it? It might have been harder to get him when we wanted him if he'd just -gone up there an' got the money on the level. As it is now, he's ducking -his nut, trying to play innocent, an' he comes back here to make a nice -fresh start up to old Tydeman's again. Only he didn't reckon on any -one trailing him from the minute he got out of his car! I guess we got -him--good. Spike telephoned ten minutes ago that Dave was on his way -back. If he comes in by the shed, the boys'll see he don't get out -that way again; an' if he comes in by the front he'll get a peach of -a welcome home! Tumble? This is where he croaks--an' no noise about -it--an' you look out that you swing the lead so's you won't have to -swing it twice. We can carry him out through the shed, an' get the -mortal remains away in a car with no one the wiser.” Runty Mott was -chuckling now quite as maliciously as his companion. “Can't you see the -headlines in the papers! 'Promising Young Man Succumbs to Temptation.' -Say, it's the safest thing that was ever pulled, an'------” He stopped -suddenly. A low whistle sounded from the street in front. “Keep quiet!” - cautioned Runty Mott. “He's coming in by the lane.” - -It was silent in the house--only the silence began to pound and throb, -and become a world of riot and dismay, and make confused noises of its -own. Crouched against the wall, Dave Henderson raised his hand to his -forehead--and drew his hand away damp with beads of moisture. There was -an overmastering rage, a tigerish ferocity upon him; but his brain, most -curiously, was deadly cold in its composure, and was working now swift -as lightning flashes, keen, alert, shrewd, active. The words he had just -heard meant--_murder_. His murder! The very callousness of the words -but lent a hideous sincerity to them. Also he knew Baldy Vickers--if any -further proof was needed. Baldy Vickers was a gangster to whom murder -was a trade; and Baldy Vickers with stakes in the thousands, when he -would have committed any crime in the decalogue with greedy haste for a -hundred-dollar bill, meant--murder. - -He was stooping now, silently, with the utmost caution, slipping on his -shoes. And now from the rear there came a faint sound, a low creaking, -like the stealthy rending of wood. He knew what it meant: They were -forcing the shed door--to follow him in here--to cut off his escape, and -to assist if necessary in the work those two were waiting to perform in -his room, which he was expected to enter. - -His face was set, drawn in lines as hard as chiselled marble. And yet he -could have laughed--laughed out in the bitterest mockeries. The game was -up--even if he saved his life. He would be “wanted” for the theft of one -hundred thousand dollars. He could not cover that up now. If he escaped -Baldy Vickers and his pack, he would still be a fugitive from the law. -And, worse still, he would be a fugitive empty-handed, chased like a -mangy dog who had risked his all for a bone--and had dropped the bone in -his flight! God, if he could only get back there and get that money! -But there were footsteps coming now--his straining ears could hear -them--they were coming nearer and nearer to the door that opened -from the shed into the rear of the house. Fury surged upon him again. -Skarvan! Bookie Skarvan! It was Skarvan, not Baldy Vickers, not that -miserable, red-headed rat of a tout in there, that he would have sold -his soul at that instant to settle with. It was Skarvan, the dirty -Judas, not the others, who, smug and safe, had planned his, Dave -Henderson's, murder in deliberate, coldblooded hellishness! Well, if he, -Dave Henderson, lived, Bookie Skarvan would pay... an eye for an eye... -that was God's law, wasn't it?... well, as certainly as God lived, -Bookie Skarvan would pay... it was another incentive for him, Dave -Henderson, to live now.... - -The brain works with incredible speed. Those footsteps had not yet quite -reached the door leading into the hall. His shoes were on now; and now -his eyes fell upon the empty black hand-bag which, to facilitate his -movements in putting on his shoes, he had set down on the floor beside -him, and there came, flickering suddenly over the tight-pressed lips, a -curious smile. He might not get through; there was only one way to -get through--his car out there in front--a dash for it, though it was -certain that there would be others of Baldy Vickers' crowd lurking out -there, too; he might not get through, but if he did, there was a way, -too, to save that hundred thousand dollars, or, at least, to keep it -from Bookie Skarvan's claws! - -Into the dark, narrowed eyes there came a glint of humor--but it was -grim, deadly humor. They believed, of course, that he had the money in -the bag, since he would be credited with no object for having already -disposed of it, the natural presumption being that, with the money once -in his possession, he would make a run for it--and they must continue to -believe that--be given no reason to believe otherwise. It was dangerous, -an added risk, but if he pretended to fall unwarily into their trap, -pretended to be unconscious that there was, for instance, a blackjack -waiting for him in his room, their suspicions would never be -aroused--and neither they nor any one else would ever suspect for an -instant that the money was not still in the bag as he dashed from the -house. - -He was creeping forward again silently toward the door of his room. That -was logical. They would expect that. They would expect him to creep in -silently and stealthily, on account of Tooler upstairs--or, if they did -not exactly expect it, it would explain itself in that very logical way -to them afterwards. - -Behind him now the door leading into the hall was being opened -cautiously, so cautiously that he would not have heard it if he had not -been listening for it, expecting it. But he was just at the edge of the -jamb of his own door now. He straightened up, his hand reached out -for the door handle, and, still retaining his grasp upon the knob and -standing in full view upon the threshold, he pushed the door open to the -extent of his outstretched arm. - -The slickest crook in the United States, they had said he would make! He -would try and not disappoint them! - -His eyes swept the interior in a flash. A burly figure was crouched -low down against the wall within striking distance of the door, an ugly -looking, leather-covered baton in his hand--Runty Mott was not in sight. -It was for the fraction of a second that he stood there--no more--not -long enough for that crouching figure to recover from its surprise. - -“My God!” gasped Dave Henderson, in well-simulated dismay; and, leaping -backward, pulled shut the door, and dashed for the door to the street. - -There was a yell from the room; it was echoed by a shout, and the pound -of racing feet from the rear of the hall. Dave Henderson wrenched the -front door open--and slammed it behind him. A figure rose before him on -the steps. His left hand, free, swung with all his body weight behind -it, swung with a terrific blow to the point of a scrubby jaw that -blocked his way--and the figure crumpled, and went down with a crash on -the doorstep. - -It was but a yard to the curb and his car. He threw himself into the -driver's seat. Pandemonium seemed loosed now from the house. Up above, -a second-story window was raised violently, and Tooler's head was thrust -out; below, the front door was flung wide open, and, the red-headed -little tout in the van, four men were racing down the steps. And then, -over the chorus of unbridled blasphemy, there rose a shrill yell from -Runty Mott, which was answered from somewhere down the street. - -The car, like a mad thing stung into action, shot forward from the curb. -A hand grasped at the car's side, and was torn loose, its owner spinning -like a top and pitching to the sidewalk. Dave Henderson flung a glance -over his shoulder--and his jaws clamped suddenly hard together. Of -course! That shout of Runty Mott's! But he had not underestimated either -Baldy Vickers' cunning, or Baldy Vickers' resourcefulness. He had rather -expected it. A big, powerful gray car had swept around the corner of -the first street behind him, and, slowing for an instant, was picking up -Runty Mott and his companions. - -And now Dave Henderson laughed a little in a sort of grim savagery. -Well, the race was on--and on to a finish! He knew the men too well in -that gray car behind him to delude himself for a moment with any other -idea. They wanted that little black hand-bag, and they would get it if -they could; and they would get him, if they could, at any cost. Again -he laughed, and now with the laugh came that debonair lift to his -shoulders. His brain was working in swift, lightning flashes. The only -hope of shaking them off was in the open--if his car were the faster. -And if it were not the faster? Well then, yes--there was still a -chance--on a certain road he knew, the road he had traveled that -afternoon--if he could make that road. It was a chance, a gambling -chance, but the best chance--to win all--or lose all. There would be -no hedging--it was all or nothing--win or lose. They would not dare use -their revolvers here in the city streets, they could only cling close on -his trail; and neither of them here in the city could put the respective -speed of their cars to the test--but in the open, in the country---- - -He looked over his shoulder again. The big gray car, some fifty yards -in the rear, held five passengers. He could distinguish the little -red-haired tout in the front seat beside the man who was driving, a -short, thick-set man, whose cap was pulled down over his eyes--Baldy -Vickers. He nodded his head. His glance had measured something else. By -leaning forward in his seat and crouching low over the wheel, the back -of his car seemed high enough, not to afford him absolute immunity, but -to afford him at least a fair chance of protection once he elected to -invite the shots that would be fired from the car behind. - -Then the thought came that by one of a dozen ways, by leaping from his -car as he turned a corner, for instance, and darting into a building, he -might give his pursuers the slip here in the city. But it was no good! -The game was up! He was not only a fugitive from Baldy Vickers and his -wolves, he was a fugitive now from the police. And if by some such means -as that he managed to give Baldy Vickers the slip, there was still the -police--and with a police drag-net out he cut his chances of escape by -better than half if he remained in the city. It would not be long now -before Tydeman, in view of his, Dave Henderson's, non-appearance, would -become aware of the theft; and, granting that he eluded Baldy Vickers, -the gangster, eager for revenge, would be the first to curry favor with -the police--Baldy Vickers had only to state that one of his pals saw -him, Dave Henderson, crawling out through Tydeman's library window. -There was nothing to it! The game was up--even if he saved his life. -Thanks to Bookie Skarvan! His jaws clamped again, and the knuckles of -his hands stood out in white knobs as they clenched in sudden passion on -the wheel. Thanks to Bookie Skarvan! By God, that alone was worth living -for--to settle with Bookie Skarvan! - -Like some sinister, ominous thing, silently, attracting no attention -from the passers-by, the big gray car maintained its distance fifty -yards behind. That grim humor, deadly in its cold composure, was upon -Dave Henderson again. He meant to be taken by neither Baldy Vickers, nor -by the police; nor did he intend that a certain package containing one -hundred thousand dollars in cash should fall into the hands of either -Baldy Vickers or the police! Some day, even yet, he might find use for -that particular package himself! - -Block after block was traversed, corner after corner was turned, as Dave -Henderson threaded his way through the streets, heading steadily for -the outskirts of the city, and the road on which he had already traveled -ninety miles that day. And fifty yards behind came on that big gray -car. They were well content, no doubt--the occupants of that car! He was -playing their game for them! He was playing the fool! In the city their -hands were tied! Out in the country they would be free to do something -more than merely follow silently behind him! Well, that was all quite -true--perhaps! But out in the country, if he got away from them, he -would not at least jump from the pot into the fire and have the police -at his heels the very next instant; and, besides, there was that -hundred thousand dollars! The further away he got from 'Frisco the more -inviolate became Mrs. Tooler's old pigeon-cote! - -Fifty yards! He glanced behind him again. It was still fifty -yards--_start_. Well, fifty yards was fifty yards, and he might as well -take it now. He was well in the outskirts, the houses were becoming -scattered, an open road was ahead, and---- - -He bent suddenly low over the wheel, and flung the throttle wide. The -car leaped forward like a thoroughbred answering to the spur. There was -a burst of yells from behind--and then silence, save for the rush of the -wind, the creak of the swaying, lurching car, and the singing throb of -the sixty horse-power engine, unleashed now, in full stride under the -lash. - -A mile, two miles--the speed was terrific. There was no sound from -behind--just the roar of his own car in his ears. The houses were fewer -now--it was the open country. Another mile! He was at his absolute -maximum of speed now. He straightened up slightly, and shot a quick -glance over his shoulder. The big gray car was fifty yards behind. - -A shot rang out--and then a fusillade of them. He was low over the wheel -again, his jaws set rigidly. Was it fifty yards? He was not sure, he was -not sure but that it was less--he was only sure that it was not more. - -The shots ceased for a moment. A car, coming in the opposite direction, -had taken to the extreme edge of the road, half into the ditch. He had a -flash of a woman's face, as he swept by--great dark eyes that stared out -of a death-white face--a beautiful face even in its terror--it haunted -him, that face. - -A furious, sustained racketing, like a thousand echoes reverberating -through a rocky, high-walled canon, stilled the roaring sweep of the -wind, and the roaring of his car. He shot through the main street of a -town like a meteor, and laughed out like a madman. A dog escaped by the -fraction of an inch, and, tail down, scurried with a sharp yelp for the -sidewalk; there was a dash for horses' heads at the curbs; people -rushed to doorways and windows, peering out; women screamed; men yelled -hoarsely; a fat woman, retreating wildly as she was about to cross the -road, dropped a laden basket-to shake her fist in panic fury. It was -kaleidoscopic--it was gone. - -The shots came again. Another town was passed--still another. The big -gray car was not fifty yards behind now--it was less than thirty--so -near that now there came from time to time an exultant yell. - -Dave Henderson's face was drawn, tense, its lines hard, sharp, strained; -but in the dark eyes was still that smoldering light of grim, debonair -humor. The race was almost at an end--he knew that now. He knew now that -he could not shake off that gray streaking thing behind. It gained only -by inches, they were well matched, the two cars, and it was a good race; -but a few more miles would end it as those inches lengthened into feet -and yards. - -Well, then, since he could not escape this way, there was still the -other way; and if that failed, too, in the last analysis he had a -revolver in his pocket. But it was not likely to fail, that other way. -He had banked on it almost from the moment he had made his escape from -the Toolers' house. As between himself, Dave Henderson, and the hundred -thousand dollars, Baldy Vickers, if Baldy Vickers could not get both, -would very obviously and very earnestly prefer the hundred thousand -dollars. His lips tightened in a sort of merciless irony. Well, Baldy -Vickers would have a chance at least to exercise his preference! A few -miles farther on, just a few miles, the road, in a wooded tract, made an -abrupt, almost right-angled, turn. He remembered that turn--and he had -banked on that, too, if by then speed alone should have failed him! -He could hold out that much longer. The inches did not accumulate fast -enough to overtake him before he reached that turn--he was not afraid of -that--but every one of those inches made of him a better target. - -He was motionless, like a figure carved in stone, as he hung over the -wheel. The car rocked to the furious pace--but it did not swerve. A -swerve meant the gift of another of those inches to that gray thing -behind. He held the center of the road, driving with all the craft and -cunning that he knew, his arms like steel bands, his fingers locked in -an iron grip upon the wheel. - -He did not look behind him now. It was useless. Nearer and nearer the -gray car was creeping up, he was well aware of that; but, also, nearer -and nearer came that wooded stretch ahead. He could see it now--a mile -down the road. But a mile at this rate of speed did not take long to -cover. - -The shouts grew more exultant behind him; the shots came thicker. -Murderers! The angry hum of a bullet past his ear roused a fury in his -soul that was elemental, primal, and he cursed now under his breath. -Murderers... six feet of earth... in cold blood... or if they winged -him, the car, amuck, slanting from the road to up-end itself, would do -their bloody work for them... Bookie Skarvan... some day, if he lived -through this... Bookie Skarvan... it was strange that all their shots -had missed... even if the back of his car was a protection... they -wouldn't have many more chances... the woods and the turn of the road -were just ahead now, and... - -There was a crash, the splintering of glass, and a bullet shattered -the wind-shield scarcely a hair's-breadth to the right of his head. A -demoniacal yell of triumph went up from behind. They had him now--and, -with him, one hundred thousand dollars! Again that grimace of merciless -irony was twisting at Dave Henderson's lips. It was the psychological -moment, not only because that wood was just ahead, but because, -realizing that his chances were desperate now, he would logically be -expected to sacrifice anything--even that hundred thousand dollars--to -save himself. - -Something, like the flick of a fiery lash, bringing a hot, burning -sensation, was laid suddenly across his leg above the knee. It did not -hurt very much--a bullet deflected probably from the rim of the steering -wheel--but they had hit him at last. He laughed savagely--and snatched -at the empty black hand-bag, and hurled it with all his might far out -across the side of the road. - -A chorused yell answered his act. He looked back--and laughed again. It -had not failed! They were stopping. Wolves! Again he laughed. And like -wolves with slavering fangs they were after their prey! It would give -him a minute, perhaps two--but that was enough! - -The car swept on, and rounded the turn, and the trees blotted out the -view of the road behind. He jammed on the brakes, slewed the car half -around, full across the road, and leaping from it, dashed in amongst the -trees. The foliage was thick. He ran on. He was safe for the moment here -in the woods; and presently it would be dark, and he would make across -country to the railroad, and work his way East. - -The roar of the gray car coming on again at full speed reached him. -He laughed as he ran, harshly, without mirth. They wanted vengeance -now--vengeance because he had not let them murder him! Well, he did not -mean to disappoint them! He had disappointed them once--with an empty -bag! He would not disappoint them again! It was perfectly logical that -there should be--vengeance. There was hardly room to stop that car -around the turn! - -A wild cry, echoed by another, and still another, shrill in terror, rang -out from the road over the roar of the speeding car--and then a terrific -crash--a scream--silence. - -He had stopped mechanically. The wolves wouldn't bother him any more. It -wasn't Baldy Vickers now, that smash would have taken the fight out of -Baldy Vickers, if it hadn't taken anything more--it was the police. He -clenched his hands in sudden, passionate fury. He was safe from Baldy -Vickers here in the woods, anyhow; but, for all that, he had played and -lost. He was a hunted man now. He was not whining, he had played and -lost--only he had played against stacked cards. The face of Bookie -Skarvan rose before him, and his hands clenched the tighter. He swept -a knotted fist fiercely across his eyes. What was the use of that--now! -Not now! He had something else besides Bookie Skarvan to think of now; -there was the police, and--yes--his leg! It was burning hot, and it hurt -now. He glanced downward. His trouser-leg was soaked with blood. His -teeth gritted together--and he plunged on again through the woods. - - - - -IV--TWO THOUSAND DOLLARS' REWARD----DEAD OR ALIVE - - -THREE days, and four nights--was that it? - -It was hard to remember. It hadn't even been easy to get the little food -he had had; it had been impossible to get his wound dressed, save in the -rough, crude, wholly inadequate way in which he had been able to dress -it himself--with pieces torn from his shirt and underclothing. They -had hunted him like a mad beast. Those cursed police placards were -everywhere! Everywhere! TWO THOUSAND DOLLARS' REWARD--DEAD OR ALIVE. The -police had acted quickly, quicker than he had ever thought they could -act! Joe Barjan, Lieutenant Barjan of the 'Frisco plain-clothes squad, -would have had a hand in this. Queer! He'd given Barjan tips on the -races, straight tips, honest tips, in the old days--not this kind of -a race. Barjan and he used to get along all right together. Funny -business! - -It was dark, pitch black--save only for a moon-ray-that flickered and -danced across the flooring of the bouncing, jolting boxcar, and that -came in through the half-open, rattling door. He should have closed that -door more tightly when he had crawled in. It had got loose again. Well, -no matter! It couldn't do any harm for the moment, except for the noise -it made, a noise that beat a devil's tattoo on his aching head. But that -didn't matter, either. It wasn't as bad as the clatter and jangle and -damnable everlasting creaking of the car--and he couldn't stop the car -from creaking anyhow. When the train began to slow down for the next -stop, he would go over and shut the door again. It was an effort to -move--uselessly--before he had to. - -Three days, and four nights--was that it? It was hard to remember. -But he must have put many miles, hundreds of them, between himself and -'Frisco. And he had lived through hell--alternately beating his way in -some boxcar such as this, and hiding in the woods, or where he could. -But the boxcars were mostly for the night--mostly for the night--it was -safer. Damn those police circulars, and that reward! Every one was on -the hunt for him--every one--two thousand dollars. How far East would he -have to go and not find one of the haunting things nailed upon a -station wall! The drag-net _couldn't_ reach out all the way--there was a -limit--a limit to everything. - -His brain caught at the last phrase--a limit to everything. His lips -were cracked and dry, and he touched them with his tongue. - -“No!” He shook his head, whispering hoarsely a dogged defiance. “No -limit--win or lose--all the Way--no limit.” - -Through hell! The whole countryside was hell! They wouldn't even let -him buy food. Well, he had stolen it--what he had had. They had -nearly trapped him the second time he had tried to buy food--the night -following his escape--in a little grocery store--a big, raw-boned, -leering man who ran the place--the man hadn't got the two thousand -dollars' reward--no, not much of a fight--he had knocked the man out, -and run for it--that was all. After that he hadn't tried to buy any -food--he had stolen it--only he hadn't stolen very much. It was hard -to get. It was even hard to get water, a drink of water sometimes. -It didn't run everywhere. There weren't ponds and lakes and rivers -everywhere. He couldn't ask anybody for a glass of water. There had been -a ditch that afternoon. It had been muddy and slimy. Since then there -had been nothing. He would have sold his soul for a few of those drops -that had splashed in lavish abundance from the spout of the water-tank -at the station earlier that night when he had crawled into the car -here--he had seen the fireman on the back of the tender manipulating the -spout, and he had heard the water splash. - -He spoke hoarsely again. - -“I'm shot full of fever, that's what I am,” he said. “I'm shot full of -it.” - -Sprawled out on the floor of the car, he shifted his position a little; -and, tight-locked though his lips were, there came an irrepressible -moan of pain. God, how his eyes burned; how hot his head was, and how it -throbbed and ached! The throbs kept devilish time, marching time, like -the tramp of feet to the beat of the drum, to that ceaseless, brutal -throbbing in his leg. He hadn't looked at his leg to-day--it had been -bad enough yesterday. What was the use! He couldn't do anything. He -hadn't even any water--there wasn't any use dressing it with that slimy, -muddy stuff he had drunk. It would have to get better--or worse. - -He touched his lips with his tongue again. There didn't seem to be -any moisture on his tongue; it was thick and big in his mouth, so it -couldn't be dried up, but there wasn't any moisture on it. Would the car -never stop its jolting, and that infernal _clack-clack, clackety-clack!_ -There was abominable pain in every jolt, it seemed to shake his leg the -way a mold of jelly would shake; it seemed to shake and vibrate to the -bone itself. Sometimes it brought nausea and faintness. - -Perhaps there _was_ a limit! He had lain exhausted for a long time, -bathed in sweat from his exertions, when he had climbed and clawed his -way into the car. He remembered now--that was why he hadn't shut the -door tightly. He must be getting pretty near his limit to go down like -a lump of putty just through climbing from the track into a boxcar. -He clenched his hands in fierce denial. No! No limit--it was win or -lose--no hedging--it was all the way--even against stacked cards. - -Stacked cards! The pain was gone momentarily in a sweep of fury that -brought him up from his back to sway like a pendulum upon his elbows -with the swaying of the car. He owed Bookie Skarvan for this. He owed -it to Bookie Skarvan that he was a hunted, wounded thing. He owed every -thrust of pain that caught at and robbed him of his breath to Bookie -Skarvan. He owed it to Bookie Skarvan that he was an outcast for the -rest of his life. He owed Bookie Skarvan for as damnable and callous an -attempt to murder him as was ever hatched in a human brain. And they had -left Bookie Skarvan to him! His laugh rang loud and hollow, a bitter, -sinister sound, unbridled in its deadly passion, through the car. They -had left Bookie Skarvan to him! It was good to think of that--very good, -like a drink of water, icy water, with the beads frosting on the long -glass. They had left Bookie Skarvan to him. Well, he would not change -the story they had told! He would promise them that. Not by a word! They -had left Bookie Skarvan to him! - -He knew the story. Last night in a switchman's shanty in a railroad yard -he had found a newspaper--the story was there. Baldy Vickers and Runty -Mott, who had been sitting in the front seat of the big gray car, were -in the hospital from the smash; the others had not been much hurt. -Bookie Skarvan's car had been identified, what there was left of it, and -that formed an implicating link between him, Dave Henderson, and Baldy -Vickers' crowd. Runty Mott and Vickers, being forced therefore to -explain, had told a story that was almost true--but they hadn't split -on Bookie Skarvan--they had left Bookie Skarvan out of it. The story was -enough of a confession, smacked enough of State's evidence to let them -out of any criminal proceedings, even if there had been any really -definite charge that could be brought against them. They hadn't stolen -the money! The story rang true because it was _almost_ true--only they -had left Bookie Skarvan out of it. - -Runty Mott, according to the newspaper, had been the spokesman. -Runty said he had overheard Bookie Skarvan and Dave Henderson at the -race-course, when they were making arrangements to get the money from -Tydeman. He, Runty Mott, had taken the train for 'Frisco, and had put it -up to Baldy Vickers. Then they had followed Dave Henderson, meaning to -take the money from him the first chance they got. But Dave Henderson -had handed them a jolt by crawling in through Tydeman's library window, -and stealing it himself. After that they had figured the easiest place -to grab the coin was in Dave Henderson's room, when he sneaked back -there with the black hand-bag. And Dave Henderson had walked right into -their trap, only they hadn't heard him coming any more than he, in turn, -had been wise to the fact that they were there, and in the showdown he -had managed to jump through the front door and reach his car. He had the -money in the black hand-bag with him. They had chased him in the other -car that the police had found smashed up, and had nearly got him, when -he threw the black hand-bag out of the car. They stopped to pick it up, -and found out the trick he had played on them. The hand-bag was empty; -he still had the money in his car. They took up the chase again--and -crashed into the other machine where Dave Henderson had left it blocking -the road just around a sharp turn. - -Dave Henderson's laugh rang with a devil's mirth through the boxcar -again. That was all! They hadn't split on a pal. They had left the pal -to him. Runty Mott had told the story--and Runty Mott's story went! He, -Dave Henderson, wouldn't change it! They didn't know, and Bookie Skarvan -didn't know, _that he knew_. They had left Bookie Skarvan to him--and -they had made Mrs. Tooler's pigeon-cote as safe as a vault. - -The slue of the car on a curve flung him with a savage wrench from his -elbows to his back again, and he groaned in agony. Red flashes danced -before his eyes, and nausea came once more, and faintness--and he lay -for a long time still. It seemed as though he no longer had any power -to move; even the pain seemed to have become subordinate to a physical -sense of weakness and impotence that had settled upon him. His head grew -dizzy and most strangely light. - -There came the blast of the engine whistle, the grind and thump of -buffer beams, the shriek of the brake-shoes biting at the wheel tires, -the sickening sensation of motion being unsmoothly checked. His mind did -not grasp the significance of this for a moment--and then with a frantic -effort he struggled to his feet. - -The door! The car door! He must close it--he must close the door. The -train was stopping. If any one passed by outside and saw the door open, -and looked in, he was caught. He was too weak to fight any more; too -weak to run any more. He must close the door. - -He could not stand. The car swayed, and bumped, and lurched too much! -No one could stand with the car jolting around in circles like that! He -dropped to his knees. He could crawl, then. The door! The car door! It -must be closed--even if he had to drag himself to it. - -It wasn't far to the door--just a few feet. It was the pain in his leg -that made him faint, but he could get that far--just to the door. He -touched his lips with his tongue again. They weren't dry now, his lips, -and there was a curious taste upon them, and they hurt. They tasted of -blood. That was funny! His teeth must have sunk into his lips somehow. -But he was almost at the door now--yes, he could reach it now. Only he -couldn't close it when he was lying flat down like this. He would have -to get up--on his knees at least. - -His hand swept across his eyes, and pressed fiercely upon his forehead. -The moon-ray wavered in through the door in jagged, glancing streaks--he -had to shut that moon-ray out--to make it black here in the car. -Strange! It was growing black now, even though he had not shut the -door--perhaps it was a cloud--the moon passing behind a cloud. His -body seemed to sway, to be out of control, and his knees, instead of -balancing him, crumpled suddenly beneath him, pitching him forward, face -downward, on the floor of the car--and something seemed to snap inside -his head, and it was black, all blackness. - -Repose, comfort, ineffable luxuriousness, something soft and soothing -supporting his body, and a freedom from the excruciating, unbearable, -intolerable pain that he had been enduring! He was dreaming! He dared -not open his eyes. It was a dream. If he opened his eyes he would dispel -the illusion, and the pain would come again. - -It seemed as though he had been upon a great journey that was crowded -with a multitude of strange, fantastic scenes and happenings. He -could not remember them all distinctly; they jumbled together in his -memory--the orphan school, the race-track, Square John Kelly and three -thousand dollars in the Pacific Coral Saloon on the Barbary Coast, all -conglomerated into one. - -He remembered only one thing distinctly, and that was because it had -happened so often. He was in a great, gloomy forest, and always just -ahead of him was Bookie Skarvan. He did not know why it was, but he -could always see Bookie Skarvan in the darkness, though Bookie Skarvan -could not see him. And yet he could never quite reach that fat, damnable -figure that kept flitting around the trees. Bookie Skarvan was not -running away, because Bookie Skarvan did not even know that he was being -followed--and yet Bookie Skarvan always eluded him. - -If he was dreaming now, it was at least a very vivid dream. He -remembered. He had just fallen unconscious on the floor of the car. -Well, then, he must get the door shut, if he was to escape. Yes, the -pain might come again if he moved, it would take all his will power to -shatter this blessed restfulness, and he was still very tired; but he -had no choice--it was win or lose--all the way--no limit. - -He opened his eyes. He did not understand at first; and then he told -himself quite simply that of course he could not still be lying on the -floor of that lurching car, and at the same time feel these soft -things all around his body. He was in bed--in a white bed, with white -covers--and there was a screen around his bed. And around the corner -of the screen he could see other beds--white beds with white covers. It -must be a hospital ward. There was some one sitting in a chair beside -the foot of his bed--no, not a nurse; it was a man. The man's face for -the moment was turned slightly away. He studied the face. It seemed -familiar. His eyes opened a little wider. Yes, it was familiar! A cry -surged upward from his soul itself, it seemed--and was choked back. His -hands, clenched fiercely, relaxed. There came a queer smile to twist his -lips. - -The man at the foot of the bed was looking at him now. It was Barjan, -Lieutenant Joe Barjan, of the 'Frisco plain-clothes squad. - -The man spoke: - -“Hello, Dave!” - -“Hello, Joe!” - -There was silence. - -The other spoke again: - -“Tough luck, Dave! Sorry to grab you like this. Feeling better?” - -“Some,” said Dave Henderson. - -Barjan nodded his head. - -“It was touch and go with you,” he said. “Bad leg, bad fever--you've -been laying like a dead man since the night they found you in the -freight car.” Dave Henderson made no reply. There wasn't any door to -shut now, and he wouldn't have to move now... until he went away with -Joe there... back to 'Frisco. He wasn't squealing... stacked cards... a -new deal with a new pack perhaps... some day... he wasn't squealing... -but he couldn't fight any more... not now... he couldn't fight... he was -too weak. - -“I've been hanging around two or three days waiting for you to come out -of dreamland, so's I could ask you a question,” said Barjan pleasantly. -“Come across, Dave! Where'd you put that little package you had with you -when you beat it from the car, and handed Baldy the broken ribs?” - -Dave Henderson smiled. He was very weak, miserably weak, it was an -effort to talk; but his brain, because there wasn't any pain, was -clear--clear enough to match Barjan's. - -“Come again?” said Dave Henderson. - -“Aw, can that!” A tinge of impatience had crept into the police -officer's voice. “We got the whole story. Runty Mott and Baldy Vickers -opened up--wide.” - -“I read about them in the papers,” said Dave Henderson. “They said -enough without me butting in, didn't they?” - -“You mean,” said Barjan sharply, “that you won't come across?” - -“What's the use!” said Dave Henderson. “Their story goes, doesn't it? -I wouldn't spoil a good story. They said I took the money, and if you -believe them, that goes. I'm through.” - -“No good!” snapped Barjan. “You'd better open up on where that money is, -or it will go hard with you!” - -“How hard?” inquired Dave Henderson. - -“I dunno,” said Barjan grimly. “Five years.” - -Five years! How long was five years? His mind was growing tired now, -too, like his body. He forced himself to the effort of keeping it -active. It was a long way from where Baldy Vickers had broken his ribs, -and where they thought he, Dave Henderson, had last had the money, to -Mrs. Tooler's old pigeon-cote! And a hundred thousand dollars in five -years was twenty thousand dollars a year--salary, twenty thousand -dollars a year. Five years! It was win or lose, wasn't it? No hedging! -Five years--five years before he could settle with Bookie Skarvan! - -He spoke aloud unconsciously: - -“It's a long time to wait.” - -“You bet your life, it is!” said Barjan. “Don't fool yourself! It's a -hell of a long time in the pen! And if you think you could get away with -the wad when you get out again, you've got another think coming, too! -Take it from me!” - -“I wasn't thinking about the money,” said Dave Henderson slowly. “I was -thinking about that story.” He closed his eyes. The room was swimming -around him. Five years--chalked up to Bookie Skarvan! His hand on the -coverlet clenched, and raised and fell impotently to the coverlet -again. He was conscious that Barjan was leaning over the bed to catch -his words, because he wasn't speaking very loud. “I was thinking it was -a long time to wait--to get even.” - -A woman's voice seemed to come drifting out of space... that would be -the nurse, of course... a woman's voice.... - -“That's all very well! You may be a police officer, but you had -no business to make him talk. He is not strong enough to stand any -excitement, and----” - -The voice drifted off into nothingness. - - - - -BOOK II: FIVE YEARS LATER - - - - -I--CONVICT NO. 550 - - -FROM somewhere far along the iron gallery, a guard's boot-heel rang -with a hollow, muffled, metallic sound;' from everywhere, as from some -strange, inceptive cradle, the source out of which all sounds emanated, -and which, too, was as some strange sounding-board that accentuated each -individual sound as it was given birth, came a confused, indeterminate, -scarcely audible rupture of the silence that never ceased its uneasy, -restless murmur. It was like water simmering in a caldron--only the -water was a drear humanity, and the caldron was this gray-walled, -steel-barred place. - -A voice, low, quite inarticulate, falling often to little more than a -whisper, mumbled endlessly on. That was the old bomb-thrower, old Tony -Lomazzi, the lifer, in the next cell. The man was probably clinging to -the bars of his door, his face thrust up against them, talking, -talking, talking--always talking to himself. He did not disturb anybody. -Everybody was used to it; and, besides, the man did not talk loudly. One -even had to listen attentively to catch the sound of his voice at -all. It had become a habit, second nature; the man was incorrigible. -Presently the guard would come along, and perhaps rap the old man on the -knuckles; after that Lomazzi would retire to his cot quite docilely. It -had been that way night after night, week after week, month after month, -year after year. - -Dave Henderson laid the prison-library book, that he had been fingering -absently, down on the cot beside him. It was still early evening in -early summer, and there was still light in the cell, though hardly -enough to read by; but he had not been reading even when there had been -better light. His mind was too active to-night. And now there was a -curiously wistful smile on his face. He would miss that stumbling, -whispering voice. A most strange thing to miss! Or was it the old man -himself whom he would miss? Not to-morrow, not even next week, there -still remained sixty-three days--but sixty-three days, with all the -rest of the five years behind them, gone, served, wiped out, were like -to-morrow; and, as against a lifer's toll, it was freedom, full born -and actually present. Yes, he would miss Tony Lomazzi. There was a bond -between the old man and himself. In almost the first flush of his entry -into the penitentiary he had precipitated a fight amongst his fellow -convicts on account of old Tony. Two of them had gone into the hospital, -and he, Dave Henderson, had gone into the black hole. - -He sat suddenly bolt upright on his cot. He had not forgotten the horror -of those days of solitary confinement. He was not likely to forget -them--the silence, the blackness. The silence that came at last to -scream and shriek at him in myriad voices out of the blackness until he -was upon the verge of screaming and shrieking back in raving, unhinged -abandon; the blackness that was as the blackness of the pit of hell, and -that came at last to be peopled with hideous phantom shapes that plagued -him until, face down on his cot, he would dig his fists into his eyes -that he might not see--the blackness! His hands clenched hard as the -memory of it surged upon him; but a moment later he laughed a little -under his breath. It had been bad, bad enough; but he wasn't there -_now_, was he? Old Tony hadn't deluged him with any excessive thanks. -The old man had simply called him a fool--but there had been a -difference after that. On the march out from the cells, old Tony -was always the man behind him, and old Tony's shoulder touch in the -lock-step wasn't as perfunctory as it had been before. And there had -been years of that. Yes, he would miss old Tony Lomazzi! - -Instinctively he turned his head in the direction of that voice that -whispered through the bars of the adjoining cell, and his face, lean and -hard, softened, and, tinging the dead-white prison pallor, a flush crept -into his cheeks. The man was a lifer. A lifer! God, he knew what that -meant! Five years of a living hell had taught him that. Five years that -were eternities piled upon eternities, and they were only a short -step along the path toward the only goal to which a lifer could look -forward--death! - -Yes, he knew! The massed eternities, that were called five years by -those who walked outside in the sunlight, where men laughed, and women -smiled, and children played, had taught him why old Tony Lomazzi clung -to the bars and whispered. - -Five years! Was it only five years since he had stood in the dock in -that courtroom, and the judge had sentenced him to--five years? The -scene was vivid and distinct enough! Even the ages that spanned the gulf -between the now and then could not efface that scene, nor dim it, -nor rob it of a single stark and naked detail. Tydeman had been -there--Martin K. Tyde-man, that prince of royal sports. Tydeman was -about the only man in that courtroom whose presence had made him uneasy; -and yet Tydeman, too, was the only man in that courtroom who had been -friendly toward him. It was probably due to the old millionaire's plea -for leniency that the sentence had been five years, and not ten, or -fifteen, or twenty, or whatever it might be that the erect, spare little -figure on the bench, with the thin, straight lips, had had the right to -pronounce. And Tydeman was dead now. - -Dave Henderson stirred uneasily on the edge of the cot. He drew his hand -slowly across his eyes. He had wished from the start, hadn't he, that -it might have been some one else rather than Martin K. Tydeman? But it -_had_ been Tydeman's money, and the hundred thousand dollars alone was -all that had counted, and Tydeman was dead now, had been dead two or -three years, and on that score that ended it--didn't it? - -The dark eyes, that had wavered abstractedly around the cell, narrowed -suddenly, and from their depths a smoldering fire seemed to leap as -suddenly into flame. But there was another score that was not ended! -Bookie Skarvan! Baldy Vickers, Runty Mott and the rest of Baldy's -gang had lied speciously, smoothly, ingeniously and with convincing -unanimity. They had admitted the obvious--quite frankly--because they -could help themselves. They had admitted that their intention had been -to steal the hundred thousand dollars themselves. But they hadn't stolen -it--and that let them out; and they proved that he, Dave Henderson, -had--and that saved their own hides. Also they had not implicated Bookie -Skarvan. - -Their story had been very plausible! Runty Mott “confessed” that, on the -morning of the crime, he had overheard Bookie Skarvan and Dave Henderson -making their arrangements at the race course to get Tydeman to put up -the money to tide Bookie Skarvan over the crisis. He, Runty Mott, had -then left at once for San Francisco, put the deal up to Baldy Vickers -and Baldy's gang, and they had waited for Dave Henderson to arrive. -Naturally they had watched their proposed prey from the moment of his -arrival in the city, intending to rob him when the money was in his -possession and before he got back to the race course that night; but -instead of Tydeman turning the money over to Dave Henderson, as they had -expected, Dave Henderson had completely upset their plans by stealing -the money himself, and this had resulted in the prisoner's attempted -getaway, and the automobile chase which represented their own efforts to -intercept him. - -The dark eyes were almost closed now, but the gleam was still -there--only now it was half mocking, half triumphant, and was mirrored -in a grim smile that flickered across his lips. He had not denied their -story. To every effort to obtain from him a clue as to the whereabouts -of the stolen money, he had remained as mute and unresponsive as a -stone; cajolery, threats, the hint of lighter sentence if restitution -were made, he had met with silence. He had not even employed a lawyer. -The court had appointed one. He had refused to confer with the lawyer. -The lawyer had entered a perfunctory plea of “not guilty.” - -The grim smile deepened. There had been very good reasons why he had -refused to open his lips at that trial--three of them. In the first -place, he was guilty; in the second place, there was Bookie Skarvan, who -had no suspicion that he, Dave Henderson, knew the truth that lay -behind Runty Mott's story; and in the third place--there was one hundred -thousand dollars. There was to be no hedging. And he had not hedged! -That was his creed. Well, it had paid, hadn't it, that creed? The -hundred thousand dollars was almost his now--there were only sixty-three -days left. He had bought it with his creed, bought it with five years -wrung in blood and sweat from his life, five years that had turned his -soul sick within him. He had paid the price. Five years of sunlight he -had given for that hundred thousand dollars, five years that had sought -to bring the slouch of slavery and subjugation to his shoulders, a -cringe into his soul, a whimper into his voice, and---- - -He was on his feet, his hands clenched until his knuckles cracked. And -he stood there for a long time staring at the barred door, and then -suddenly he shrugged his shoulders, and relaxed, and laughed in a low, -cool way. But he had won, hadn't he, even on that score? It was not -often that the penitentiary would do for a man what this devil's hole -had done for him! He had entered it a crude, unpolished assistant to a -crooked bookmaker, his education what he had acquired before he had run -away from an orphan school at ten; and he could leave the place -now, given the clothes and the chance, and pass anywhere for a -gentleman--thanks in a very large measure to Charlie Millman. - -Dave Henderson began to pace slowly up and down his cell. Millman had -never understood, of course, just why he had had so apt a pupil. He had -never explained to Millman that it had been from the very beginning his -plan to rise to the level of a hundred thousand dollars that was -waiting for him when he got out! Millman knew, of course, what he, Dave -Henderson, was up for; but that was about all. And Millman had perhaps, -and very naturally so, attributed his, Dave Henderson's, thirst for -polish and education to the out-cropping of the inherent good that in -him was, the coming to the surface finally of his better nature. And so -Millman, up for two years, had proved a godsend, for there hadn't been -much progress made along the lines of “higher education” until Millman -had come into the prison. - -He liked Millman; and somehow Millman seemed to like him. A gentleman -from the tip of his fingers was Millman--and he took his medicine like -a gentleman. Millman wasn't the name that was entered on the prison -books--there it was Charlie Reith. - -It was strange that Millman should have given him his confidence; he -could never quite understand that, except that it had seemed to come -gradually as their friendship grew, until finally it was almost the -basis of that friendship itself. He had come to trust Millman as he had -never trusted any other man, and he had come to believe in Millman as -the soul of courtesy and honor. And yet he had not been quite as open -with Millman as Millman had been with him; he had not spread his cards -upon the table, and Millman had never asked to see them; and somehow he -liked the man all the better for that. It was not that he did not trust -the other; it was because his confidence was not the sort of confidence -to give to an _honest_ man--and Millman was honest. There was a queer -twist to it all! - -Dave Henderson smiled grimly again. It wouldn't be _fair_ to make an -honest man a party to the secret of where that money was, for instance, -would it--to make an honest man an accomplice after the fact? And there -was no doubt of Millman's clean-cut, courageous honesty. The prison -stripes could not change that! - -He knew Millman's story: A nasty bit of work on the Barbary Coast, and -viciously clever. Millman, a stranger in the city, and en route for -a long trip through the South Seas, had been inveigled by a woman's -specious plea for help into a notorious resort on the night in which -a much-wanted member of the underworld was hard put to it to give the -police the slip--and Millman had unsuspectingly made himself the vehicle -of the other's escape. - -The details were sordid; the woman's story pitifully impressive; and -Millman's chivalry had led him, innocent of the truth, to deprive the -plain-clothes squad of the services of one of their best men for the -period of several months--while one of the slickest counterfeiters in -the United States, and the woman with him, had made good their getaway. -It didn't look innocent in the eyes of the police, and Millman had stood -for two years--convicted as Charles Reith--to save the name of Charles -Millman, and those that belonged to him back in New York. He had been -found in a very unsavory place, and no amount of explanation could -purify those surroundings. Millman had never said so in so many words, -but he was buying a little woman's peace of mind back there in New -York with two years' hard labor. And meanwhile he was supposed to be -somewhere on a trading schooner in the out-of-the-way isles of the -Pacific, or something like that--maybe it was Borneo on a hunting -trip--he, Dave Henderson, didn't remember just precisely how the other -had fixed it. It didn't matter! The point was that they had made Millman -one of the convict librarians in the prison, and Millman had become his -tutor and his friend. Well, Millman was another he would miss. The day -after to-morrow Millman's time was up, and Millman would be gone. He was -glad for Millman's sake. - -Five steps and a half from the rear wall of the cell to the steel-barred -door, and five and a half steps back again--over and over. He was -unaccountably restless to-night both in body and mind. He had spent his -five years, less the time that had been manumitted for good conduct, and -less the sixty-three days that still remained, not altogether to his own -disadvantage in an educational sense. In that respect he was satisfied -he was now ready to leave the prison and make the most of that hundred -thousand dollars--not as a “raw skate,” blowing it to the winds, but -as one who would make it pay dividends on those five years of servitude -that represented its purchase price. It was enough, that amount, for the -rest of his life, if he took care of it. It meant comfort, independence, -luxury. He didn't want any more. That was the amount he had already -fixed and decided upon even before the opportunity had come to take it. -It was his first job--but it was equally his last. And it was his last -because he had waited until, at the first attempt, he had got all he -wanted. He wasn't coming back to the penitentiary any more. He was going -out for good--in sixty-three days. - -Sixty-three days! He wanted no piker, low-brow life at the end of those -sixty-three days when he got out. He had had enough of that! That was -one reason why he had taken the money--to pitch that one seamy room at -Tooler's and the rotten race-track existence into the discard, and he -was ready now, equipped, to play the part he meant to play. He had spent -the years here learning not to eat with his knife, either literally or -metaphorically. But there were only sixty-three days left, and there was -still _one_ thing he hadn't done, one problem still left unsolved, which -of late had been growing into nightmare proportions. In the earlier -years of his sentence he had put it aside--until the time came. That -time was here now--and the problem was still aside. - -He had made all other preparations. He had even communicated secretly, -by means of a fellow convict who was going out, discharged, with Square -John Kelly of the Pacific Coral Saloon in San Francisco, with whom he -had invested his savings--that three thousand dollars at six per cent. -And he had had foresight enough to do this months ago in order to give -Kelly time to pull the money out of his business and have it ready -in cash; for he wasn't quite sure where the law stood on this point. -Failing to recover the proceeds of the Tydeman robbery, the law might -confiscate those savings--if the law knew anything about them. But the -law didn't--and wouldn't. Square John had sent back word that everything -was all right. - -But there was still one problem left to solve--the way, once he was a -free man again and outside these walls, of getting that hundred thousand -dollars away from under the noses of the police and then giving the -police the slip. And this, grown to monumental proportions in the last -few months, rose before him now like some evil familiar that had taken -possession of both his waking and sleeping hours. And there came upon -him now, as it had come again and again in these last months, that scene -in the hospital when he had first opened his eyes to consciousness and -they had rested on the face of the man who had run him to earth--Barjan, -Lieutenant Joe Barjan, of the 'Frisco plainclothes squad. And Joe -Barjan's words were ringing in his ears now; ringing, somehow, with a -cursed knell in them: - -“Don't fool yourself! It's a hell of a long time in the pen! And if you -think you could get away with the wad when you get out again, you've got -another think coming too! Take it from me!” - -An acute sense of the realization of the _tangibility_ of his -surroundings seized upon him and brought a chill to his heart. That -hard, unyielding cot; these walls, that caged him within their few -scanty feet of space; his keepers' voices, that lashed out their -commands; the animals, of which he was one, that toiled upon the eternal -treadmill of days whose end but foretold another of like horror and -loathing to come! Barjan had told the truth; more of the truth than -Barjan ever knew, or could know, that he had told. It had been a hell -of a long time. Long! His face, as he still paced the cell, grayed under -the prison pallor. God, it had been long! Years of damnable torment that -had shut him out from the freedom that he loved! It had been a price -beyond all reckoning that he had paid for that hundred thousand dollars. -But he had paid it! He had paid it--paid it! He had gone all the -way--gone the limit. Was Barjan, right in one thing, right in that other -thing as well--that at the end they would beat him? - -His hands curled into knotted lumps. There were not enough Barjans for -that though the world were peopled with Barjans! The thought had brought -a chill of dread for a moment, that was all. He had paid the price; he -was not likely to forget what that price had been; and he would never -yield up what that price had bought. True, he had no plan for this last -play of his worked out in detail, but he would find a way--because he -must. He was probably exaggerating what the police would, or could do, -anyhow! At first when he had come into the penitentiary, they had tried -to trap, sometimes to wheedle him into disclosing where the money -was, though they had long since given up those tactics and left him to -himself. But suppose the police did watch him now when he got out. He -could afford to wait--to wait a long while--until the police got tired, -perhaps, or perhaps came to the conclusion that, after all, they had got -the wrong man. They would not forget that, though he had refused to say -anything at the trial, he had not been so mute in his attitude toward -Runty Mott and Baldy Vickers, who had “sent him up;” and Barjan would -not forget, either, that in the hospital that day, with scarcely -strength to speak, he had threatened to get even with the gangster -and the Runt. There was a psychological factor in this. If he, Dave -Henderson, made no effort to get the money, showed no sign that he had -any knowledge of its whereabouts, might not the police in time come -to the far from illogical conclusion that they might better have -watched--five years ago--the men who had so glibly acted as witnesses -for the State, the men who had, admittedly, themselves attempted to -steal the money? It wasn't unreasonable, was it? And he could afford to -wait. The three thousand dollars from Square John Kelly would keep him -going for quite a while! He was a fool to let this thing madden his -brain with its constant torturing doubts. It was their move--not his. - -From far along the iron gallery again a boot-heel rang with a dull, -metallic sound. It was the guard, probably, coming to rap old Tony -Lomazzi over the knuckles. Dave Henderson stopped his restless pacing, -and stood still in the center of the cell to listen. No, the old -bomb-thrower wasn't talking any longer; there wasn't any sound at all -except that boot-heel ringing on the iron flooring. The sound came -nearer, and Dave Henderson frowned in a puzzled way. The guard was not -alone, in any case. He could distinguish the footsteps of two men now. -It wasn't usual at this hour for any one to be out there with the guard. -What was in the wind? The warden, perhaps, making an unexpected round, -or---- - -His hands gripped suddenly hard and tight--but he did not move. There -came flashing over him once more the scene in that hospital ward of five -years ago. The cell door had opened and closed. A man had entered. The -guard's footsteps died away outside. The man spoke: - -“Hello, Dave!” - -It was Barjan, Lieutenant Joe Barjan, of the 'Frisco plain-clothes -squad. It _was_ the scene of five years ago. That was exactly what -Barjan had said then: “Hello, Dave!” And he had answered: “Hello, Joe!” - But he did not answer now. - -“This is a little irregular, Dave,” said Barjan pleasantly; “but I -wanted to have a quiet little chat with you, you know, before”--he -stepped forward and clapped his hand on Dave Henderson's shoulder, and -laughed--“well, before you changed your address.” Dave Henderson made -no reply. He moved back from the other, and sat down on the edge of his -cot. - -“There's a couple of things I want to say to you,” said Barjan, still -pleasantly. “And the first of them is that I want to tell you on the -level just where you stand. You're going out of here pretty soon now, -Dave. I guess you've got a better line on that than I have--eh?” He -laughed again good-humoredly. “Got the days counted, haven't you, Dave?” - -No answer. Dave Henderson's eyes were fixed on the ungainly lines of the -toe of his prison boot. - -“Oh, come on, now, Dave!” Barjan's tones were still hearty and jocular, -but the heartiness and jocularity, as though disconcerted, lacked some -of their original spontaneity. “Loosen up! You've been a clam for five -years. That's long enough. I've come up here to-night to play square -with you. You know that whatever I say goes with both of us. I know you -aren't holding anything against me personally just because I happened to -be the one who put the bracelets on you, and back of that we used to be -pretty good friends. I haven't forgotten the tips you used to give me in -the old days--and don't you think I have, either! Remember when that -old skeleton with the horse-hair cover pranced away with a forty-to-one -shot? Bonnie Lass, her name was--or was it Boney? Remember? She got the -hee-haw--but my missus got the swellest outfit of gewgaws and fixings -the old girl ever had before or since. You wised me up to that, Dave.” - -No answer. There seemed to be something curiously significant in the -uncouthness and the coarseness of that boot toe--but the significance -was irritatingly elusive in its application. - -There was silence for a moment. Barjan walked the length of the cell, -and back again. - -“All right,” he said, halting in front of the cot. “Maybe we'll get -along better on another tack. I'm not beating about the bush, Dave”--his -voice was a little harder, crisper, sterner--“I want to know where that -hundred thousand dollars is. But I told you that I'd put you straight -first on where you stand. Now, listen! We've played both ends to the -middle. We believed that the story Runty Mott and Baldy Vickers told was -true; but both men had a record, and you can't be sure of a crook on his -own say-so. We didn't take any chances, and so we're sure now. Those men -were watched--not for a couple of weeks, or a couple of months, but for -the last four years. They don't know where the money is, and they never -did know what you did with it after you handed them that automobile -smash and beat it for the woods. Get that? It's up to you! And now, get -this: I told you in the hospital that day, you remember, that you could -never get away with it, and that's as true as I'm standing here talking -to you now. You've got some brains, Dave--use 'em now for your own sake. -From the moment you step outside these walls you're a marked man, and -not for just a little while either, but for all your life. They'll never -let up on you, Dave. Let that sink in! And it ain't only just old Joe -Barjan you've got to fool. Talking racey, Dave, your number's up on the -board on every police track in this country from one end to the other. -You can't beat that kind of a game. I'm talking straight, and you know -it. Come on now, Dave, pry them lips of yours apart, and come across!” - Dave Henderson's lips parted--but it was only to touch them with the -tip of his tongue. They were dry. His eyes were still on that coarse, -ungainly toe. Its significance had taken concrete form now. He knew now -what it meant. It typified a living hell of five long years, a ghastly -hell and a ghastly price paid for that hundred thousand dollars--years -that had left a stench in his nostrils that would live as long as -he lived--years that piled the daily, never-ending details of petty -persecutions, of loathsome associations, of miserable discomforts, -of haggard dreariness, of heart sickness, of bitterness that was the -bitterness of gall, into one overwhelming mass of horror from which the -soul recoiled, blanched, seared, shrivelled. And it went back further -than that. It went back to a night of the long, long ago, eternities -ago, a night when, in physical torture and anguish from his wound, his -teeth had sunk into his lips, and he had become blood-fanged like the -hunted animal at bay he was, and he had endured until the blackness -came. That was what it meant, this rough, heavy ungraceful clod of a -prison boot upon his foot! It meant that he had gone the limit, that -he had never hedged, that he had paid the price, all of it--all of -it--except only the sixty-three days that were left. - -“Ain't you going to say anything, Dave?” - -Tony Lomazzi must have shuffled his way back to the bars of his cell -door. The old Italian was whispering and muttering again. If one -listened very intently, one could hear him. There was no other sound. - -Barjan cleared his throat. - -“Look here,” he said slowly, “what's the use, Dave? I've showed you that -you're bound to lose, and that on that score it don't pay. And it don't -pay any way you want to look at it. You don't have to go out of here a -marked man, Dave. There ain't any truth in that--that the police never -give a guy a chance to go straight again. There ain't anything in that. -It's all up to the guy himself. You come across, make good on that -money, and I'll guarantee you'll get the squarest deal any man ever -got. Why, it would be proof in itself that you meant to go straight, -Dave, and everybody'd fall over himself to give you the glad hand. You -can see that, can't you, Dave? Don't you want to look the other fellow -in the eye for the rest of your life? Don't you want to be a free man? -You've got a lot of years ahead of you. Ain't you ever thought of a -home, and kiddies, maybe? It don't pay, Dave--the other way don't. -You've got the chance now to make good. What do you say?” - -Tony Lomazzi was still muttering. Strange the guard was letting the old -bomb-thrower have so much license to-night! Tony seemed to be chattering -louder than he had ever chattered in all the years he had occupied that -next cell there! - -Barjan laughed a little in a low, but not unpleasant way. - -“Well, then, listen again, Dave,” he said. “I got one more thing to tell -you. You know what I've said is right. You come across, and I'll see -that you get your chance--and you don't have to wait for it, either, -Dave. I've got it all fixed, I've got the papers in my pocket. You -come across, and you walk out of here a free man with me right -now--to-night!” He leaned forward and slapped Dave Henderson's shoulder -again. “To-night, Dave--get that? Right now--tonight--this minute! What -do you say?” - -It was true! The tentative plan he had half formulated was no good! He -realized that now. To lay low and wait was no good--Barjan had made that -clear. The hope that the police might veer around to the belief that -Runty Mott and Baldy Vickers were, after all, the men to watch, was no -good either--Barjan had made that equally clear. There didn't seem to be -any way out--and his number was up on the board on every police track in -the country. Yes, that was true, too. He lifted his eyes from the toe of -his boot for the first time, and met Barjan's eyes, and held the other's -for a long minute in a steady gaze. - -And then Dave Henderson spoke--for the first time. - -“You go to hell!” he said. - - - - -II--WOLVES ON THE SCENT - - -GUARDS on the raised platforms at either end of the room, guards -circulating amongst the striped figures that toiled over the work -benches, guards watching everywhere. They aroused a new and sullen fury -in Dave Henderson's soul. They seemed to express and exemplify to-day in -a sort of hideous clearness what Barjan had told him last night that he -might expect in all the days to follow. - -His number was up on the board! - -He had not slept well last night. Barjan did not know it, but Barjan had -struck a blow that had, in a mental way, sent him groggy to the ropes. -He was groggy yet. His mind was in confusion. It reached out in this -direction--and faltered, not quite sure of itself; it groped out in -another direction--and faltered. It seemed to have lost its equilibrium -and its poise. He had never expected that the whole world would turn its -back while he walked from the penitentiary to Mrs. Tooler's pigeon-cote -and tucked that package of a hundred thousand dollars under his arm. In -that sense Barjan had told him nothing new. But nevertheless Barjan had -struck home. He could not tell just where in the conversation, at just -precisely what point, Barjan had done this, nor could he tell in any -concrete way just what new difficulties and obstacles Barjan had reared -up. He had always expected that it was up to him to outwit the police -when he got away from these cursed guards. But his mind was haggard this -afternoon. He had lashed it, driven it too hard through the night and -through the morning. It had lost tenacity; it would not define. The only -thing that held and clung there, and would not be dislodged, was the -unreal, a snatch of nightmare out of the little sleep, fitful and -troubled, that he had had. He was swimming across a dark, wide pool -whose banks were all steep and impassable except at one spot which was -very narrow, and here a figure worked feverishly with a pile of huge -stones, building up a wall against him. He swam frantically, like a -madman; but for every stroke he took, the figure added another stone to -the wall; and when he reached the edge of the bank the wall was massive -and high, and Barjan was perched on the top of the wall grinning at him. - -He raised his hand, and drew it across his eyes. The clatter and clamor -in the carpenter shop here around him was unendurable. The thud of a -hammer jarred upon him, jangling his nerves; the screech of the bandsaw, -a little way down the shop, was like the insane raving of some devil, -with a devil's perverted sense of humor, running up and down a devil's -scale. There were sixty-two days left. - -His eyes fell upon old Tony Lomazzi a few benches away. Showing under -Tony's cap, the hair, what there was of it, was silver--more nearly -silver than it had somehow ever seemed to be before. Perhaps the prison -barber had been a little late in getting around to the old man this -time, perhaps it was because it was a little longer, perhaps that was -it. It was strange though, rather queer! His eyes, arrested now, held -on the other, and he seemed to be noticing little details that had -never attracted his attention before. His own hands, that mechanically -retained their grip upon the plane he had been using, were idle now. -Certainly those old shoulders over there were more bowed and bent than -he had ever seen them before. And the striped form was very frail; the -clothes hung on it as clothes hang on a scarecrow. There was only the -old fellow's side face in view, for the other's back was partially -turned, but it appeared to possess quite a new and startling -unfamiliarity. It wasn't the gray-white, unhealthy pallor--old Tony -wasn't the only one who had that, for no one had ever claimed that there -was any analogy between a penitentiary and a health resort--but the -jowl was most curiously gaunt, and drawn inward as though the man were -sucking in his cheeks, and yet the skin seemed to be stretched tight and -hard as a drum-head. Very curious! It must be because he couldn't see -the sharp little black eyes, full of fire, that put life and soul into -that scarecrow frame. - -Old Tony turned, and their eyes met. The old man lifted his hand as -though to wipe his mouth--and there was a little flirt of the fingers in -Dave Henderson's direction. It was the old, intimate, little signal that -had passed between them unnumbered times in the thousand years that they -had spent together here in the penitentiary's carpenter shop--but he had -been quite wrong about the eyes. Something seemed to have filmed across -them, veiling their luster. And suddenly Dave Henderson swallowed hard. -Sixty-two days! Old Tony hadn't much more than that. Perhaps another -year at the outside, and the old lifer would be free, too. - -Dave Henderson's mind reverted to Lieutenant Joe Barjan, of the -plain-clothes squad. It was perfectly true that playing a lone hand -against the police of all America was a desperate game--desperate in -the sense that success was in jeopardy. That was what made his brain -confused and chaotic now. He was afraid--not of Barjan, not of all the -police in the United States in a physical way, he had never hedged a -bet, and the five years that he had now paid would goad him on more than -ever to face any physical risk, take any physical chance--but he was -afraid now, sick with fear, because his mind would not respond and show -him clearly, definitely the way to knock Barjan and his triumphant grin -from off that nightmare wall, and---- - -A guard's voice snapped sharply at his elbow. - -Yes, of course! He had been standing idle for a few seconds--perhaps an -hour. Automatically he bent over the bench, and automatically his plane -drew a neat, clean shaving from the work in front of him. - -The guard's voice snapped again. - -“You're wanted!” said the guard curtly. “There's a visitor to see you.” - -Dave Henderson turned away from the bench, and followed the guard; but -the act was purely mechanical, born out of the years of discipline and -obedience. A visitor--for him! There was no one in the outside world, -not a soul, who cared for him; not many even, to whom his existence was -of enough interest to cause a second thought--except Barjan. And Barjan -had visited him yesterday. Another visitor--to-day! Well, whoever it -was, the visitor had been in no hurry about it! The little attention was -certainly belated! His lips thinned bitterly. Whoever it was had waited -almost five years. He had never had a visitor before--except the police. -It was an event! The bitterness grew deeper, and rankled. He had asked -for no human touch, or thought, or consideration; he had asked for none, -and he had given none; he had made his own bed, and he had not whined -because it had proved to be a rack of torture. He was not whining now, -and he had no desire to change the rules of the game that he himself had -elected to play. This was no visitor--it was an intruder! - -But curiosity, as he crossed the prison yard and entered the main -building, tempered the sullen antagonism that had flared up in his soul. -Who was it that was waiting for him there along the corridor in the -wire-netted visitor's room, where, like some beast with its keeper -pacing up and down in front of the cage, he was to be placed on -exhibition? He searched his brain for an answer that would be even -plausible. Not Square John Kelly. Kelly _might_ have come if Kelly had -been left to himself, but Kelly was the one man he had warned off from -the beginning--there was that matter of three thousand dollars, and -caution had prompted him to avoid any sign of intimacy between them. -There was no one else. Even Kelly, perhaps, wasn't a friend any more. -Kelly would, perhaps, simply play square, turn over the three thousand -dollars--and then turn his back. It wouldn't be Tooler. The only thing -that interested Tooler was to see that he collected his room rent -regularly--and there would be some one else paying rent now for that -front room at Tooler's! No, there was no one else. Leaving a very keen -regard for old Tony Lomazzi aside, he had only one friend that he -knew of whom he could really call a friend, only one man that he could -trust--and that man was a convict too! It was ironical, wasn't it?--to -trust a convict! Well, he could trust Millman--only it wouldn't be fair -to Millman. - -He lagged a little behind the guard as they approached the visitor's -room, a sudden possibility dawning upon him. Perhaps it _was_ Millman! -Millman's time was up to-morrow, and to-morrow Millman was going away. -He and Millman had arranged to say good-by to one another at the library -hour to-day after work was over; but perhaps, as a sort of special -dispensation, Millman had obtained permission to come here. - -Dave Henderson shrugged his shoulders, impatient with himself, as -the guard opened a door and motioned him to enter. It was absurd, -ridiculous! Who had ever heard of one prisoner visiting another in this -fashion! There wouldn't have been any satisfaction in it anyhow, with a -guard pacing up and down between them! Well, then, who was it? - -The door closed behind him--he was subconsciously aware that the door -had closed, and that the guard had left him to himself. He was also -subconsciously aware that his hands had reached out in front of him and -that his fingers were fiercely laced in the interstices of the heavy -steel-wire netting of the enclosure in which he stood, and that faced -another row of steel-wire netting, separated from his own only by the -space that was required to permit the guard to pace up and down between -the two--only the guard hadn't come in yet from the corridor to take up -his station there. There was only a face peering at him from behind that -other row of netting--a fat face--the face was supposed to be smiling, -but it was like the hideous grin of a gargoyle. It was the same face, -the same face with its rolls of fat propped up on its short, stumpy -neck. There wasn't any change in it, except that the red-rimmed gray -eyes were more shifty. That was the only change in five years--the eyes -were more shifty. He found that his mouth was dry, curiously dry. The -blood wasn't running through his veins, because his fingers on the wire -felt cold--and yet he was burning, the soul of him suddenly like some -flaming furnace, and a mad, passionate fury had him in its grip, and -a lust was upon him to reach that stumpy neck where the throat was, -and--and---- He had been waiting five years for that--and he was simply -smiling, just as that other face was smiling. Why shouldn't he smile! -That fat face was Bookie Skarvan's face. - -“I guess you weren't looking to see me, Dave?” said Skarvan, nodding his -head in a sort of absurd cordiality. “Maybe you thought I was sore on -you, and there's no use saying I wasn't. That was a nasty crack you -handed me. If Tydeman hadn't come across with another bunch of coin on -the jump, those pikers down at the track would have pulled me to pieces. -But I didn't feel sore long, Dave--that ain't in me. And that ain't why -I kept away.” - -The man was quite safe, of course, on account of these wire gratings, -and on account of the guard who was somewhere out there in the corridor. -It was very peculiar that the guard was not pacing up and down even -now in this little open space between Bookie Skarvan and himself--very -peculiar! Bookie was magnanimous--not to be sore! He wanted to laugh -out in a sort of maniacal hysteria, only he would be a fool to do that -because there were sixty-two days left before he could get his fingers -around that greasy, fat throat, and he must not _scare_ the man off now. -He had a debt to pay--five years of prison, those days and nights and -hours of torment when he had been a wounded thing hounded almost to -his death. Certainly, he owed all that to this man here! The man had -cunningly planned to have him disappear by the _murder_ route, hadn't -he? And he owed Bookie Skarvan for that too! If it hadn't been for that -he would have got away with the money, and there wouldn't have been five -years of prison, or those hours of physical torment, or---- - -He lifted his hand and brushed it heavily across his forehead. He was -quite cool now, perfectly in control of himself. The man didn't have -even a suspicion that he, Dave Henderson, knew these things. He mustn't -put the other on his guard--there were still sixty-two days during which -these prison walls held him impotent, and during which another, warned, -could get very far out of reach. Yes, he was quite cool now. He was even -still smiling, wasn't he? He could even play the man like a hooked fish. -It wasn't time to land the other yet. But it was strange that Bookie -Skarvan should have come here at all. Bookie wasn't a fool; he hadn't -come here for nothing. What was it the man wanted? - -“Ain't you glad to see me, Dave?” demanded Bookie Skarvan quite -jocularly. “'Cause, if you ain't now, you will be before I go.” - -“What do you mean?” inquired Dave Henderson coolly. - -“Notice anything queer about what's doing here right at this minute?” - Bookie's left eye closed in a significant wink. “Sure, you do! There -ain't any guard butting in, Dave. Get me? Well, I fixed it like that.” - -Dave Henderson relapsed into the old vernacular. - -“Spill it!” he invited. “I'm listening.” - -“Attaboy!” Bookie grinned. “You bet you're listening! We ain't forgotten -those years you and me spent together, have we, Dave? You know me, and -I know you. I kept away from here until now, 'cause I didn't want 'em -to get the right dope on the betting--didn't want 'em to think there was -any chance of us playing up to each other.” - -“You mean you didn't want them to get wise that you were a crook, too,” - suggested Dave Henderson imperturbably. - -Bookie Skarvan had no false modesty--his left eyelid drooped for the -second time. - -“You got the idea, Dave,” he grinned again. “They've got to figure I'm -straight--that's the play. That's the play I've been making in waiting -five years--so's they'd be sure there wasn't nothing between us. Now you -listen hard, Dave. All you've handed the police is a frozen face, and -that's the right stuff; but I got a dead straight tip they're going to -keep their eyes on you till hell's a skating pond. They're going to get -that money--_or else you ain't!_ See? Well, that's where I stepped in. -I goes to the right source, and I says: 'Look here, you can't do nothing -with Dave. Let me have a try. Maybe I can handle him. He worked for me -a good many years, and I know him better than his mother would if he had -one. He's stubborn, stubborn as hell, and threats ain't any good, nor -promises neither; but he's a good boy, for all that. You let me have a -chance to talk to him privately, and maybe I can make him come across -and cough up that money. Anyway, it won't do any harm to try. I always -liked Dave, and I don't want to see him dodging the police all his -life. Tydeman's dead, and, though it was really Tydeman's money, I was a -partner of Tydeman's, and if anybody on earth can get under Dave's shell -I can.'” Bookie put his face closer to his own particular stretch of -wire netting. He lowered his voice. “That's the reason I'm here, and -that's the reason the guard--ain't!” - -There was almost awe and admiration in Dave Henderson's voice. - -“You've got your nerve with you!” he said softly. - -Bookie Skarvan chuckled in his wheezy way. - -“Sure!” he said complacently. “And that's why we win. You get the lay, -don't you?” He was whispering now. “You can't get that cash _alone_, -Dave. I'm telling you straight they won't let you. But they won't watch -_me!_ You know me, Dave. I'll make it a fair split--fifty-fifty. Tell -me where the money is, and I'll get it, and be waiting for you anywhere -you say when you come out; and I'll fix it to hand over your share so's -they'll never know you got it--I got to make sure it's fixed like that -for my own sake, you can see that. Get me, Dave? And I go out of here -now and tell the warden it ain't any good, that I can't get you to talk. -I guess that looks nifty enough, don't it, Dave?” # - -There was a fly climbing up the wire netting. It zigzagged its course -over the little squares. It was a good gamble whether, on reaching the -next strand, it would turn to the right or left, or continue straight -ahead. Dave Henderson watched it. The creature did no one of those -things. It paused and frictioned its front legs together in a leisurely -fashion. After that it appeared to be quite satisfied with its -position--and it stayed there. - -“Poor Bookie!” murmured Dave Henderson. “Sad, too! I guess it must be -softening of the brain!” - -Bookie Skarvan's face blotched suddenly red--but he pressed his face -still more earnestly against the wire barrier. - -“You don't get it!” he breathed hoarsely. “I'm giving you a straight -tip. Barjan's waiting for you. The police are waiting for you. You -haven't got a hope. I tell you, you can't get that money alone, no -matter where you put it.” - -“I heard you,” said Dave Henderson indifferently. - -There was silence for a moment. - -A sort of anxious exasperation spread over Skarvan's face, then -perplexity, and then a flare of rage. - -“You're a fool!” he snarled. “You won't believe me! You think I'm -trying to work you for half of that money. Well, so I am, in a way--or -I wouldn't have come here. But I'm earning it. Look at the risk I'm -taking--five years, the same as you got. You crazy fool! Do you think -I'm bluffing? I tell you again, I know what I'm talking about. The -police'll never give you a look-in. You got to have help. Who else is -there but me? It's better to split with me than lose the whole of it, -ain't it?” - -“You haven't changed a bit in five years, Bookie.” There was studied -insolence in Dave Henderson's voice now. “Not a damned bit! Run along -now--beat it!” - -“You mean that?” Bookie Skarvan's eyes were puckered into slits now. -“You mean you're going to turn me down?” - -“Yes!” said Dave Henderson. - -“I'll give you one more chance,” whispered Skarvan. “_No!_” - -Bookie Skarvan's fat fingers squirmed around inside his collar as though -it choked him. - -“All right!” His lips were twitching angrily. “All right!” he repeated -ominously. “Then, by God, _you'll_ never get the money--even if you beat -the police! Understand? I'll see to that! I made you a fair, straight -offer. You'll find now that there'll be some one else besides you and -Barjan out for that coin--and when the showdown comes it won't be either -you or Barjan that gets it! And maybe you think that's a bluff, too!” - -“I never said I knew where the money was,” said Dave Henderson--and -smiled--and shrugged his shoulders. “Therefore you ought to stand just -as good a chance as Barjan--or I. After I got wounded I kind of lost -track of things, you know.” - -“You lie!” said Skarvan fiercely. “I--I------” He checked himself, -biting at his lips. “I'll give you one more chance again. What's your -last word?” - -“You've got it, Bookie,” said Dave Henderson evenly. - -“Then take mine!” Skarvan rasped. “I'll go now and tell the warden you -wouldn't say anything. If you try to put a crimp in me by reporting my -offer, I'll say you lied. I don't mind taking chances on my word being -believed against the word of a convict and a thief who is known to be -playing tricky! You get that? And after that--God help you!” - -The man was gone.... - -Presently, Dave Henderson found himself back in the carpenter shop. -The band-saw was shrieking, screeching insanely again. He had smiled in -there in the visitor's room at Bookie Skarvan; he had even been debonair -and facetious--he wasn't that way now. He could mask his face from -others; he couldn't mask his soul from himself. It seemed as though his -courage were being drained away from him, and in its place were coming -a sense of final, crushing defeat. Barjan's blow of last night had sent -him groggy to the ropes; but the blow Bookie Skarvan had just dealt had -smashed in under his guard and had landed on an even more vital spot. - -Skarvan's veiled threat hadn't veiled anything. The veil was only -too transparent! “God help you!” meant a lot. It meant that, far more -dangerous to face, even more difficult to outwit than the police, there -was now to be aligned against him the criminal element of San Francisco. -It meant Baldy Vickers and Runty Mott, and Baldy Vickers' gang. It meant -the men who had already attempted to murder him, and who would be eager -enough to repeat that attempt for the same stake--one hundred thousand -dollars. With the police it would have been, more than anything else, -the simple thrust and parry of wits; now, added to that, was a physical, -brutish force whose danger only a fool would strive to minimize. There -were dives and dens in the underworld there, as he knew well enough, -where a man would disappear from the light of day forever, and where -tortures that would put the devil's ingenuity to shame could be applied -to make a man open his lips. He was not exaggerating! It was literally -true. And if he were once trapped he could expect no less than that. -They had already tried to murder him once! Naturally, they had entered -into his calculations before while he had been here in prison; but they -had not seemed to be a very vital factor. He had never figured on Bookie -Skarvan setting that machinery in motion again--he had only figured on -getting his own hands on Bookie Skarvan himself. But he saw it now; and -he realized that, once started again, they would stop at nothing to get -that money. Whether Bookie Skarvan would have abided by his offer, on -the basis that he would get more out of it for himself that way, or -whether it was simply a play to discover the whereabouts of the money -and then divide up with his old accomplices, did not matter; it was -certain now that Bookie Skarvan would be content with less rather than -with none, and that the underworld would be unleashed on his, Dave -Henderson's, trail. The police--and now the underworld! It was like a -pack of wolves and a pack of hounds in chase from converging directions -after the same quarry; the wolves and the hounds might clash together, -and fall upon one another--but the quarry would be mangled and crushed -in the mêlée. - -The afternoon wore on. At times Dave Henderson's hands clenched over his -tools until it seemed the tendons must snap and break with the strain; -at times the sweat of agony oozed out in drops upon his forehead. Bookie -Skarvan was right. He could not get that money _alone_. No! No, that was -wrong! He could get it alone, and he would get it, and then fight for -it, and go under for it, all hell would not hold him back from that, and -Bookie Skarvan and some of the others would go under too--but he could -not get _away_ with the money alone. And that meant that these five -years of prison, five years of degradation, of memories that nauseated -him, five years that he had wagered out of his life, had gone for -nothing! God, if he could only turn to some one for help! But there was -no one, not a soul on earth, not a friend in the world who could aid -him--except Millman. - -And he _couldn't_ ask Millman--because it wouldn't be fair to Millman. - -His face must have grown haggard, perhaps he was acting strangely. Old -Tony over there had been casting anxious glances in his direction. He -took a grip upon himself, and smiled at the old bomb-thrower. The old -Italian looked pretty bad himself--that pasty whiteness about the old -fellow's face had a nasty appearance. - -His mind went back to Millman, working in queer, disconnected snatches -of thought. He was going to lose Millman, too... Millman was going out -tomorrow.... It had always been a relief to talk to Millman.... He had -never told Millman where the money was, of course, but Millman knew what -he, Dave Henderson, was “in” for.... The library hour wasn't far off, -and it would help to talk to Millman now.... Only Millman was going out -to-morrow--? and he was to bid Millman good-by. - -This seemed somehow the crowning jeer of mockery that fate was flinging -at him--that to-morrow even Millman would be gone. It seemed to bring a -snarl into his soul, the snarl as of some gaunt, starving beast at bay, -the snarl of desperation flung out in bitter, reckless defiance. - -He put his hands to his face, and beneath them his jaws clamped and -locked. They would never beat him, he would go under first, but--but---- - -Time passed. The routine of the prison life went on like the turning of -some great, ponderous wheel that moved very slowly, but at the same time -with a sort of smooth, oiled immutability. It seemed that way to Dave -Henderson. He was conscious of no definite details that marked or -occupied the passage of time. The library hour had come. He was on his -way to the library now--with permission to get a book. He did not want -a book. He was going to see Millman, and, God knew, he did not want to -see Millman--to say good-by. - -Mind, body and soul were sick--sick with the struggle of the afternoon, -sick with the ceaseless mental torment that made his temples throb and -brought excruciating pain, and with the pain brought almost physical -nausea; sick with the realization that his recompense for the five years -of freedom he had sacrificed was only--wreckage, ruin and disaster. - -He entered the little room. A guard lounged negligently against the -wall. One of the two convict librarians was already busy with another -convict--but it wasn't Millman who was busy. He met Millman's cool, -steady, gray eyes, read a sudden, startled something in them, and moved -down to the end of the sort of wooden counter away from the guard--and -handed in his book to be exchanged. - -“What's the matter, Dave?” Millman, across the counter, back half turned -to the guard, spoke in a low, hurried voice, as he pretended to examine -the book. “I never saw you look like this before! Are you sick?” - -“Yes,” said Dave Henderson between his teeth. “Sick--as hell! I'm up -against it, Charlie! And I guess it's all over except for one last -little fight.” - -“What book do you want?” said Millman's voice coolly; but Millman's -clean-cut face with its strong jaw tightening a little, and Millman's -clear gray eyes with a touch of steel creeping into them, said: “Go on!” - -“The police!” Dave Henderson spoke through the corner of his mouth -without motion of the lips. “Barjan was here last night. And I got -another tip to-day. The screws are going on--to a finish.” - -“You mean they're going to see that you don't get that money?” - -Dave Henderson nodded curtly. - -“Why not give it up then, Dave, and start a clean sheet?” asked Millman -softly. - -“Give it up!” The red had come into Dave Henderson's face, there was a -savage tightening of his lips across his teeth. “I'll never give it up! -D'ye think I've rotted here five years only to _crawl_ at the end? -By God! No! I'll get it--if they get me doing it!” His hoarse whisper -caught and choked suddenly. “But it's hell, Charlie--hell! Hell to go -under like that, just because there isn't a soul on God's wide earth I -can trust to get it for me while they're watching me!” Millman turned -away, and walked to the racks of books at the rear of the room. - -Dave Henderson watched the other in a numbed sort of way. It was a -curious kind of good-by he was saying to Millman. He wasn't quite sure, -for that matter, just what he had said. He was soul sick, and body sick. -Millman was taking a long while over the selection of a book--and he -hadn't even asked for a book, let alone for any particular one. What did -it matter! He didn't want anything to read. Reading wasn't any good to -him any more! Barjan and Bookie Skarvan had---- - -Millman was leaning over the counter again, a book in his hand. - -“Would you trust _me_, Dave?” he asked quietly. - -“You!” The blood seemed to quicken, and rush in a mad, swirling tide -through Dave Henderson's veins. “Do you mean that, Charlie? Do you mean -you'll help me?” - -“Yes,” said Millman. “If you want to trust me, I'll get that money for -you. I'm going out to-morrow. But talk quickly! The guard's watching us -and getting fidgety. Where is it?” - -Dave Henderson rubbed his upper lip with the side of his forefinger as -though it itched; the remaining fingers, spread out fanlike, screened -his mouth. - -“In the old pigeon-cote--shed back of Tooler's house where I used to -live--you can get into the shed from the lane.” - -Millman laid the book on the counter--and pushed it toward Dave -Henderson. - -“All right,” he said. “They won't be looking for it in New York. You've -two months more here. Make it the twenty-fourth of June. That'll -give you time enough. I'll be registered at the St. Lucian Hotel--New -York--eight o'clock in the evening--June twenty-fourth. I'll hand the -money over to you there, and----” - -“You there, Five-Fifty”--the guard was moving toward them from across -the room--“you got your book, ain't you?” - -Dave Henderson picked up the book, and turned toward the door. - -“Good-by!” he flung over his shoulder. - -“Good-by!” Millman answered. - - - - -III--BREAD UPON THE WATERS - - -IT was dark in the cell, quite dark. There was just the faint glimmer -that crept in from the night lights along the iron galleries, and came -up from the main corridor two tiers below. It must have been hours since -he had left Millman in the prison library--and yet he was not sure. -Perhaps it was even still early, for he hadn't heard old Tony talking -and whispering to himself through the bars to-night yet. - -Dave Henderson's head, cupped in hands whose fingers dug with a brutal -grip into the flesh of his cheeks, came upward with a jerk, and he -surged to his feet from the hinged shelf that he called cot and bed. -What difference did it make whether it was dark or light, or late -or early, or whether old Tony had babbled to himself or not! It was -pitifully inconsequential. It was only his brain staggering off into the -byways again, as though, in some sneaking, underhand way, it wanted to -steal rest and respite. - -His hands went up above his head, and held there, and his fists -clenched. He was the fool of fools, the prince of fools! He saw it now! -His laugh purled low, in hollow mirth, through the cell--a devil's laugh -in its bitter irony. Yes, he saw it now--when it was too late. - -Millman! Damn Millman to the pit! Damn Millman for the smoothest, -craftiest hypocrite into whom God had ever breathed the breath of life! -He had been trapped! That had been Millman's play, two years of cunning -play--to win his confidence; two years of it, that always at the end -the man might get that hundred thousand dollars. And he had fallen into -Millman's trap! - -He did not believe Millman's story, or in Millman's innocence now--when -it was too late! He couldn't reach Millman now. There were bars of iron, -and steel doors, and walls of stone between himself and Millman's -cell; and in the morning Millman would be gone, and Millman would have -sixty-two--no, sixty-one days--to get that money and put the width of -the world between them before he, Dave Henderson, was free. - -Sixty-one days! And in the space of one short moment, wrecking all that -the toil and agony of years was to have stood for, he had told Millman -what Millman wanted to know! And that was the moment Millman had been -waiting for through two long years with cunning patience--and he, Dave -Henderson, because he was shaken to the soul with desperation, because -he was alone with his back to the wall, in extremity, ready to grasp -at any shred of hope, and because he was sick in body, and because the -sudden, overwhelming uplift at Millman's offer had numbed and dulled his -faculties in a mighty revulsion of relief, had fallen into the traitor's -trap. - -And it had been done so quickly! The guard had been there and had -intervened, and there hadn't been time for his mind to win back its -normal poise and reason logically. He hadn't reasoned in that brief -instant; he had only caught and grasped the outflung hand of one whom, -for two years, he had trusted and believed was a friend. He hadn't -reasoned then; he had even stepped out of the prison library more -lighthearted than he had been almost from the moment they had put these -striped clothes upon him five years before; but he had barely stood -locked in his cell here again when, like some ghastly blight falling -upon him, reason had come and left him a draggled weakling, scarcely -able physically to stand upon his feet. And then that had passed, and he -had been possessed of an insensate fury that had bade him fling himself -at the cell door, and, with superhuman strength, wrench and tear the -bars asunder that he might get at Millman again. He had checked that -impulse amidst the jeers and mockeries of impish voices that rang in -his ears and filled the cell with their insane jabberings--voices that -laughed in hellish glee at him for being a fool in the first place, and -for his utter impotence in the second. - -They were jeering and chuckling now, those insane demon voices! - -He swung from the center of the cell, and flung himself down on the cot -again. They might well mock at him, those voices! For two years, though -he had had faith in Millman, he had kept the secret of the hiding place -of that money to himself because, believing Millman to be an honest -man, it would have been unfair to Millman to have told him, since, as -an honest man, Millman then would either have had to inform the -authorities--or become a dishonest man. It was clear enough, wasn't it? -And logical enough? And yet in one unguarded moment he had repudiated -his own logic! He had based all, his faith and trust and confidence in -Millman, on the belief that Millman was an honest man. Well, an _honest_ -man wouldn't voluntarily aid and abet a thief in getting away with -stolen money, nor make himself an accomplice after the fact, nor offer -to help outwit the police, nor agree to participate in what amounted to -stealing the money for a second time, and so make of himself a criminal! -And if the man was then _dishonest_, and for two years had covered that -dishonesty with a mask of hypocrisy, it was obvious enough, since the -hypocrisy had been solely for his, Dave Henderson's, benefit, that -Millman had planned it all patiently from the beginning, and now meant -to do him cold, to get the money and keep it. - -He could not remain still. He was up on his feet again from the cot. -Fury had him in its grip once more. Five years! Five years of hell in -this devil's hole! And a branded name! He had thrown everything into -the balance--all he had! And now--_this!_ Tricked! That was it--tricked! -Tricked by a Judas! - -All the passion of the man was on the surface now. Lean and gaunt, -his body seemed to crouch forward as though to spring; his hands, with -fingers crooked like claws reaching for their prey, were outstretched -before him. Sixty-one days' start Millman had. But Millman would need -more than that! The only man in the world whom he had ever trusted, and -who had then betrayed him, would need more than sixty-one days to escape -the reckoning that was to come. Millman might hide, Millman might live -for years in lavish ease on that money, and in the end there might be -none of that money left, but sooner or later Millman would pay a bigger -price than--a hundred thousand dollars. He would get Millman. The world -wasn't big enough for the two of them. And when that day came---- - -His muscles relaxed. The paroxysm of fury left him, and suddenly he -moaned a little as though in bitter hurt. There was another side to it. -He could not help thinking of that other side. There had been two years -of what he had thought was friendship--and the friendship had been -hypocrisy. It was hard to believe. Perhaps Millman meant to play square -after all, perhaps Millman would keep that rendezvous in New York on -June twenty-fourth at eight o'clock in the evening at the St. Lucian -Hotel. Perhaps Millman would. It wasn't only on account of the money -that he hoped Millman would--there were those two years of what he had -thought was friendship. - -He leaned suddenly against the wall of the cell, the palms of his hands -pressed against it, his face crushed into his knuckles. No! What was the -use of that! Why try to delude himself again? Why try to make himself -believe what he _wanted_ to believe? He could reason now coolly and -logically enough. If Millman was honest he would not do what he had -offered to do; and being, therefore, dishonest, his apparent honesty had -been only a mask, and the mask had been only for his, Dave Henderson's, -benefit, and that, logically, could evidence but one thing--that Millman -had deliberately set himself to win the confidence that would win for -Millman the stake of one hundred thousand dollars. There was no other -conclusion, was there? - -His head came up from his hands, and he stood rigid, tense. Wait! Wait -a minute, until his brain cleared. There was another possibility. He -had not thought of it before! It confused and staggered him now. Suppose -that Millman stood in with the police! Suppose that the police had used -Millman for just the purpose that Millman had accomplished! Or--why -not?--suppose that Millman was even one of the police himself! It was -not so tenable a theory as it was to assume that Millman had acted as -a stool-pigeon; but it was, even at that, well within the realm of -possibility. A man would not count two years ill spent on a case that -involved the recovery of a hundred thousand dollars--nor hesitate to -play a convict's part, either, if necessary. It had been done before. -Until Barjan had come last night, the police had made no sign for -years--unless Millman were indeed one of them, and, believing at the -last that he was facing failure, had called in Barjan. Millman hadn't -had a hard time of it in the penitentiary. His education had been the -excuse, if it were an excuse, for all the soft clerical jobs. Who was to -know if Millman ever spent the nights in his cell? - -Dave Henderson crushed his fists against his temples. What did it -matter! In the long run, what did it matter! Crook, or informant, or an -officer, Millman had wrecked him, and he would pay his debt to Millman! -He laughed low again, while his teeth gnawed at his lip. There was -Barjan and Bookie Skarvan--and now Millman! And Baldy Vickers and the -underworld! - -There wasn't much chance, was there? Not much to expect now in return -for the eternities in which he had worn these prison stripes, not much -out of the ruin of his life, not much for the all and everything he had -staked and risked! Not much--only to make one last fight, to make as -many of these men pay as dearly as he could. Fight! Yes, he would fight. -He had never hedged. He would never hedge. They had him with his back to -the wall. He knew that. There wasn't much chance now; there wasn't -any, if he looked the situation squarely in the face. He stood alone, -absolutely alone; there was nowhere to turn, no single soul to turn -to. His hand was against every other man's. But he was not beaten. -They would never beat him. A knife thrust or a black-jack from Bookie -Skarvan's skulking pack, though it might end his life, would not beat -him; a further term here behind these walls, though it might wither up -the soul of him, would not beat him! - -And Millman! Up above his head his hands twisted and knotted together -again, and the great muscular shoulders locked back, and the clean, -straight limbs grew taut. And he laughed. And the laugh was very low and -sinister. A beast cornered was an ugly thing. And the dominant instinct -in a beast was self-preservation--and a leap at its enemy's throat. A -beast asked no quarter--and gave none. Fie was a beast. They had made -him a beast in here, an animal, a numbered thing, not a man; they had -not even left him with a name--just one of a herd of beasts and animals. -But they had not tamed him. He was alone, facing them all now, and there -wasn't much chance because the odds were overwhelming; but if he was -alone, he would not go _down_ alone, and-- - -He turned his head suddenly, and his hands dropped to his sides. There -had come a cry from somewhere. It was not very loud, but it rang in a -startling way through the night silence of the prison. It was a cry -as of sudden fear and weakness. It came again; and in a bound Dave -Henderson reached the bars of his door, and beat upon them furiously -with his fists. He would get into trouble for it undoubtedly, but he -had placed that cry now. Old Tony wasn't whispering tonight. There was -something wrong with the old bomb-thrower. Yes, he remembered--old -Tony's strange appearance that afternoon. He rattled again and again on -the bars. Old Tony was moaning now. - -Footsteps on the run sounded along the iron gallery. A guard passed by; -another paused at the door. - -“Get back out of there!” growled the guard. “Beat it! Get back to your -cot!” - -Dave Henderson retreated to the center of the cell. He heard old Tony's -door opened. Then muffled voices. And then a voice that was quite -audible--one of the guard's: - -“I guess he's snuffed out. Get the doc--and, yes, tell the warden, if he -hasn't gone to bed yet.” - -Snuffed out! There was a queer, choking sensation in Dave Henderson's -throat. A guard ran along the gallery. Dave Henderson edged silently -close up to the door of his cell again. He couldn't see very much--only -a gleam of light from Lomazzi's cell that fell on the iron plates of the -gallery. There was no sound from within the other cell now. - -Snuffed out! The thought that old Tony was dead affected him in a -numbed, groping sort of way. It had come with such startling suddenness! -He had not grasped it yet. He wondered whether he should be sorry or -glad for old Tony--death was the lifer's goal. He did not know. It -brought, though, a great aching into his own soul. It seemed to stamp -with the ultimate to-night the immeasurable void in his own life. Old -Tony was the last link between himself and that thing of priceless worth -that men called friendship. Millman had denied it, outraged it, betrayed -it; and now old Tony had swerved in his allegiance, and turned away at -the call of a greater friend. Yes, death could not be anything but a -friend to Tony. There seemed to be no longer any doubt of that in his -mind. - -Footsteps, several of them, came again along the iron gallery, racketing -through the night, but they did not pass his cell this time; they came -from the other direction, and went into Lomazzi's cell. It was strange -that this should have happened to-night! There would be no more -shoulder-touch in the lock-step for the few days that were left; no -smile of eyes and lips across the carpenter shop; no surreptitious, -intimate little gestures of open-hearted companionship! It seemed to -crown in an appalling way, to bring home to him now with a new and -appalling force what, five minutes ago, he had thought he had already -appreciated to its fullest and bitterest depths--loneliness. He was -alone--alone--alone. - -The murmur of voices came from the other cell. Time passed. He clung -there to the bars. Alone--without help! The presence of death seemed -to have infused itself into, and to have become synonymous with that -thought. It seemed insidiously to eat into his soul and being, to make -his mind sick and weary, whispering to him to capitulate because he was -alone, ringed about with forces that would inevitably overwhelm his puny -single-handed defiance--because he was alone--and it would be hopeless -to go further alone--without help. - -He drew back suddenly from the door, conscious for the first time that -he must have been clutching and straining at the bars with all his -strength. His fingers, relaxed now, were stiff, and the circulation -seemed to have left them. A guard was opening the door. Behind the -guard, that white-haired man was the warden. He had always liked the -warden. The man was stern, but he was always just. He did not understand -why the warden had come to his cell. - -It was the warden who spoke: - -“Lomazzi is dying. He has begged to be allowed to say good-by to you. I -can see no objection. You may come.” - -Dave Henderson moistened his lips with the tip of his tongue. - -“I--I thought I heard them say he was dead,” he mumbled. - -“He was unconscious,” answered the warden briefly. “A heart attack. Step -quickly; he has not many minutes.” - -Dave Henderson stepped out on the iron gallery; and paused an instant -before the door of the adjoining cell. A form lay on the cot, a form -with a pasty-colored face, a form whose eyes were closed. The prison -doctor, a hypodermic syringe still in his hand, stood a little to one -side. Dave Henderson swept his hand across his eyes--there was a sudden -mist there that blurred the scene--and, moving forward, dropped down on -his knees beside the cot. - -A hand reached out and grasped his feebly; the dark eyes opened and -fixed on him with a flicker of the old fire in their depths; and the -lips quivered in a smile. - -Old Tony was whispering--old Tony always talked and whispered to himself -here in his cell every night--but old Tony never disturbed anybody--it -was hard to hear old Tony even when one listened attentively. Dave -Henderson brushed his hand across his eyes again, and bent his head to -the other's lips to catch the words. - -“You make-a da fool play when you come in here, Dave--for me. But I -never, never forget. Old Tony no forget. You no make-a da fool play -when you go out. Old Tony knows. You need-a da help. Listen--Nicolo -Capriano--'Frisco. You understand? Tony Lomazzi send-a you. Tony Lomazzi -take-a da life prison for Nicolo. Nicolo will pay back to Tony's friend. -You did not think that”--the voice was growing feebler, harder to -understand, and it was fluttering now--“that, because old Tony call-a -you da fool, he did--did not--remember--and--and----” - -Some one disengaged Dave Henderson's hand from the hand that was clasped -around it, and that had suddenly twitched and, with a spasmodic clutch, -had seemed as though striving to maintain its hold. - -The prison doctor's voice sounded muffled in the cell: - -“He is dead.” - -Dave Henderson looked up at the touch of a guard's hand on his shoulder. -The guard jerked his head with curt significance in the direction of the -door. - - - - -BOOK III: PATHS OF THE UNDERWORLD - - - - -I--THE DOOR ON THE LANE - - -WAS that a shadow cast by the projection of the door porch out there -across the street, or was it _more_ than a shadow? It was true that, to -a remarkable degree, one's eyes became accustomed to the murk, almost -akin to blackness, of the ill-lighted street; but the mind did not -accommodate itself so readily--a long and sustained vigil, the brain -spurred into abnormal activity and under tense strain, produced a -mental quality of vision that detracted from, rather than augmented, the -dependence to be placed upon the physical organs of sight. It peopled -space with its own imaginations; it created, rather than descried. Dave -Henderson shook his head in grim uncertainty. He could not be sure what -it was out there. With the black background of the unlighted room behind -him he could not be seen at the window by any one on the street, which -was two stories below, and he had been watching here since it had grown -dark. In that time he had seen a dozen shadows that he could have sworn -were not shadows--and yet they were no more than that after all. He was -only sure of one thing--that out there somewhere, perhaps nowhere within -eye range of his window, perhaps even half a block away, but somewhere, -some one was watching. He had been sure of that during every hour of his -new-found freedom, since he had reached 'Frisco that noon. He had been -sure of it intuitively; but he had failed signally to identify any one -specifically as having dogged or followed him. - -Freedom! He laughed a little harshly. There weren't any stone walls any -more; this window in front of him wasn't grated, nor the door of the -room steel-barred, nor out there in the corridor was there any uniformed -guard--and so it was freedom. - -The short, harsh laugh was on his lips again. Freedom! It was a curious -freedom, then! He could walk at will out there in the streets--within -limits. But he did not dare go yet to that shed where Mrs. Tooler's old -pigeon-cote was. The money probably wasn't there anyhow--Millman almost -certainly had won the first trick and had got away with it; but it was -absolutely necessary that he should be sure. - -He had freedom; but he had dared go nowhere to procure a steel jimmy, -for instance, or a substitute for a steel jimmy, with which to force -that shed door; nor had he dared to go anywhere and buy a revolver with -which to arm himself, and of which he stood desperately in need. He had -only a few dollars, but he knew where, under ordinary circumstances, he -could obtain those things without any immediate outlay of money--only -it was a moral certainty that every move he made was watched. If he -procured, say, a chisel, if he procured, say, a revolver, he was not -fool enough to imagine such facts would be hidden long from those who -watched. They would be suspicious facts. It was his play now to -create no suspicion. He could make no move until he had definitely and -conclusively identified and placed those who were watching him; and -then, with that point settled, it should not be very hard to throw the -watchers off the track long enough to enable him to visit Mrs. Tooler's -pigeon-cote, and, far more important, his one vital objective now, old -Tony Lomazzi's friend--Capriano. - -His jaws locked. He meant to force that issue tonight, even if he could -not discriminate between shadows and realities out there through the -window! He had a definite plan worked out in his mind--including a visit -to Square John Kelly's. He hadn't been to Square John's yet. To have -gone there immediately on reaching San Francisco would have been a fool -play. It would have been, not only risky for himself, but risky for -Square John; and he had to protect Square John from the searching and -pertinent questions that would then have certainly ensued. He was going -there to-night, casually, as simply to one of many similar places--that -was part of his plan! - -And now he smiled in mingled bitterness and menace. The underworld had -complimented him once on being the possessor of potentialities that -could make of him the slickest crook in the United States. He had not -forgotten that. The underworld, or at least a section of it in the -persons of Baldy Vickers and his gang, was leagued against him now, as -well as the police. He would strive to merit the underworld's encomium! - -He turned suddenly away from the window, walked in the darkness to the -table in the center of the room, and, groping for his hat, made his way -to the door. He had not expected much from this vigil at the window, but -there had always been the possibility that it would be productive, and -the earlier hours of the evening could have been employed in no better -way. It was dark enough now to begin his night's work in earnest. It -must be between half-past nine and ten o'clock. - -There was a dim light in the corridor, but, dim though it was, it did -not hide the ragged, threadbare state of the carpet on the hallway and -stairs, nor the lack of paint, or even of soap and water, on doors and -woodwork. Pelatt's Hotel made no pretentious claims. It was as shabby as -the shabby quarter in which it was located, and as shabby as the shabby -patrons to whom it catered. But there were not many places where a man -with close-cropped hair and wearing black clothes of blatant prison cut -could go, and he had known Pelatt in the old days, and Pelatt, in lieu -of baggage, hadn't demanded any cash in advance--he had even advanced -Dave Henderson a little cash himself. - -Dave Henderson reached the ground floor, and gained the street through a -small, dingy office that was for the moment deserted. He paused here -for an instant, the temptation strong upon him to cross the street and -plunge into those shadows at the side of that porch just opposite -to him. His lips grew tight. The temptation was strong, almost -overpoweringly strong. He would much rather fight that way! - -And then he shrugged his shoulders, and started along the street. Since -he had left the penitentiary, he had not given the slightest sign that -he had even a suspicion he was being watched; and, more than ever, he -could not afford to do so now. There were two who could play at the game -of laying traps! And, besides, the chances were a thousand to one that -there were nothing but shadows over there; and there were the same odds -that some one who was not a shadow would see him make the tell-tale -investigation. He could not afford to take a chance. He could not afford -to fail now. He had to identify beyond question of doubt the man, or -men, who were on his trail, if there were any; or, with equal certainty, -establish it as a fact that he was letting what he called his intuition -run away with him. - -There came a grim smile to his lips, as he went along. Intuition wasn't -all he had to guide him, was it? Barjan had not minced words in making -it clear that he would be watched; and Bookie Skarvan had made an -even more ominous threat! Who was it tonight, then--the police, or the -underworld, or both? - -He had given no sign that he had any suspicions. He had gone to Pelatt's -openly; after that, in an apparently aimless way, as a man almost -childishly interested in the most trivial things after five years of -imprisonment, he had roamed about the streets that afternoon. - -But his wanderings had not been entirely aimless! He had located Nicolo -Capriano's house--and, strangely enough, his wanderings had quite -inadvertently taken him past that house several times! It was in a -shabby quarter of the city, too. Also, it was a curious sort of -house; that is, it was a curious sort of house when compared with its -neighbors. It was one of a row of frame houses in none too good repair, -and it was the second house from the corner--the directory had supplied -him with the street and number. The front of the house differed in -no respect from those on each side of it; it was the rear that had -particularly excited his attention. He had not been able to investigate -it closely, of course, but it bordered on a lane, and by walking down -the cross street one could see it. It had an extension built on that -reached almost to the high fence at the edge of the lane, and the -extension, weather-beaten in appearance, looked to be almost as old as -the house itself. Not so very curious, after all, except that no other -house had that extension--and except that, in view of the fact that -one Nicolo Capriano lived there, it was at least suggestive. Its back -entrance was extremely easy of access! - -Dave Henderson turned abruptly in through the door of a saloon, and, -leaning against the bar--well down at the far end where he could both -see and be seen every time the door was opened--ordered a drink. - -He had thought a good deal about Nicolo Capriano in the two months since -old Tony Lomazzi had ended his life sentence. He hadn't “got” it all at -the moment when the old bomb-thrower had died. It had been mostly old -Tony himself who was in his thoughts then, and the reference to Capriano -had seemed no more than just a kindly thought on old Tony's part for a -friend who had no other friend on earth. But afterwards, and not many -hours afterwards, it had all taken on a vastly different perspective. -The full significance of Tony's words had come to him, and this in -turn had stirred his memories of earlier days in San Francisco; and he -remembered Nicolo Capriano. - -The barkeeper slid a bottle and whisky glass toward him. Dave Henderson -half turned his back to the street door, resting his elbow negligently -on the bar. He waited for a moment until the barkeeper's attention -was somewhat diverted, then his fingers cupped around the small glass, -completely hiding it; and the bottle, as he raised it in the other hand, -was hidden from the door by the broad of his back. He poured out a -few drops--sufficient to rob the glass of its cleanness. The barkeeper -looked around. Dave Henderson hastily set the bottle down, like a child -caught in a misdemeanor, hastily raised the glass to his lips, threw -back his head, and gulped. The barkeeper scowled. It was the trick of -the saloon vulture--not only a full glass, but a little over for good -measure, when, through practice, the forefinger and thumb became a sort -of annex to the rim. Dave Henderson stared back in sullen defiance, -set the glass down on the bar, drew the back of his hand across his -lips--and went out. - -He hesitated a moment outside the saloon, as though undecided which way -to go next, while his eyes, under the brim of his slouch hat, which was -pulled forward almost to the bridge of his nose, scanned both sides of -the street and in both directions. He moved on again along the block. - -Yes, he remembered Nicolo Capriano. Capriano must be a pretty old man -now--as old as Tony Lomazzi. - -There had been a great deal of talk about a gang of Italian -black-handers in those days, when he, Dave Henderson, was a boy, and -Capriano had been a sort of hero-bandit, he remembered; and there had -been a mysterious society, and bomb-throwing, and a reign of terror -carried on that had paralyzed the police. They had never been able to -convict Nicolo Capriano, though it was common knowledge that the police -believed him to be the brains and front of the organization. Always -something, or some one, had stood between Capriano and prison bars--like -Tony Lomazzi, for instance! - -He did not remember Lomazzi's trial, nor the details of the particular -crime for which Lomazzi was convicted; but that, perhaps, had put an end -to the gang's work. Certainly, Capriano's activities were a thing of the -past; it was all a matter of years ago. Capriano was never heard of now; -but even if the man through force of circumstances, was obliged to live -a retired existence, that in no way robbed him of his cleverness, nor -made him less valuable as a prospective ally. - -Capriano was the one man who could help him. Capriano must still possess -underground channels that would be of incalculable value in aiding him -to track Millman down. - -His fists, hidden in the side pockets of his coat, clenched fiercely. -That was it--Millman! There wasn't a chance but that Millman had taken -the money from the pigeon-cote. He would see, of course, before many -more hours; but there wasn't a chance. It was Millman he wanted now. -The possibility that had occurred to him in prison of Millman being a -stool-pigeon, or even one of the police, no longer held water, for if -the money had been recovered it would be publicly known. It hadn't been -recovered. Therefore, it was Millman he must find, and it was Nicolo -Capriano's help he wanted. But he must protect Capriano. He would owe -Capriano that--that it should not be known there was anything between -Nicolo Capriano and Dave Henderson. Well, he was doing that now, wasn't -he? Neither Square John Kelly nor Nicolo Capriano would in any way be -placed under suspicion through his visits to them to-night! - -The saloons appeared to be Dave Henderson's sole attraction in life now. -He went from one to another, and he passed none by, and he went nowhere -else--and he left a trail of barkeepers' scowls behind him. One drink -in each place, with five fingers curled around the glass, hiding the few -drops the glass actually contained, while it proclaimed to the barkeeper -the gluttonous and greedy imposition of the professional bum, wore out -his welcome as a customer; and if the resultant scowl from behind the -bar was not suggestive enough, it was augmented by an uncompromising -request to “beat it!” He appeared to be possessed of an earnest -determination to make a night of it--and also of an equally earnest -determination to get as much liquor for as little money as possible. -And the record he left behind him bore unimpeachable testimony to that -purpose! - -He appeared to grow a little unsteady on his feet; he was even lurching -quite noticeably when, an hour later, the lighted windows of Square -John Kelly's Pacific Coral Saloon, his first real objective, flung an -inviting ray across his path. He stood still here full in the -light, both of the window and a street lamp, and shook his head in -well-simulated grave and dubious inebriety. He began to fumble in his -pockets. He fished out a dime from one, and a nickel from another--a -further and still more industrious search apparently proved abortive. -For a long time he appeared to be absorbed in a lugubrious contemplation -of the two coins that lay in the palm of his hand--but under his hat -brim his eyes marked a man in a brown peaked cap who was approaching the -door of the saloon. This was the second time in the course of the last -half hour--since he had begun to show signs that the whisky was getting -the better of him--that he had seen the man in the brown peaked cap! - -There were swinging wicker doors to the saloon, and the man pushed these -open, and went in--but he did not go far. Dave Henderson's lips thinned -grimly. The bottom of the swinging doors was a good foot and a half -above the level of the sidewalk--but, being so far gone in liquor, -he would hardly be expected to notice the fact that the man's boots -remained visible, and that the man was standing there motionless! - -Dave Henderson took the street lamp into his confidence. - -“Ol' Kelly,” said Dave Henderson thickly. “Uster know Kelly--Square -John. Gotta have money. Whatsh matter with touching Kelly? Eh--whatsh -matter with that?” - -He lurched toward the swinging doors. The boots retreated suddenly. -He pushed his way through, and stood surveying the old-time familiar -surroundings owlishly. The man with the brown cap was leaning against -the bar close to the door; a half dozen others were ranged farther down -along its length; and at its lower end, lounging against the wall of the -little private office, was a squat, paunchy man with a bald head, and -florid face, and keen gray eyes under enormously bushy gray eyebrows. -It was Kelly, just as Kelly used to be--even to the massive gold watch -chain stretched across the vest, with the massive gold fraternity emblem -dangling down from the center. - -“'Ello, Kelly!” Dave Henderson called out effusively, and made rapid, -though somewhat erratic progress across the room to Kelly's side. -“Glad t'see you, ol' boy!” He gave Kelly no chance to say anything. He -caught Kelly's hand, and pumped it up and down. “Sure, you know me! -Dave Henderson--ol' days at the track, eh? Been away on a vacation. -Come back--broke.” His voice took on a drunkenly confidential tone--that -could be heard everywhere in the saloon, “Shay, could I see you a minute -in private?” - -A man at the bar laughed. Dave Henderson wheeled belligerently. Kelly -intervened. - -Perplexity, mingling with surprise and disapproval, stamped Kelly's -florid face. - -“Yes, I know you well enough; but I didn't expect to see you like -this, Dave!” he said shortly. He jerked his hand toward the door of the -private office. “I'll talk to you in there.” - -Dave Henderson entered the office. - -Kelly shut the door behind them. - -“You're drunk!” he said sternly. - -Dave Henderson shook his head. - -“No,” he said quietly. “I'm followed. Do you think I'm a fool, John? Did -you ever see me drunk? They're shadowing me, that's all; and I had to -get my money from you, and keep your skirts clean, and spot the shadow, -all at the same time.” - -Kelly's jaw sagged helplessly. - -“Good God!” he ejaculated heavily. “Dave, I------” - -“Don't let's talk, John--now,” Dave Henderson interrupted. “There isn't -time. It won't do for me to stay in here too long. 'You've got my money -ready, haven't you?” - -Kelly nodded--still a little helplessly. - -“Yes,” he said; “it's ready. I've been looking for you all afternoon. I -knew you were coming out today.” He went over to a safe in the corner, -opened it, took out a long envelope, and handed the envelope to Dave -Henderson. “It's all there, Dave--and five years' interest, compounded. -A little over four thousand dollars--four thousand and fifteen, as near -as I could figure it. It's all in five-hundreds and hundreds, except the -fifteen; I didn't think you'd want to pack a big wad.” - -“Good old Square John!” said Dave Henderson softly. He opened the -envelope, took out the fifteen dollars, shoved the large bills into his -pocket, tucked a five-dollar bill into another pocket, and held out the -remaining ten to Kelly. “Go out there and get me ten dollars from the -cash register, John, will you?” he said. “Let them see you doing it. -Get the idea? I'd like them to know you came across, and that I've got -something to spend.” - -Kelly's eyes puckered in an anxious way, as they scrutinized Dave -Henderson's face; but the anxiety, it was obvious enough, was all for -Dave Henderson. - -“You mean there's some one out there now?” he asked, as he moved toward -the door. - -“Yes,” said Dave Henderson, with a grim little smile. “See if you know -that fellow with the brown peaked cap up at the front end of the bar.” - -Kelly was gone a matter of two or three minutes. He came back and -returned the ten dollars to Dave Henderson. - -“Know the man?” asked Dave Henderson. - -“Yes,” said Kelly. “His name's Speen--he's a plain-clothesman.” He -shook his head in a troubled way, and suddenly laid both hands on Dave -Henderson's shoulders. “Dave, what are you going to do?” - -Dave Henderson laughed shortly. - -“Do you want to know?” He flung out the words in a sort of bitter gibe. -“Well, I'll tell you--in confidence. I'm going to blow the head off a -_friend_ of mine.” - -Dave Henderson felt the hands on his shoulders tighten. - -“What's the use, Dave?” said Square John Kelly quietly. “I suppose it -has something to do with that Tydeman wad; but what's the use? You've -got four thousand dollars. Why not start clean again? The other don't -pay, Dave, and----” He stopped. - -Dave Henderson's face had hardened like flint. - -“There's a good deal you don't know,” he said evenly. “And I guess the -less you know the safer you'll be. I owe you a lot, John; and the only -way I can square it now is to tell you to stand from under. What you -say, though I know you mean it, doesn't make any dint in five years of -hell. I've got a debt to pay, and I'm going to pay it. Maybe I'll see -you again--maybe I won't. But even a prison bird can say God bless you, -and mean it; and that's what I say to you. They won't have any -suspicions that there's anything of any kind between you and me; but -they'll naturally come here to see if they can get any information, when -that fellow Speen out there turns in his report. You can tell them you -advised me to start clean again, and you can tell them that I swear I -don't know where that hundred thousand dollars is. They won't believe -it, and you don't believe it. But let it go at that! I don't know what's -going to break loose, but you stand from under, John. I'm going now--to -get acquainted with Mr. Speen. It wouldn't look just right, in my -supposed condition, for you to let me have another drink in your place, -after having staked me; but I've got to make at least a bluff at it. You -stay here for a few minutes--and then come out and chase me home.” He -held out his hand, wrung Square John Kelly's in a hard grip, turned -abruptly away--and staggered out into the barroom. - -Clutching his ten dollars in his hand, and glancing furtively back over -his shoulder every step or two, Dave Henderson neared the door. Here, -apparently reassured that his benefactor was not watching him, and -apparently succumbing to an irresistible temptation, he sidled up to the -bar--beside the man with the brown peaked cap. - -“Kelly's all right--s'il right,” he confided thickly to the other. “Ol' -friend. Never turns down ol' friend in hard luck. Square John--betcher -life! Have a drink?” - -“Sure!” said the man in the brown peaked cap. - -The drink was ordered, and as Dave Henderson, talking garrulously, -poured out his whisky--a genuine glassful this time--he caught sight, -in the mirror behind the bar, and out of the corner of his eye, of Kelly -advancing down the room from the private office. And as he lifted his -glass, Kelly's hand, reaching from behind, caught the glass, and set it -back on the bar. - -“You promised me you'd go home, and cut this out!” said Kelly in sharp -reproof. “Now, go on!” He turned on the detective. “Yes, and you, too! -Get out of here! You ought to know better! The man's had enough! Haven't -you got anything else to do than hang around bumming drinks? I know you, -and I've a mind to report you! Get out!” - -Dave Henderson slunk out through the door without protest. On the -sidewalk the man with the brown peaked cap joined him. - -“Kelly's sore.” Dave Henderson's tones were heavy with tolerant pity and -magnanimous forgiveness. “Ol' friend--be all right to-morrow. Letsh go -somewhere else for a drink. Whatsher shay?” - -“Sure!” said the man in the brown peaked cap. - -The detective was complacently agreeable to all suggestions. It was Dave -Henderson who acted as guide; and he began a circuit of saloons in a -direction that brought him sensibly nearer at each visit to the street -and house occupied by one Nicolo Capriano. In the same block with -Capriano's house he had noticed that there was also a saloon, and if -Capriano's house had an exit on the lane, so, likewise, it was logical -to presume, had the saloon. And that saloon now, barring intermediate -stops, was his objective. But he was in no hurry. There was one point on -which he had still to satisfy himself before he gave this man Speen the -slip in that saloon and, by the lane, gained the rear door of Nicolo -Capriano's house. He knew now that he was dealing with the police; but -was Speen detailed _alone_ to the case, or did Speen have assistance at -hand in the background--assistance enough, say, to have scared off any -move on the part of Bookie Skarvan's and Baldy Vickers' gang, of whom, -certainly, he had seen nothing as yet? - -A half hour passed. Several saloons were visited. Dave Henderson no -longer cupped his hand around his glass. Having had nothing to start -with, he could drink frankly, and a shaky hand could be trusted to spill -any over-generous portions. They became confidential. He confided to -Speen what Speen already knew--that he, Dave Henderson, _was_ Dave -Henderson, and just out from the penitentiary. Speen, stating that his -name was Monahan, reciprocated with mendacious confidences that -implied he was puritanical in neither his mode of life nor his means -of livelihood--and began to throw out hints that he was not averse to a -share in any game that Dave Henderson might have on hand. - -Dave Henderson got along very badly now between the various oases that -quenched his raging thirst. He leaned heavily on Speen, he stumbled -frequently, and, in stumbling, obtained equally frequent views of both -sides of the street behind him. No one seemed to be paying any attention -to his companion or himself, and yet once or twice he had caught -sight of skulking figures that, momentarily at least, had aroused his -suspicions. But in this neighborhood there were many skulking figures! -Again he could not be sure; but the saloon in Capriano's block was the -next one ahead now, and certainly nothing had transpired that would seem -to necessitate any change being made in his plans. - -Speen, too, was feigning now a certain degree of intoxication. They -reached the saloon, reeled through the door arm in arm, and ranged up -alongside the bar. - -Dave Henderson's eyes swept his surroundings, critical of every detail. -It was an unpleasant and dirty place; and the few loungers, some seated -at little tables, some hanging over the bar itself, were a hard and ugly -looking lot. - -The clientele, however, interested Dave Henderson very little--at the -rear of the room, and but a few yards from the end of the bar, there was -an open door, disclosing a short passage beyond, that interested him a -great deal more! Beyond that passage was undoubtedly the back yard, and -beyond that again was the lane. He had no desire to harm Speen, none -whatever; but if any one of a dozen pretexts, that he might make to -elude the man for the moment or two that was necessary to gain the yard -unobserved, did not succeed, and Speen persisted in following him out -there into the yard--well, so much the worse for Speen, that was all! - -He was arguing now with Speen, each claiming the right to pay for the -drink--but his mind was sifting through those dozen pretexts for the -most plausible one to employ. He kept on arguing. Customers slouched in -and out of the place; some sat down at the tables, some came to the bar. -One, a hulk of a man, unshaven, with bull-breadth shoulders, with nose -flattened over on one side of his cheek, stepped up to the bar beside -Speen. Speen's back was turned, but the man grinned hospitably at Dave -Henderson over Speen's shoulder, as he listened to the argument for a -moment. - -“Put away your money, son, an' have a drink with me,” he invited. - -Speen turned. - -The grin on the battered face of the newcomer faded instantly, as he -stared with apparently sudden recognition into Speen's face; and a -black, ugly scowl spread over the already unhandsome features. - -“Oh, it's _you_, is it?” he said hoarsely, and licked his lips. “By God, -you got a nerve to come down here--you have! You dirty police spy!” - -Speen was evidently not easily stampeded. He eyed the other levelly. - -“I guess you've got the wrong man, haven't you?” he returned coolly -enough. “My name's Monahan, and I don't know you.” - -“You lie!” snarled the other viciously. “Your name's Speen! And you -don't know me--_don't you?_” - -“No!” said Speen. - -“You don't, eh?” The man thrust his face almost into Speen's. “You don't -remember a year ago gettin' me six months on a fake plant, either, I -suppose!” - -“No!” said Speen. - -“You don't, eh?” snarled the man again. “A hell of a bad memory you've -got, ain't you? Well, I'll fix it for you so's you won't forget me so -easy next time, and-----” - -It came quick, without warning--before Dave Henderson could move. He -saw a great, grimy fist whip forward to the point of Speen's jaw, and he -caught a tiny reflected gleam of light from an ugly brass knuckleduster -on one of the fingers of the clenched fist; and Speen's knees seemed to -crumple up under him, and he went down in a heap to the floor. - -Dave Henderson straightened up from the bar, a hard, grim smile twisting -across his lips. It had been a brutal act. Speen might be a policeman, -and Speen, lying there senseless, solved a certain little difficulty -without further effort on his, Dave Henderson's, part; but the brutality -of the act had him in its grip. There was a curious itching at his -finger tips for a clutch that would maul this already battered bruiser's -face beyond recognition. His eyes circled the room. The men at the -tables had risen to their feet; some were pushing forward, and one, -he saw over his shoulder, ran around the far end of the bar and -disappeared. Speen lay inert, a huddled thing on the floor, a crimson -stream spilling its way down over the man's white collar. - -The twisted smile on Dave Henderson's lips deepened. The bruiser was -watching him like a cat, and there was a leer on the other's face that -seemed to possess some hidden significance. Well, perhaps he would -change that leer, with whatever its significance might be, into -something still more unhappy! He moved a few inches out from the bar. He -wanted room for arm-play now, and---- - -The street door opened. Four or five men were crowding in. He caught -a glimpse of a face among them that he knew--a little wizened face, -crowned with flaming red hair--Runty Mott. - -And then the lights went out. - -Quick as a lightning flash Dave Henderson dropped to his hands and -knees. There was a grunt above him, as though from the swing of a -terrific blow that, meeting with no resistance, had over-reached itself -in midair--then the forward lunge of a heavy body, a snarl, an oath, -as the bruiser stumbled over Dave Henderson's crouched form--and then -a crash, as Dave Henderson grappled, low down at the other's knees, and -the man went to the floor. But the other, for all his weight and bulk, -was lithe and agile, and his arms, flung out, circled and locked around -Dave Henderson's neck. - -The place was in pandemonium. Feet scuffled; chairs and tables toppled -over in the darkness. Shouts, yells and curses made a din infernal. Dave -Henderson wrenched and tore at the arms around his neck. He saw it all -now--all. The police had trailed him; Baldy Vickers' gang had trailed -the police. The bruiser was one of the gang. They had to get rid of the -police, in the person of Speen, to cover their own trail again before -they got him, Dave Henderson. And they, too, had thought him drunk, and -an easy prey. With Speen unconscious from a quarrel that even Speen, -when he recovered, would never connect with its real purpose, they meant -to kidnap him, Dave Henderson, and get him away in the confusion without -any of the innocent bystanders in the place knowing what was going -on. That was why the lights had gone off--that man he had seen running -around the upper end of the room--he remembered now--the man had come -in just behind the bruiser--that accounted for the lights--they -wouldn't dare shoot--he had that advantage--dead, he wasn't any good to -them--they wanted that--hundred--thousand--dollars. - -He was choking. Instead of arms, steel fingers had sunk into his throat. -He lunged out with all his strength. His fist met something that, -though it yielded slightly, brought a brutal twinge of pain across his -knuckles. His fist shot out again, whipped to its mark with everything -that was in him behind the blow; and it was the bruiser's face he hit. -He hit it again, and, over the mad fury that was upon him, he knew an -unholy joy as his blows crashed home. - -The steel fingers around his throat relaxed and fell away. He staggered -to his feet. - -A voice from somewhere close at hand spoke hoarsely: - -“Scrag him, Mugsy! See that he's knocked cold before we carry him out!” - -There was no answer from the floor. - -Dave Henderson's lips were no longer twisted in a smile, they were -thinned and straight; he knew why there was no answer from the floor! -He crouched, gathering himself for a spring. Dark, shadowy forms were -crowding in around him. There was only one chance--the door now, the -rear door, and the lane! Voices growled and cursed, seemingly almost -in his ears. They had him hemmed against the bar without knowing it, -as they clustered around the spot where they expected he was being -strangled into unconsciousness on the floor. - -“Mugsy, d'ye hear! Damn you, d'ye hear! Why don't you----” - -Dave Henderson launched himself forward. A wild yell went up. Hands -clutched at him, and tore at his clothing, and struck at his face; forms -flung themselves at his shoulders, and clung around his legs. He shook -them off--and gained a few yards. He was fighting like a madman now--and -now the darkness was in his favor. - -They came on again in a blind rush. The door could not be far away! He -stumbled over one of the small tables, recovered himself, and, snatching -up the table, whirled it by one of its legs in a sweep around his head. -There was a smash of impact that almost knocked the table from his -grasp--and, coincidentally, a scream of pain. It cleared a space about -him. He swung again, whirling the table around and around his head, -gaining impetus--and suddenly sent it catapulting from him full into the -shadowy forms in front of him, and, turning, made a dash for the end of -the room. - -He reached the wall, and groped along it for the door. The door! Where -was it? He felt the warm, blood trickling down over his face. He did not -remember when that had happened! He could not see--but they would turn -on the lights surely now in an instant if they were not fools--and -he must find the door first or he was trapped--that was his only -chance--the place was a bedlam of hideous riot--curse the blood, it -seemed to be running into his eyes now--Runty Mott--if only he could -have settled with the skulking---- - -His fingers touched and felt around the jamb of the open door--and he -surged, panting, through the doorway. The short passage ended in another -door. He opened this, found the yard in front of him, dashed across it, -and hurled himself over the fence into the lane. - -The uproar, the yells, the furious shouts from behind him seemed -suddenly to increase in volume. He ran the faster. They had turned the -lights on--and found him gone! From somewhere in the direction of the -street there came the shrill cheep-cheep of a patrolman's whistle. Yes, -he quite understood that, too--there would be a riot call pulled in a -minute, but that made little difference to him. It was the gangsters, -who were now probably pouring out of the saloon's back door in pursuit -of him, with whom he had to reckon. But he should be safe now--he was -abreast of Capriano's house, which he could distinguish even in the -darkness because the extension stuck out like some great, black looming -shadow from the row of other houses. - -There was a gate here somewhere, or a door in the fence, undoubtedly; -but he had no time to hunt for gate or door, perhaps only to find it -locked! The fence was quicker and easier. He swung himself up, and -over--and, scarcely a yard away, found himself confronted with what -looked like an enclosed porch or vestibule to the Italian's back door. - -He was quick now, but equally silent in his movements. From the -direction of the saloon, shouts reached him, the voices no longer -muffled, but as though they were out in the open--in the back yard of -the saloon perhaps, or perhaps by now in the lane itself. He stepped -inside the porch, and knocked softly on the door. He knocked again -and again. It seemed as though the seconds dragged themselves out into -immeasureable periods of time. He swept the blood out of his eyes once -more, and, his ears strained laneward, continued to knock insistently, -louder and louder. - -A light footstep, hurried, sounded from within. It halted on the other -side of the closed door. He had a feeling that somehow, even through -that closed door, and even in the darkness, he was under inspection. The -next instant he was sure of it. Above his head a small incandescent -bulb suddenly flooded the porch with light, and fell full upon him as he -stood there, a ghastly object, he realized, with blood-stained face, and -torn and dishevelled clothes. - -From behind the closed door came a girl's startled gasp of dismay and -alarm; from up the lane now unmistakably came the pound of racing feet. - -“Quick!” whispered Dave Henderson hoarsely. “I'm from Tony Lomazzi. For -God's sake, put out that light!” - - - - -II--SANCTUARY - - -THE light in the porch went out. From within, as though with slow, -dubious hesitation, a key turned in the lock. The door opened slightly, -and from a dark interior the girl's voice reached Dave Henderson again. - -“Tony Lomazzi sent you, you say!” she exclaimed in a puzzled way; and -then, a sudden apprehension in her voice: “You are all covered with -blood--what is the matter? What do you want?” - -From the lane, the sound of pounding, racing feet seemed almost opposite -the Italian's porch now. Dave Henderson, without ceremony, pushed at the -door. It yielded, as the girl evidently retreated backward abruptly, and -he stepped inside, closed the door softly behind him, and, feeling for -the key, turned it swiftly in the lock. He could see nothing, but out of -the darkness near him came a sharp, quick-drawn intake of breath. - -“I'm sorry!” said Dave Henderson quietly. “But it was a bit of a close -call. I'm not quite sure whether they are running after me, or running -from the police, but, either way, it would have been a little awkward if -I had been seen.” - -She seemed to have regained her composure, for her voice, as she spoke -again, was as quiet and as evenly modulated as his own. - -“What do you want?” she asked once more. “Why did Tony Lomazzi send you -here?” - -He did not answer at once. From somewhere in the front of the house, -muffled, but still quite audible, there came the voices of two men--one -high-pitched, querulous, curiously short-breathed, the other with a -sort of monotonous, sullen whine in it. He listened automatically for -an instant, as his eyes searched around him. It was almost black inside -here as he stood with his back to the door, but, grown more accustomed -to the darkness now, he could make out a faint, blurred form, obviously -that of the girl, a few feet away from him. - -“I want to see Nicolo Capriano,” he said. - -It was her turn now to pause before she answered. - -“Is it necessary?” she asked finally. - -“To me--yes,” said Dave Henderson. - -“My father has already had far too much excitement to-night,” she said -in a low voice. “He is a very sick man. There is some one with him now. -If you could give me the message it would be better. As for any help you -need, for you appear to be hurt, I will gladly attend to that myself. -You may be assured of that, if you come from Tony Lomazzi.” - -She was Nicolo Capriano's daughter, then! It struck him as a passing -thought, though of no particular consequence, that she spoke excellent -English for an Italian girl. - -“I'm afraid that won't do,” said Dave Henderson seriously. “It is -practically a matter of life and death to me to see Nicolo Capriano, -and----” - -From the front of the house the querulous voice rose suddenly in a still -higher pitch: - -“Teresa! Teresa!” - -“Yes, I am coming!” the girl cried out; and then, hurriedly, to Dave -Henderson: “Wait here a moment. I will tell him. What is your name?” - -Dave Henderson smiled a little queerly in the darkness. - -“If he is alone when you tell him, it is Dave Henderson,” he said dryly. -“Otherwise, it is Smith--John Smith.” - -She was gone. - -He listened as her footsteps died away in the darkness; and then he -listened again at the door. There was still a great deal of commotion -out there in the lane, but certainly there was nothing to indicate that -he and Nicolo Capriano's back porch had in any way been suspected of -having had anything in common; it was, rather, as though the entire -saloon up there had emptied itself in haste into the lane, and was -running pell-mell in an effort to be anywhere but in that vicinity when -the police arrived. Well, so much the better! For the moment, at least, -he had evaded the trap set for him both by Bookie Skarvan's pack and -by the police--and the next move depended very largely upon Nicolo -Capriano, or, perhaps even more, upon this daughter of his, since -the old man, it seemed, was sick. The girl's name was apparently -Teresa--which mattered very little. What mattered a great deal more was -that she evidently had her wits about her--an inheritance possibly from -the old man, whose reputation, in his day, as one of the coolest -and shrewdest of those outside the pale of the law, was at least -substantiated by the fact that he had been able to stand off the police -for practically a lifetime. - -Dave Henderson raised his hand, and felt gingerly over his right temple. -The blood had stopped flowing, but there was a large and well-defined -lump there. He did not remember at just what particular stage of the -fight that had happened. From his head, his hand felt over his clothing. -He nodded a little ruefully to himself. He had come off far from -scathless--his coat had almost literally been torn from his back. - -Voices reached him again from the front of the house; he heard the girl -speaking quietly in Italian; he heard some response in the sullen whine -that he had remarked before; and then the street door opened and closed. -There was silence then for what seemed a long time, until finally he -caught the sound of the girl's step coming toward him again. - -“My father will see you,” she said. “But I want to warn you again that -he is a very sick man--sicker than he imagines he is. It is his heart.” - -“Yes,” said Dave Henderson. - -“Come with me, then,” she said tersely. “There is a door here--the -passage turns to the right. Can you see?” - -It was a queer place--with its darkness, and its twisted passage! Quite -queer for so small and ordinary a dwelling--but, if rumor were true, it -had been queerer still in the years gone by! A grim smile crossed Dave -Henderson's lips, as he followed the shadowy form of his conductor. It -augured well, at all events! The surroundings at least bore out Nicolo -Capriano's record, which was a record much to be desired by a man in -his, Dave Henderson's, straits. - -The light from an open door beyond the turn in the passage dispelled the -darkness. The girl was standing there now, motioning him to enter--but -suddenly, for a moment, he stood and stared at her. This was queer, too! -Everything about the place was queer! Somehow he had pictured in the -darkness an Italian girl, pretty enough perhaps in a purely physical -way, with gold rings in her ears, perhaps, such as the men wore, and -slatternly, with feet shod in coarse, thick boots; the only kind of an -Italian girl he had ever remembered having seen--a girl that hauled -at the straps of a hand-organ, while the man plodded along the streets -between the shafts. She wasn't like that, though--and he stared at her; -stared at the trim, lithe, daintily dressed little figure, stared at the -oval face, and the dark, steady, self-reliant eyes, and the wealth of -rich, black hair that crowned the broad, white forehead, and glinted -like silken strands, as the light fell upon it. - -The color mounted in her cheeks. - -And then, with a start, he pushed his hand across his eyes, and bit his -lips, and flushed a deeper red than hers. - -Her eyes, that had begun to harden as they met his gaze, softened in -an instant, and she smiled. His confusion had been his apology, his -acquittal of any intended offense. - -She motioned again to him to enter, and, as he stepped forward across -the threshold, she reached in and rested her hand on the doorknob. - -“You can call when you need me, father,” she said---and closed the door -softly. - -Dave Henderson's eyes swept the room with a swift, comprehensive glance; -and then held steadily on a pair of jet-black eyes, so black that -they seemed to possess no pupils, which were in turn fixed on him by a -strange-looking figure, lying on a quaint, old-fashioned, four-poster -bed across the room. He moved forward and took a chair at the bedside, -as the other beckoned to him. - -So this was Nicolo Capriano! The man was propped upright in bed by means -of pillows that were supported by an inverted chair behind them; both -hands, very white, very blue under the nails of the long, slender -fingers, lay out-stretched before him on an immaculately white coverlet; -the man's hair was silver, and a white beard and mustache but partially -disguised the thin, emaciated condition of his face. But it was the eyes -that above all else commanded attention. They were unnaturally bright, -gleaming out from under enormously white, bushy eyebrows; and they were -curiously inscrutable eyes. They seemed to hold great depths beneath -which might smolder a passion that would leap without warning into -flame; or to hold, as they did now, a strange introspective stare, -making them like shuttered windows that gave no glimpse of the mind -within. - -“I am Nicolo Capriano,” said the man abruptly, and in perfect English. -“My daughter tells me that you gave your name as Dave Henderson. The -name seems familiar. I have heard it somewhere. I remember, it seems to -me, a little matter of one hundred thousand dollars some five years ago, -for which a man by that name went to the penitentiary.” - -Dave Henderson's eyes wandered for a moment around the room again. He -found himself wondering at the man's English--as he had at the girl's. -Subconsciously he was aware that the furnishings, though plain and -simple and lacking in anything ornate, were foreign and unusual, but -that the outstanding feature of the room was a sort of refreshing and -immaculate cleanliness--like the coverlet. He forced his mind back to -what Nicolo Capriano had said. - -Were all his cards to go face up on the table for Nicolo Capriano to -see? - -He had intended to make no more of a confidant of the other than was -absolutely necessary; but, equally, he had not expected to find in -Nicolo Capriano a physically helpless and bed-ridden man. It made a -difference--a very great difference! If Millman, for instance, had been -bed-ridden, it---- He caught himself smiling a little mirthlessly. - -“That's me--Dave Henderson,” he said calmly. - -The old Italian nodded his head. - -“And the hundred thousand dollars has never been recovered,” he observed -shrewdly. “The police are interested in your movements, eh? It is for -that reason you have come to me, is it not so? And Tony Lomazzi foresaw -all this--and he sent you here?” - -“Yes,” said Dave Henderson--and frowned suddenly. It was bothering him -again--the fact that this Italian and his daughter should speak English -as though it were their own tongue. - -Nicolo Capriano nodded his head again. And then, astutely: - -“Something is disturbing you, my young friend,” he said. “What is it?” - -Dave Henderson straightened in his chair with a little start--and -laughed shortly. Very little, evidently, escaped Nicolo Capriano! - -“It's not much,” he said. “Just that you and your daughter speak pretty -good English for Italians.” - -Nicolo Capriano smiled softly. - -“I should speak pretty good English,” he said; “and Teresa should speak -it even better. We both learned it as children. I, in a certain part of -London, as a boy; and Teresa here in San Francisco, where she was born. -Her mother was American, and, though I taught Teresa Italian, we always -spoke English while her mother was alive, and afterwards my daughter -seemed to think we should continue to do so.” He shrugged his shoulders. -“But you came from Lomazzi,” he prompted. “Tell me about Lomazzi. He is -well?” - -“He is dead,” said Dave Henderson quietly. - -The thin hands, outstretched before the other, closed with a quick -twitching motion--then opened, and the fingers began to pluck -abstractedly at the coverlet. There was no other sign of emotion, or -movement from the figure on the bed, except that the keen, black eyes -were veiled now by half closed lids. - -“He died--fifteen years ago--when he went up there--for life”--the man -seemed to be communing with himself. “Yes, yes; he is dead--he has been -dead for fifteen years.” He looked up suddenly, and fixed his eyes with -a sharp, curiously appraising gaze on Dave Henderson. “You speak of -actual death, of course,” he said, in a low tone. “Do you know anything -of the circumstances?” - -“It was two months ago,” Dave Henderson answered. “He was taken ill one -night. His cell was next to mine. He was my friend. He asked for me, and -the warden let me go to him. He died in a very few minutes. It was then, -while I was in the cell, that he whispered to me that I would need help -when I got out, and he told me to come to you, and to say that he sent -me.” - -“And to the warden, and whoever else was in the cell, he said--nothing?” - -“Nothing,” said Dave Henderson. - -Nicolo Capriano's eyes were hidden again; the long, slim fingers, with -blue-tipped nails, plucked at the coverlet. It was a full minute before -he spoke. - -“I owe Tony Lomazzi a great debt,” he said slowly; “and I would like to -repay it in a little way by helping you since he has asked it; but it is -not to-day, young man, as it was in those days so long ago. For fifteen -years I have not lifted my hand against the police. And it is obviously -for help from the police that you come to me. You have served your term, -and the police would not molest you further except for a good reason. Is -it not so? And the reason is not far to seek, I think. It is the money -which was never recovered that they are after. You have it hidden -somewhere. You know where it is, and you wish to outwit the police while -you secure it. Am I not right?” - -Dave Henderson glanced at the impassive face propped up on the pillows. -Old Nicolo Capriano in no way belied his reputation for shrewdness; the -man's brain, however physically ill he might be otherwise, had at least -not lost its cunning. - -“Yes,” said Dave Henderson, with a short, sudden laugh, “you are -right--but also you are wrong. It is the police that I want to get away -from, and it is on account of that money, which, it is also true, I hid -away before I went up; but it is not only the police, it is the gang -of crooks who put me in wrong at the trial who are trying to grab it, -too--only, as it stands now, I don't know where the money is myself. I -trusted a fellow in the jug, who got out two months ahead of me--and he -did me.” - -The white bushy eyebrows went up. - -“So!” ejaculated the old Italian. “Well, then, what is the use!” - -“A whole lot!” returned Dave Henderson grimly. “To get the fellow if I -can! And I can't do that with the police, and a gang of crooks besides, -at my heels, can I?” - -Nicolo Capriano shook his head meditatively. - -“I have my daughter to think of,” he said. “Listen, young man, it has -not been easy to stand square with the police during these years as it -is, and that without any initiative act on my part that would stir them -up against me again. Old associations and old records are not so easily -got rid of. I will give you an example. There was a man here -to-night--when you came. His name is Ignace Ferroni. He was one of us in -the old days--do you understand? When the trouble came for which Tony -Lomazzi suffered, Ignace managed to get away. I had not seen him from -that day to this. He came back here to-night for help--for a very -strange kind of help. He was one of us, I have said, and he had not -forgotten his old ways. He had a bomb, a small bomb in his pocket, whose -mechanism had gone wrong. He had already planted it once to-night, and -finding it did not explode, he picked it up again, and brought it to me, -and asked me to fix it for him. It was an old feud he had with some one, -he would not tell me who, that he had been nursing all this time. I -think his passion for vengeance had perhaps turned his head a little. I -refused to have anything to do with his bomb, of course, and he left -here in a rage, and in his condition he is as likely to turn on me as he -is to carry out his original intention. But, that apart, what am I to do -now? He was one of us, I cannot expose him to the police--he would be -sentenced to a long term. And yet, if his bomb explodes, to whom will -the police come first? To me!” Nicolo Capriano suddenly raised his -hands, and they were clenched--and as suddenly caught his breath, and -choked, and a spasm of pain crossed his face. The next instant he was -smiling mirthlessly with twitching lips. “Yes, to me--to me, whom some -fool amongst them once called the Dago Bomb King, which they will never -forget! It is always to me they come! Any crime that seems to have the -slightest Italian tinge--and they come to Nicolo Capriano!” He shrugged -his shoulders. “You see, young man, it is not easy for me to steer my -way unmolested even when I am wholly innocent. But I, too, do not -forget! I do not forget Tony Lomazzi! Tell me exactly what you want me -to do. You think you can find the man and the money if you can throw the -police and the others off your trail?” - -“Yes!” said Dave Henderson, with ominous quiet. “That's my job in life -now! If I could disappear for three or four days, I guess that's all the -start I'd need.” There was a tolerant smile now on the old bomb king's -lips. - -“Three or four days would be a very easy matter,” he answered. “But -after that--what? It might do very well in respect to this gang of -crooks; but it would be of very little avail where the police are -concerned, for they would simply do what the crooks could not do--see -that every plain-clothesman and officer on this continent was on the -watch for you. Do you imagine that, believing you know where the money -is, the police will forget all about you in three or four days?” - -“No,” admitted Dave Henderson, with the same ominous quiet; “but all I -ask is a fighting chance.” Nicolo Capriano stared in speculative silence -for a moment. - -“You have courage, my young friend!” he said softly. “I like that--also -I do not like the police. But three or four days!” He shook his head. -“You do not know the police as I know them! And this man you trusted, -and who, as I understand, got away with the money, do you know where to -find him?” - -“I think he is in New York,” Dave Henderson answered. - -“Ah! New York!” Nicolo Capriano nodded. “But New York is a world in -itself. He did not give you his address, and then rob you, I suppose!” - -Dave Henderson did not answer for a moment. What Nicolo Capriano said -was very true! But the rendezvous that Millman had given was, on the -face of it, a fake anyhow. That had been his own opinion from the start; -but during the two years Millman and he had been together in prison -there had been many little inadvertent remarks in conversation that -had, beyond question of doubt, stamped Millman as a New Yorker. Perhaps -Millman had remembered that when he had given the rendezvous in New -York--to give color to its genuineness--because it was the only natural -place he could propose if he was to carry out logically the stories he -had told for two long years. - -“You do not answer?” suggested Nicolo Capriano patiently. - -It was on Dave Henderson's tongue to lay the whole story bare to the -date, day and hour of that hotel rendezvous, but instead he shook his -head. He was conscious of no distrust of the other. Why should he be -distrustful! It was not that. It seemed more an innate caution, that was -an absurd caution now because the rendezvous meant nothing anyhow, that -had sprung up spontaneously within him. He felt that he was suddenly -illogical. Fie found himself answering in a savage, dogged sort of way. - -“That's all right!” he said. “I haven't got his address--but New York -is good enough. He spilled too much in prison for me not to know that's -where he hangs out. I'll get him--if I can only shake the police.” - -Nicolo Capriano's blue-tipped fingers went straggling through the long -white beard. - -“The police!” He was whispering--seemingly to himself. “It is always the -police--a lifetime of the cursed police--and I have my daughter to think -of--but I do not forget Tony Lomazzi--Teresa would not have me forget.” - He spoke abruptly to Dave Henderson. “Tell me about to-night. My -daughter says you came here like a hunted thing, and it is very evident -that you have been in a fight. I suppose it was with the police, or with -this gang you speak of; but, in that case, you have ruined any chance -of help from me if you have led them here--if, for instance, they are -waiting now for you to come out again.” - -“I do not think they are waiting!” said Dave Henderson, with a twisted -smile. “And I think that the police end of to-night, and maybe some of -the rest of it as well, is in the hospital by now! It's not much of a -story--but unless that light in your back porch, which was on for about -two seconds, could be seen up the lane, there's no one could know that I -am here.” - -The old Italian smiled curiously. - -“I do not put lights where they act as beacons,” he said whimsically. -“It does not show from the lane; it is for the benefit of those _inside_ -the house. Tell me your story.” - -“It's not much,” said Dave Henderson again. “The police shadowed me -from the minute I left the penitentiary to-day. To-night I handed them -a little come-on, that's all, so as to make sure that I had side-tracked -them before coming here. And then the gang, Baldy Vickers' gang----” - -“Vickers--Baldy Vickers! Yes, yes, I know; they hang out at Jake -Morrissey's place!” exclaimed the old bomb king suddenly. “Runty Mott, -and----” - -“It was Runty Mott that butted in to-night,” said Dave Henderson, with -a short laugh. “I had the fly-cop going, all right. I let him pick me -up in a saloon over the bar. He thought I was pretty drunk even then. -We started in to make a night of it--and the fly-cop was going to get a -drunken man to spill all the history of his life, and incidentally -get him to lead the way to where a certain little sum of money was! -Understand? I kept heading in this direction, for I had looked the lay -of the land over this afternoon. That saloon up the street was booked as -my last stopping place. I was going to shake the fly-cop there, and----” - Dave Henderson paused. - -Nicolo Capriano was leaning forward in his bed, and there was a new, -feverish light in the coal-black eyes--like some long-smoldering flame -leaping suddenly into a blaze. - -“Go on!” he breathed impatiently. “Go on! Ah! I can see it all!” - -“Runty Mott and his crowd must have been trailing me.” Dave Henderson -smiled grimly. “They thought both the fly-cop and myself were drunk. But -to cover their own game and make their play at me they had to get the -fly-cop out of the road first. One of the gang came into the saloon, -faked a quarrel with the fly-cop, and knocked him out. I didn't know -what was up until then, when I caught sight of Runty Mott and the rest -of his crowd pushing in through the door.” Dave Henderson's smile grew -a little grimmer. “That's all! They started something--but they didn't -finish it! They had it all framed up well enough--the lights switched -off, and all that, so as to lay me out and kidnap me, and then stow me -away somewhere and make me talk.” He jerked his hand toward his torn -garments. “There was a bit of a fight,” he said quietly. “I left them -there pawing the air in the dark, and I was down here in your porch -before any of them got out to the lane. I fancy there's some little row -up there now on account of that fly-cop they put to sleep.” - -Nicolo Capriano's hand reached out, and began to pat excitedly at Dave -Henderson's sleeve. - -“It is like the old days!” he said feverishly. “It is like the young -blood warming up an old man's veins again. Yes, yes; it is like the old -days back once more! Ah, my young friend, if I had had you on the night -that Tony Lomazzi was trapped, instead of--but that is too late, eh? -Yes--too late! But you are clever, and you use your head, and you have -the courage. That is what I like! Yes, assuredly, I will help you, and -not only for Tony Lomazzi's sake, but for your own. You shall have your -chance, your fighting chance, my young friend, and you will run down -your man”--his voice was rising in excitement--“and the money--eh! Yes, -yes! And Nicolo Capriano will help you!” He raised his voice still -higher. “Teresa! Here, Teresa!” he shouted. - -The door opened; the girl stood on the threshold. - -“Father,” she said reprovingly, “you are exciting yourself again.” - -The old bomb king's voice was instantly subdued. - -“No, I am not! You see--my little one! You see, I am quite calm. And -now listen to me. This is Tony Lomazzi's friend, and he is therefore -our friend. Is it not so? Well, then, listen! He is in need of help. The -police must not get him. So, first, he must have some clothes instead of -those torn ones. Get him some of mine. They will not fit very well--but -they will do. Then you will telephone Emmanuel that I have a guest for -him who does not like the police, a guest by the name of Smith--that is -enough for him to know. And tell Emmanuel that he is to come with his -car, and wait a block below the lane. And after that again you will go -out, Teresa, and let us know if all is safe, and if there is still any -police, or any one else, in the lane. Eh? Well, run then!” - -“Yes,” she said. She was looking at Dave Henderson now, and there was a -friendly smile in the dark, steady eyes, though she still addressed her -father. “And what news does he bring us of Tony?” - -“You will know by and by, when there is time,” her father answered with -sudden brusqueness. “Run, now!” - -She was back in a few moments with an armful of clothes; then once more -left the room, this time closing the door behind her. - -Nicolo Capriano pointed to a second door at the side of the room. - -“There is the bathroom, my young friend,” he said crisply. “Go in there -and wash the blood off your face, and change your clothes.” - -Dave Henderson hesitated. - -“Do you think it is safe for her, for your daughter, to go out there?” - he demurred. “There was more of a row than perhaps I led you to imagine, -and the police----” - -“Safe!” The old Italian grinned suddenly in derision. “Listen, my young -friend, you need have no fear. My daughter is a Capriano--eh? Yes, and -like her father, she is more than a match for all the police in San -Francisco. Go now, and change! It will not take Emmanuel long to get -here.” - -It took Dave Henderson perhaps ten minutes to wash and bathe his -bruises, and change into the Italian's clothes. At the expiration of -that time, he surveyed the result in a small mirror that hung on -the wall. The clothes were ready-made, and far from new; they were -ill-fitting, and they bulged badly in places. His appearance was not -flattering! He might have passed for an Italian navvy in hard luck -and---- He smiled queerly, as he turned from the mirror and transferred -the money he had received from Square John Kelly, together with his few -belongings, from the pockets of his discarded suit to those of the one -he now had on. He stepped out into the bedroom. - -Nicolo Capriano in turn surveyed the metamorphosis critically for a -moment--and nodded his head in approval. - -“Good!” ejaculated the old bomb king. “Excellent!” He rubbed his thin -fingers together. “Yes, yes, it is like the old days again! Ha, ha, old -Nicolo still plays a hand in the game, and old Nicolo's head is still on -his shoulders. Three or four days! That would be easy even for a child! -Emmanuel will take care of that. But we must do better than that--eh? -And that is not so simple! To hide away from the police is one thing, -and to outwit them completely is another! Is it not so? You must give -the old man, whose brain has grown rusty because it has been so long -idle, time to think, eh? It will do you no good if you always have -to hide--eh? But, listen, you will hide while old Nicolo thinks--you -understand? You can trust Emmanuel--but tell him nothing. He keeps a -little restaurant, and he will give you a room upstairs. You must not -leave that room, you must not show yourself, until you hear from me. You -quite understand?” - -“You need not worry on that score!” said Dave Henderson grimly. - -“Good!” cried the old Italian again. “Only my daughter and myself will -know that you are there. You can leave it to old Nicolo to find a way. -Yes, yes”--excitement was growing upon the man again; he rocked his body -to and fro--“old Nicolo and the police--ha, ha! Old Nicolo, who is dying -in his bed--eh? And----” His voice was hushed abruptly; he lowered -himself back on his pillows. “Here is Teresa!” he whispered. “She will -say I am exciting myself again. Bah! I am strong again with the old wine -in my veins!” His hands lay suddenly quiet and composed on the coverlet -before him, as the door opened, and the girl stood again on the -threshold. “Well, my little one?” he purred. - -“Emmanuel has come,” she said. “There are some police up in Vinetto's -saloon, but there is no one in the lane. It is quite safe.” - -Nicolo Capriano nodded. - -“And Emmanuel understands?” - -“Yes,” she said. - -“Go, then!” The old Italian was holding out his hand to Dave Henderson. -“Go at once! My daughter will take you to Emmanuel.” - -Dave Henderson caught the other's hand. - -“Yes, but look here,” he said, a sudden huskiness in his voice, “I----” - -“You want to thank me--eh?” said the old bomb king, shaking his head. -“Well, my young friend, there will be time enough for that. You will see -me again--eh? Yes! When old Nicolo sends for you, you will come. Until -then--you will remember! Do not move from your room! Now, go!” - -Teresa spoke from the doorway. - -“Yes, hurry, please!” she said quietly. “The lane was empty a few -minutes ago, but----” She shrugged her shoulders significantly. - -Dave Henderson, with a final nod to the propped-up figure in the bed, -turned and followed Teresa along the passage, and out into the porch. -Here she bade him wait while she went out again into the lane; but in a -minute more she called out to him in a whisper to join her. - -They passed out of the lane, and into the cross street. A little ahead -of them, Dave Henderson could see a small car, its hood up, standing by -the curb. - -She stopped suddenly. - -“Emmanuel has seen me,” she said. “That is all that is necessary to -identify you.” She held out her hand. “I--I hope you will get out of -your danger safely.” - -“If I do,” said Dave Henderson fervently, “I'll have you and your father -to thank for it.” - -She shook her head. - -“No,” she said. “You will have to thank Tony Lomazzi.” - -He wanted to say something to detain her there for a moment or two -longer, even under those most unauspicious of circumstances--but five -years of prison had not made him glib of tongue, or quick of speech. -She was very pretty--but it was not her prettiness alone that made her -appeal. There was something of winsomeness about the lithe, graceful -little figure, and something to admire in the quiet self-reliance, and -the cool composure with which, for instance, she had just accepted the -danger of possible, and decidedly unpleasant, interference by the police -in the lane. - -“But I can't thank Tony Lomazzi, since he is dead,” he blurted out--and -the next instant cursed himself for a raw-tongued, blundering fool. In -the rays of the street lamp a little way off, he saw her face go deathly -white. Her hand that was in his closed with a quick, involuntary clutch, -and fell away--and there came a little moan of pain. - -“Dead!” she said. “Tony--dead!” And then she seemed to draw her little -form erect--and smiled--but the great dark eyes were wet and full of -tears. - -“I----” Her voice broke. “Good-night!” she said hurriedly--and turned -abruptly away. - -He watched her, gnawing viciously at his lip, cursing at himself again -for a blundering fool, until she disappeared in the lane; and then he, -too, turned, and walked to the waiting car. - -A man in the driver's seat reached out and opened the door of the -tonneau. - -“Me Emmanuel,” he said complacently, in broken English. “You no give-a -da damn tor da police anymore. I gotta da room where you hide--safe. -See? Over da restaurant. You eat, you sleep, you give-a da cops da -laugh.” - -Dave Henderson stepped into the car. His mind was in a chaotic whirl. A -thousand diverse things seemed struggling for supremacy--the police and -Runty Mott--Millman--Capriano, the queer, sick Capriano--the girl, the -girl with the wondrous face, who cried because Tony Lomazzi was dead--a -thousand things impinging in lightning flashes that made a vortex of his -brain. They found expression in a sort of debonair facetiousness. - -“Some boy, Emmanuel!” he said--and flung himself down on the seat. “Go -to it!” - - - - -III--NICOLO CAPRIANO PLAYS HIS CARDS - - -NICOLO CAPRIANO'S eyes were closed; the propped-up form on the pillows -was motionless--only the thin fingers plucking at the coverlet with -curiously patient insistence bore evidence that the man was not asleep. - -Suddenly he smiled; and his eyes opened, a dreamy, smoldering light in -their depths. His hand reached out for the morning paper that lay on the -bed beside him, and for the second time since Teresa had brought him -the paper half an hour before, he pored for a long while over a leading -“story” on the front page. It had nothing to do with the disturbance -in Vinetto's saloon of the night before; it dealt with a strange and -mysterious bomb explosion in a downtown park during the small -morning hours, which, besides awakening and terrifying the immediate -neighborhood, had, according to the newspaper account, literally blown a -man, and, with the man, the bench on which he had evidently been -sitting under an arc light, to pieces. The victim was mutilated -beyond recognition; all that the police had been able to identify were -fragments of a bomb, thus establishing the cause of the accident, or, -more likely, as the paper hinted, murder. - -“The fool!” Nicolo Capriano whispered. “It was Ignace Ferroni--the fool! -And so he would not listen to old Nicolo--eh?” He cackled out suddenly, -his laugh shrill and high echoing through the room. “Well, perhaps it is -as well, eh, Ignace? Perhaps it is as well--perhaps you will be of some -service, Ignace, now that you are dead, eh, Ignace--which is something -that you never were when you were alive!” - -He laid the paper down, and again his eyes closed, and again the -blue-tipped fingers resumed their interminable plucking at the -coverlet--but now he whispered constantly to himself. - -“A hundred thousand dollars.... It is a great deal of money.... We -worked for much less in the old days--for very much less.... I am old -and sick, am I?... Ha, ha!... But for just once more, eh--just once -more--to see if the old cunning is not still there.... And if the cards -are thrust into one's hands, does it not make the fingers itch to play -them!... Yes, yes, it makes young again the blood in the old veins.... -And Tony is dead.... Yes, yes, the young fellow is clever, too--clever -enough to find the money again if the police do not meddle with him.... -And the gang, Baldy Vickers' gang--bah!--they are already no longer to -be considered--they have not long arms, they do not reach far--they do -not reach to New York--eh--where the police reach--and where old Nicolo -Capriano reaches, too.... Ignace--the fool!.... So he would not listen, -to me, eh--and he sat out there under the park light trying to fix his -old bomb, and blew himself up.... The fool--but you have no reason to -complain, eh, Nicolo?.... It will bring the police to the door, but for -once they will be welcome, eh?.... They will not know it--but they will -be welcome.... We will see if Nicolo Capriano is not still their match!” - -Outside somewhere in the hall he could hear Teresa moving about, busy -with her morning work. He listened intently--not to his daughter's -movements, but for a footstep on the pavement that, instead of passing -by, would climb the short flight of steps to the front door. - -“Well, why do they not come--eh?” he muttered impatiently. “Why do they -not come?” - -He relapsed into silence, but he no longer lay there placidly with his -eyes closed. A strange excitement seemed to be growing upon him. It -tinged the skin under his beard with a hectic flush, and the black eyes -glistened and glinted abnormally, as they kept darting objectiveless -glances here and there around the room. - -Perhaps half an hour passed, and then the sick man began to mutter -again: - -“Will they make me send for them--the fools!” He apostrophized the foot -of the bed viciously. “No, no--it would not be as safe. If they do not -come in another hour, there will be time enough then for that. You must -wait, Nicolo. The police have always come before to Nicolo Capriano, -if they thought old Nicolo could help them--and with a bomb--ha, ha--to -whom else would they come--eh?--to whom-------” - -He was instantly alert. Some one was outside there now. He heard the -door bell ring, and presently he heard Teresa answer it. He caught a -confused murmur of voices. The thin fingers were working with a quick, -jubilant motion one over the other. The black eyes, half closed again, -fixed expectantly on the door of the room opposite to the foot of the -bed. It opened, and Teresa stepped into the room. - -“It is Lieutenant Barjan, father,” she said, in a low tone. “He wants to -talk to you about that bomb explosion in the park.” - -“So!” A queer smile twitched at the old bomb king's lips. He beckoned to -his daughter to approach the bed, and, as she obeyed, he pulled her -head down to his lips. “You know nothing, Teresa--nothing! Understand? -Nothing except to corroborate anything that I may say. You did not even -know that there had been an explosion until he spoke of it. You know -nothing about Ignace. You understand?” - -“Yes,” she said composedly. - -“Good!” he whispered. “Well, now, go and tell him that I do not want to -see him. Tell him I said he was to go away. Tell him that I won't see -him, that I won't be bothered with him and his cursed police spies! Tell -him that”--he patted his daughter's head confidentially--“and leave the -door open, Teresa, little one, so that I can hear.” - -“What do you mean to do, father?” she asked quickly. - -“Ha, ha--you will see, my little one--you will see!” Capriano patted her -head again. “We do not forget our debt to Tony Lomazzi. No! Well, you -will see! Tell the cunning, clever Barjan to go away!” - -He watched as she left the room; and then, his head cocked on one side -to listen, the blue-tipped fingers reached stealthily out and without -a sound slid the newspaper that was lying in front of him under the bed -covers. - -“I am very sorry,” he heard Teresa announce crisply; “but my father -positively refuses to see you.” - -“Oh, he does--does he?” a voice returned in bland sarcasm. “Well, I'm -very sorry myself then, but I guess he'll have to change his mind! -Pardon me, Miss Capriano, if I----” - -A quick, heavy step sounded in the hallway. Nicolo Capriano's alert and -listening attitude was gone in a flash. He pushed himself up in the bed, -and held himself there with one hand, and the other outflung, knotted -into a fist, he shook violently in the direction of the door, as the -figure of the plain-clothesman appeared on the threshold. - -Old Nicolo Capriano was apparently in the throes of a towering passion. - -“Get out of here!” he screamed. “Did my daughter not tell you to get -out! Go away! I want nothing to do with you! Curse you--and all the rest -of the police with you! Can you not leave old Nicolo Capriano to die in -peace--eh?” - -“That's all right!” said Barjan coolly. He glanced over his shoulder. -Teresa was standing just outside in the hall behind him. “Pardon me,” - he said again--and closed the door upon her. “Now then”--he faced Nicolo -Capriano once more--“there's no use kicking up all this dust. It won't -get you anywhere, Nicolo. There's a little matter that I want to talk to -you about, and that I'm going to talk to you about whether you like it -or not--that's all there is to it. And we'll get right to the point. -What do you know about that affair in the park last night?” - -Nicolo Capriano sank back on his pillows, with a furious snarl. He still -shook his fist at the officer. - -“What should I know about your miserable affairs!” he shouted. “I know -nothing about any park! I know nothing at all! Why do you not leave -me in peace--eh? For fifteen years this has gone on, always spying on -Nicolo Capriano, and for fifteen years Nicolo Capriano has not lifted a -finger against the law.” - -“That is true--as far as we know,” said Barjan calmly. “But there's a -little record that goes back beyond those fifteen years, Nicolo, that -keeps us a little chummy with you--and you've been valuable at times, -Nicolo.” - -“Bah!” Nicolo Capriano spat the exclamation viciously at the other. - -“About last night,” suggested Barjan patiently. “It's rather in your -line. I thought perhaps you might be able to give us a little help that -would put us on the right track.” - -“I don't know what you're talking about!” snapped Nicolo Capriano. - -“I'm talking about the man that was blown to pieces by a bomb.” Barjan -was still patient. - -Nicolo Capriano's eyes showed the first gleam of interest. - -“I didn't know there was any man blown up.” His tone appeared to mingle -the rage and antagonism that he had first exhibited with a new and -suddenly awakened curiosity. “I didn't know there was any man blown up,” - he repeated. - -“That's too bad!” said Barjan with mock resignation--and settled himself -deliberately in a chair at the bedside. “I guess, then, you're the only -man in San Francisco who doesn't.” - -“You fool!” Nicolo Capriano rasped in rage again. “I've been bed-ridden -for three years--and I wish to God you had been, too!” He choked and -coughed a little. He eyed Barjan malevolently. “I tell you this is the -first I've heard of it. I don't hang about the street corners picking up -the news! Don't sit there with your silly, smirking police face, trying -to see how smart you can be! What information do you expect to get out -of me like that? When I know nothing, I can tell nothing, can I? Who was -the man?” - -“That's what we want to know,” said Barjan pleasantly. “And, look here, -Nicolo, I'm not here to rile you. All that was left was a few fragments -of park bench, man, arc-light standard, and a piece or two of what was -evidently a bomb.” - -“What time was this?” Nicolo Capriano's eyes were on the foot of the -bed. - -“Three o'clock this morning,” Barjan answered. - -The old bomb king's fingers began to pluck at the coverlet. A minute -passed. His eyes, from the foot of the bed, fixed for an instant moodily -on Barjan's face--and sought the foot of the bed again. - -Barjan broke the silence. - -“So you do know something about it, eh, Nicolo?” he prodded softly. - -“I didn't know anything had happened until you said so,” returned Nicolo -Capriano curtly. “But seeing it has happened, maybe I----” He cut his -words off short, and eyed the plain-clothesman again. “Is the man dead?” - he demanded, with well-simulated sudden suspicion. “You aren't lying to -me--eh? I trust none of you!” - -“Dead!” ejaculated Barjan almost hysterically. “Good God--dead! Didn't I -tell you he was blown into unrecognizable atoms!” - -The sharp, black eyes lingered a little longer on Barjan's face. The -result appeared finally to allay Nicolo Capriano's suspicions. - -“Well, all right, then, I'll tell you,” he said, but there was a -grudging note still in the old bomb king's voice. “It can't do the man -any harm if he's dead. I guess you'll know who it is. It's the fellow -who pulled that hundred thousand dollar robbery about five years ago on -old man Tydeman--the fellow that went by the name of Dave Henderson. I -don't know whether that's his real name or not.” - -“What!” shouted Barjan. He had lost his composure. He was up from his -chair, and staring wildly at the old man on the bed. “You're crazy!” he -jerked out suddenly. “Either you're lying to me, or you're off your nut! -You----” - -Nicolo Capriano was in a towering rage in an instant. - -“You get out of here!” he screamed. “You get to hell out of here! I -didn't ask you to come, and I don't give a damn whether it was Dave -Henderson or a polecat! It's nothing to do with me! It's your hunt--so -go and hunt somewhere else! I'm lying, or I'm off my nut, am I? Well, -you get to hell out of here! Go on!” He shook a frantic fist at Barjan, -and, choking, coughing, pulled himself up in bed again, and pointed to -the door. “Do you hear? Get out!” - -Barjan shifted uneasily in alarm. Nicolo Capriano's coughing spell had -developed into a paroxysm that was genuine enough. - -“Look here,” said Barjan, in a pacifying tone, “don't excite yourself -like that. I take back what I said. You gave me a jolt for a minute, -that's all. But you've got the wrong dope somehow, Nicolo. Whoever it -was, it wasn't Dave Henderson. The man was too badly smashed up to -be recognized, but there was at least some of his clothing left. Dave -Henderson was followed all day yesterday by the police from the minute -he left the penitentiary, and he didn't buy any clothes. Dave Henderson -had on a black prison suit--and this man hadn't.” - -Nicolo Capriano shrugged his shoulders in angry contempt. - -“I'm satisfied, if you are!” he snarled. “Go on--get out!” - -Barjan frowned a little helplessly now. - -“But I'm not satisfied,” he admitted earnestly. “Look here, Nicolo, for -the love of Mike, keep your temper, and let's get to the bottom of -this. For some reason you seem to think it was Dave Henderson. I know it -wasn't; but I've got to know what started you off on that track. Those -clothes----” - -“You're a damn fool!” Nicolo Capriano, apparently slightly mollified, -was jeering now. “Those clothes--ha, ha! It is like the police! And so -old Nicolo is off his nut--eh? Well, I will show you!” He raised his -voice and called his daughter. “Teresa, my little one,” he said, as the -door opened and she appeared, “bring me the clothes that young man had -on last night.” - -“What's that you say!” exclaimed Barjan in sudden excitement. - -“Wait!” said Nicolo Capriano ungraciously. - -Teresa was back in a moment with an armful of clothing, which, at her -father's direction, she deposited on the foot of the bed. - -Nicolo Capriano waved her from the room. He leered at Barjan. - -“Well, are those the clothes there that you and your police are using -to blindfold your eyes with, or are they not--eh? Are those Dave -Henderson's clothes?” - -Barjan had already pounced upon the clothing, and was pawing it over -feverishly. - -“Good God--yes!” he burst out sharply. - -“And the clothes that the dead man had on--let me see”--Nicolo -Capriano's voice was tauntingly triumphant, as, with eyes half closed, -visualizing for himself the attire of one Ignace Ferroni, he slowly -enumerated the various articles of dress worn by the actual victim of -the explosion. He looked at Barjan maliciously, as he finished. “Well,” - he demanded, “was there enough left of what the man had on to identify -any of those things? If so----” Nicolo Capriano shrugged his shoulders -by way of finality. - -“Yes, yes!” Barjan's excitement was almost beyond his control. “Yes, -that is what he wore, but--good Lord, Capriano!--what does this mean? I -don't understand!” - -“About the clothes?” inquired Nicolo Capriano caustically. “But I should -know what he had on since they were _my_ clothes--eh? And you have only -to look at the ones there on the bed to find out for yourself why I gave -him some that, though I do not say they were new, for I have not bought -any clothes in the three damnable and cursed years that I have lain -here, were at least not all torn to pieces--eh?” - -Barjan was pacing up and down the room now. When the other's back was -turned, Nicolo Capriano permitted a sinister and mocking smile to hover -on his lips; when Barjan faced the bed, Nicolo Capriano eyed the -officer with a sour contempt into which he injected a sort of viciously -triumphant self-vindication. - -“Come across with the rest!” said Barjan abruptly. “How did Dave -Henderson come here to you? And what about that bomb? Did you give it -to him?” Nicolo Capriano's convenient irascibility was instantly at his -command again. He scowled at Barjan, and his scranny fist was flourished -under Barjan's nose. - -“No, I didn't!” he snarled. “And you know well enough that I didn't. You -will try to make me out the guilty man now--eh--just because I was fool -enough to help you out of your muddle!” - -Barjan became diplomatic again. - -“Nothing of the kind!” he said appeasingly. “You're too touchy, Nicolo! -I know that you're on the square all right, and that you have been ever -since your gang was broken up and Tony Lomazzi was caught. That's good -enough, isn't it? Now, come on! Give me the dope about Dave Henderson.” - -Nicolo Capriano's fingers plucked sullenly at the coverlet. A minute -passed. - -“Bah!” he grunted finally. “A little honey--eh--when you want something -from old Nicolo! Well, then, listen! Dave Henderson came here last night -in those torn clothes, and with his face badly cut from a fight that he -said he had been in. I don't know whether his story is true or not--you -can find that out for yourself. I don't know anything about him, but -this is what he told me. He said that his cell in the prison was next to -Tony Lomazzi's; that he and Tony were friends; that Tony died a little -while ago; and that on the night Tony died he told this fellow Henderson -to come to me if he needed any help.” - -“Yes!” Barjan's voice was eager. He dropped into the chair again, and -leaned attentively over the bed toward Nicolo Capriano. “So he came -to you through Tony Lomazzi, eh? Well, so far, I guess the story's -straight. I happen to know that Henderson's cell was next to Lomazzi's. -But where did he get the bomb? He certainly didn't have it when he left -the prison, and he was shadowed----” - -“So you said before!” interrupted Nicolo Capriano caustically. “Well, in -that case, you ought to know whether the rest of the story is true, too, -or not. He said he met a stranger in a saloon last night, and that they -chummed up together, and started in to make a night of it. They went -from one saloon to another. Their spree ended in a fight at Vinetto's -place up the block here, where Henderson and his friend were attacked by -some of Baldy Vickers' gang. Henderson said his friend was knocked -out, and that he himself had a narrow squeak of it, and just managed to -escape through the back door, and ran down the lane, and got in here. -I asked him how he knew where I lived, and he said that during the -afternoon he had located the house because he meant to come here last -night anyway, only he was afraid the police might be watching him, and -he had intended to wait until after dark.” Nicolo Capriano's eyelids -drooped to hide a sudden cunning and mocking gleam that was creeping -into them. “You ought to be able to trace this friend of Henderson's -if the man was knocked out and unconscious at Vinetto's, as Henderson -claimed--and if Henderson was telling the truth, the other would -corroborate it.” - -“We've already got him,” said Barjan, with a hint of savagery in his -voice. The “friend,” alias a plain-clothesman, had proved anything but -an inspiration from the standpoint of the police! “Go on! The story is -still straight. You say that Dave Henderson said he intended to come -here anyway, quite apart from making his escape from Vinetto's. What -for?” - -Nicolo Capriano shrugged his shoulders. - -“Money, I dare say,” he said tersely. “The usual thing! At least, I -suppose that's what he had originally intended to come for--but we -didn't get as far as that. The fight at Vinetto's seemed to have left -him with but one idea. When he got here he was in a devil's rage. The -only thing that seemed to be in his mind was to get some clothes that -wouldn't attract attention, instead of the torn ones he had on, and to -get out again as soon as he could with the object of getting even with -this gang of Baldy's. He said they were the ones that 'sent him up' on -account of their evidence at his trial, and that they were after him -again now because of the stolen money that they believed he had hidden -somewhere. He was like a maniac. He said he'd see them and everybody -else in hell before they got that money, and he swore he'd get every -last one of that gang--and get them in a bunch. I didn't know what he -meant then. I tried to quiet him down, but I might as well have talked -to a wild beast. I tried to get him to stay here and go to bed--instead, -he laughed at me in a queer sort of way, and said he'd wipe every one of -that crowd off the face of the earth before morning. I began to think he -was really crazy. He put on the clothes I gave him, and went out again.” - -Barjan nodded. - -“You don't know it,” he said quietly; “but that's where the police lost -track of him--when he ran in here.” - -“I didn't even know the police were after him,” said Nicolo Capriano -indifferently. “He came back here again about two o'clock this morning, -and he had a small clockwork bomb with him. The fool!” Nicolo Capriano -cackled suddenly. “He had found Baldy's gang all together down in Jake -Morrissey's, and he had thrown the thing against the building. The fool! -Of course, it wouldn't go off! He thought it would by hitting it against -something. The only way to make it any good was to open the casing and -set the clockwork. When he found it didn't explode, he picked it up -again, and brought it back here. He wanted me to fix it for him. I asked -him where he got it. All I could get out of him was that Tony Lomazzi -had told him where he had hidden some things. Ha, ha!” Nicolo Capriano -cackled more shrilly still, and began to rock in bed with unseemly -mirth. “One of Tony's old bombs! Tony left the young fool a legacy--a -bomb, and maybe there was some money, too. I tried to find out about -that, but all he said was to keep asking me to fix the bomb for him. I -refused. I told him I was no longer in that business. That I went out of -it when Tony Lomazzi did--fifteen years ago. He would listen to nothing. -He cursed me. I did not think he could do any harm with the thing--and I -guess he didn't! A young fool like that is best out of the way. He went -away cursing me. I suppose he tried to fix it himself under that arc -light on the park bench.” Nicolo Capriano shrugged his shoulders again. -“I would not have cared to open the thing myself--it was made too long -ago, eh? The clockwork might have played tricks even with me, who once -was----” - -“Yes,” said Barjan. He stood up. “I guess that's good enough, and -I guess that's the end of Dave Henderson--and one hundred thousand -dollars.” He frowned in a meditative sort of way. “I don't know whether -I'm sorry, or not,” he said slowly. “We'd have got him sooner or later, -of course, but----” He pointed abruptly to the prison clothes on the -bed. “Hi, take those,” he announced briskly; “they'll need them at the -inquest.” - -“There's some paper in the bottom drawer of that wardrobe over there,” - said Nicolo Capriano unconcernedly. “You can wrap them up.” - -Barjan, with a nod of thanks, secured the paper, made a bundle of the -clothes, and tucked the bundle under his arm. - -“We won't forget this, Nicolo,” he said heartily, as he moved toward the -door. - -“Bah!” said Nicolo Capriano, with a scowl. “I know how much that is -worth!” - -He listened attentively as Teresa showed the plain-clothesman out -through the front door. As the door closed again, he called his -daughter. - -“Listen, my little one,” he said, and his forefinger was laid against -the side of his nose in a gesture of humorous confidence. “I will tell -you something. Ignace Ferroni, who was fool enough to blow himself up, -has become the young man whom our good friend Tony Lomazzi sent to us -last night.” - -“Father!” Her eyes widened in sudden amazement, not unmixed with alarm. - -“You understand, my little one?” He wagged his head, and cackled softly. -“Not a word! You understand?” - -“Yes,” she said doubtfully. - -“Good!” grunted the old bomb king. “I think Barjan has swallowed the -hook. But I trust no one. I must be sure--you understand--_sure!_ Go -and telephone Emmanuel, and tell him to find Little Peter, and send the -scoundrel to me at once.” - -“Yes, father,” she said; “but----” - -“It is for Tony Lomazzi,” he said. - -She went from the room. - -Nicolo Capriano lay back on the pillows, and closed his eyes. He might -have been asleep again, for the smile on his lips was as guileless as -a child's; and it remained there until an hour later, when, after -motioning Teresa, who had opened the door, away, he propped himself -up on his elbow to greet a wizened, crafty-faced little rat of the -underworld, who stood at the bedside. - -“It is like the old days to see you here, Little Peter,” murmured Nicolo -Capriano. “And I always paid well--eh? You have not forgotten that? -Well, I will pay well again. Listen! I am sure that the man who was -killed with the bomb in the park last night was a prison bird by the -name of Dave Henderson; and I told the police so. But it is always -possible that I have made a mistake. I do not think so--but it is -always possible--eh? Well, I must know, Little Peter. The police will -investigate further, and so will Baldy Vickers' gang--they had it in for -the fellow. You are a clever little devil, Little Peter. Find out if the -police have discovered anything that would indicate I am wrong, and do -the same with Baldy Vickers' gang. You know them all, don't you?” - -The wizened little rat grinned. - -“Sure!” he said, out of the corner of his mouth. “Youse can leave it to -me, Nicolo. I'm wise.” - -Nicolo Capriano patted the other's arm approvingly, and smiled the man -away. - -“You have the whole day before you, Little Peter,” he said. “I am in no -hurry.” - -Once more Nicolo Capriano lay back on his pillows, and closed his eyes, -and once more the guileless smile hovered over his lips. - -At intervals through the day he murmured and communed with himself, and -sometimes his cackling laugh brought Teresa to the door; but for the -most part he lay there through the hours with the placid, cunning -patience that the school of long experience had brought him. - -It was dusk when Little Peter stood at the bedside again. - -“Youse called de turn, Nicolo,” he said. “Dat was de guy, all right. I -got next to some of de fly-cops, an' dey ain't got no doubt about it. -Dey handed it out to de reporters.” He flipped a newspaper that he was -carrying onto the bed. “Youse can read it for yerself. An' de gang sizes -it up de same way. I pulled de window stunt on 'em down at Morrissey's -about an hour ago. Dey was all dere--Baldy, an' Runty Mott, an' all de -rest--an' another guy, too. Say, I didn't know dat Bookie Skarvan pulled -in wid dat mob. Dey was fightin' like a lot of stray cats, an' dey was -sore as pups, an' all blamin' de other one for losin' de money. De only -guy in de lot dat kept his head was Bookie. He sat dere chewin' a big -fat cigar, an' wigglin' it from one corner of his mouth to de other, an' -he handed 'em some talk. He give 'em hell for muss-in' everything up. -Say, Nicolo, take it from me, youse want to keep yer eye peeled for him. -He says to de crowd: 'It's a cinch dat Dave Henderson's dead, thanks -to de damned mess youse have made of everything,' he says; 'an' it's a -cinch dat Capriano's story in de paper is straight--it's too full of de -real dope to be anything else. But if Dave Henderson told old Ca-priano -dat much, he may have told him more--see? Old Capriano's a wily bird, -an' wid a hundred thousand in sight de old Dago wouldn't be asleep. -Anyway, it's our last chance--dat Capriano got de hidin' place out of -Dave Henderson. But here's where de rest of youse keeps yer mitts off. -If it's de last chance, I'll see dat it ain't gummed up. I'll take care -of Capriano myself.'” - -Little Peter circled his lips with his tongue, as Nicolo Capriano -extracted a banknote of generous denomination from under his pillow, and -handed it to the other. - -“Very good, Little Peter!” he said softly. “Yes, yes--very good! But you -have already forgotten it all--eh? Is it not so, Little Peter?” - -“Sure!” said Little Peter earnestly. “Sure--youse can bet yer life I -have!” - -“Good-by then, Little Peter,” said Nicolo Capriano softly again. - -He stared for a long while at the door, as it closed behind the -other--stared and smiled curiously, and plucked with his fingers at the -coverlet. - -“And so they would watch old bed-ridden Nicolo, would they--while Nicolo -watches--eh--somewhere else!” he muttered. “Ha, ha! So they will watch -old Nicolo--will they! Well, well, let them watch--eh?” He looked around -the room, and raised himself up in bed. He began to rock to and fro. A -red tinge crept into his cheeks, a gleam of fire lighted up the -coal-black eyes. “Nicolo, Nicolo,” he whispered to himself, “it is like -the old days back again, Nicolo--and it is like the old wine to make the -blood run quick in the veins again.” - - - - -IV--THE MANTLE OF ONE IGNACE FERRONI - - -UP and down the small, ill-furnished room Dave Henderson paced back -and forward, as, not so very long ago, he had paced by the hour from the -rear wall of his cell to the barred door that opened on an iron gallery -without. And he paced the distance now with the old nervous, pent-up -energy that rebelled and mutinied and would not take passively to -restraint, even when that restraint, as now, was self-imposed. - -It had just grown dark. The window shade was tightly drawn. On the -table, beside the remains of the supper that Emmanuel had brought him -some little time before, a small lamp furnished a meager light, and -threw the corners of the room into shadow. - -He had seen no one save Emmanuel since last night, when he had left -Nicolo Capriano's. He had not heard from Nicolo Capriano. It was the -sense of personal impotency, the sense of personal inactivity that -filled him with a sort of savage, tigerish impatience now. There -were many things to do outside in that world beyond the drawn window -shade--and he could only wait! There was the pigeon-cote in Tooler's -shed, for instance. All during the day the pigeon-cote had been almost -an obsession with him. There was a chance--one chance in perhaps a -million--that for some reason or other Millman had not been able to -get there. It was a gambling chance--no more, no less--with the odds so -heavily against Millman permitting anything to keep him from getting his -hands on a fortune in ready cash that, from a material standpoint, there -was hardly any use in his, Dave Henderson, going there. But that did not -remove the ever present, and, as opposed to the material, the intangible -sense of uncertainty that possessed him. He expected to find the money -gone; he would be a fool a thousand times over to expect anything else. -But he had to satisfy himself, and he would--if that keen old brain of -Nicolo Capriano only succeeded in devising some means of throwing the -police definitely off the trail. - -But it was not so easy to throw the police definitely off the trail, as -Nicolo Capriano himself had said. He, Dave Henderson, was ready to agree -in that with the crafty old Italian; and, even after these few hours, -cooped up in here, he was even more ready to agree with the other that -the mere hiding of himself away from the police was utterly abortive as -far as the accomplishment of any conclusive end was concerned. - -It was far from easy; though, acting somewhat as a panacea to his -impatience, the old Italian had inspired him with faith as being more -than a match for the police, and yet---- - -He gnawed at his lips. He, too, had not been idle through the day; he, -too, had tried to find some way, some loophole that would enable him, -once he went out into the open again, to throw Barjan, and all that -Barjan stood for, conclusively and forever off his track. And the more -he had thought of it, the more insurmountable the difficulty and seeming -impossibility of doing so had become. It had even shaken his faith -a little in Nicolo Capriano's fox-like cunning proving equal to the -occasion. He couldn't, for instance, live all his life in disguise. That -did very well perhaps as a piece of fiction, but practically it offered -very little attraction! - -He frowned--and laughed a little harshly at himself. He was illogical -again. He had asked only for three or four days, for a fighting chance, -just time enough to get on Millman's trail, hadn't he? And now he was -greedy for a permanent and enduring safe-conduct from the police, and -his brain mulled and toiled with that objective alone in view, and he -stood here now employed in gnawing his lips because he could not see the -way, or see how Nicolo Capriano could find it, either. He shrugged his -shoulders. As well dismiss that! If he could but reach Millman--and, -after Millman, Bookie Skarvan--just to pay the debts he owed, then---- - -His hand that had curled into a clenched fist, with knuckles showing -like white knobs under the tight-stretched skin, relaxed, as, following -a low, quick knock at the door, Emmanuel stepped into the room. - -“I gotta da message for you from Nicolo,” Emmanuel announced; “an' I -gotta da letter for you from Nicolo, too. You get-a damn sick staying -in here, eh? Well, Nicolo say you go to his place see him tonight. We -take-a da car by-an'-by, an' go.” - -“That's the talk, Emmanuel!” said Dave Henderson, with terse heartiness. -“You're all right, Emmanuel, and so is your room and your grub, but a -little fresh air is what I am looking for, and the sooner the better!” - -He took the envelope that Emmanuel extended, crossed over to the lamp, -and turned his back on the other, as he ripped the envelope open. Nicolo -Capriano's injunction had been to say nothing to Emmanuel, and---- He -was staring blankly at the front page of the evening newspaper, all that -the envelope contained, and which he had now unfolded before him. And -then he caught his breath sharply. He was either crazy, or his eyes were -playing him tricks. A thrill that he suppressed by an almost superhuman -effort of will, a thrill that tore and fought at the restraint he put -upon it, because he was afraid that the mad, insane uplift that it -promised was but some fantastic hallucination, swept over him. There was -a lead pencil circle drawn around the captions of one of the columns; -and three written words, connected to the circle by another pencil -stroke, leaped up at him from the margin of the paper: - -“_You are dead_.” - -He felt the blood surging upward in his veins to beat like the blows -of a trip-hammer at his temples. The words were not blurred and running -together any more, the captions, instead, inside that circle, seemed -to stand out in such huge startling type that they dominated the entire -page: - - -MAN BLOWN TO PIECES BY BOMB IDENTIFIED - -MYSTERY IS EXPLAINED - -DAVE HENDERSON, EX-CONVICT, - -VICTIM OF HIS OWN MURDEROUS INTENTIONS - - -Dave Henderson glanced over his shoulder. Behind him, Emmanuel was -clatteringly piling up the supper dishes on the tray. He turned again -to the newspaper, and read Nicolo Capriano's story, all of it now--and -laughed. He remembered the old Italian's tale of the man Ignace Ferroni -and his bomb. Nicolo Capriano, for all his age and infirmity, was still -without his peer in craft and cunning! The ingenious use of enough of -what was true had stamped the utterly false as beyond the shadow of a -suspicion that it, too, was not as genuine as the connecting links -that held the fabric together. He warmed to the old Italian, an -almost hysterical admiration upon him for Nicolo Capriano's guile. But -transcending all other emotions was the sense of freedom. It surged upon -him, possessing him; it brought exhilaration, and it brought a grim, -unholy vista of things to come--a goal within possibility of reach -now--Millman first, and then Bookie Skarvan. He was free--free as the -air. He was dead. Dave Henderson had passed out of the jurisdiction of -the police. To the police he was now but a memory--he was dead. - -“You are dead.” A queer tight smile thinned his lips, as his eyes fell -again upon the penciled words at the margin of the paper. - -“It's no wonder they never got anything on old Capriano!” he muttered; -and began to tear the paper into shreds. - -He was free! He was dead! He was impatient now to exercise that freedom. -He could walk out on the streets with no more disguise than these -cast-off clothes he had on, plus the brim of his hat to shade his -face--for Dave Henderson was dead. Neither Bookie Skarvan, nor Baldy -Vickers would be searching for a dead man any more--nor would the -police. He swung around, and faced Emmanuel. - -“I am to go to Nicolo Capriano's, eh?” he said. “Well, then, let's go; -I'm ready.” - -“No make-a da rush,” smiled Emmanuel. “Capriano say you gotta da time, -plenty time. Capriano say come over by-an'-by in da car.” - -Dave Henderson shook his head impatiently. - -“No; we'll go now,” he answered. - -Emmanuel in turn shook his head. - -“I gotta some peep' downstairs in da restaurant,” he said. “I gotta stay -maybe an hour yet.” - -Dave Henderson considered this for a moment. He could walk out on the -streets now quite freely. It was no longer necessary that he should be -hidden in a car. But Nicolo Capriano had told Emmanuel to use the car. -Emmanuel would not understand, and he, Dave Henderson, had no intention -of enlightening the other why a car was no longer necessary. Neither was -Emmanuel himself necessary--there was Mrs. Tooler's pigeon-cote. If he -went there before going to Nicolo Capriano! His brain was racing now. -Yes, the car, _without Emmanuel_, would be a great convenience. - -“All right!” he said crisply. “You stay here, and look after your -restaurant. There's no need for you to come. I'll take the car myself.” - -“You drive-a da car?” asked Emmanuel dubiously. Dave Henderson laughed -quietly. The question awakened a certain and very pertinent memory. -There were those who, if they chose to do so, could testify with some -eloquence to his efficiency at the wheel of a car! - -“Well, I have driven one,” he said. “I guess I can handle that old bus -of yours.” - -“But”--Emmanuel was still dubious--“Capriano say no take-a da risk of -being seen on----” - -“I'm not looking for any risk myself,” interposed Dave Henderson coolly. -“It's dark now, and there's no chance of anybody recognizing me while -I'm driving a car. Forget it, Emmanuel! Come on! I don't want to stick -around here for another hour. Here!”--from his pocket he produced a -banknote, and pushed it across the table to the other. - -Emmanuel grinned. His doubts had vanished. - -“Sure!” said Emmanuel. He tiptoed to the door, looked out, listened, and -jerked his head reassuringly in Dave Henderson's direction. “Getta da -move on, then! We go down by da back stairs. Come on!” - -They gained the back yard, and the small shed that did duty for a -garage--and in a few moments more Dave Henderson, at the wheel of the -car, was out on the street. - -He drove slowly at first. He had paid no attention to the route taken by -Emmanuel when they had left Nicolo Capriano's the night before, and as a -consequence he had little or no idea in what part of the city Emmanuel's -restaurant was located; but at the expiration of a few minutes he got -his bearings, and the speed of the car quickened instantly. - - - - -V--CON AMORE - - -TEN minutes later, the car left at the curb half a block away, Dave -Henderson was crouched in the darkness at the door of old Tooler's shed -that opened on the lane. There was a grim set to his lips. There seemed -a curious analogy in all this--this tool even with which he worked upon -the door to force it open, this chisel that he had taken from the kit -under the seat of Emmanuel's car, as once before from under the seat of -another car he had taken a chisel--with one hundred thousand dollars -as his object in view. He had got the money then, and lost it, and had -nearly lost his life as well, and now-------- - -He steeled himself, as the door opened silently under his hand; steeled -himself against the hope, which somehow seemed to be growing upon him, -that Millman might never have got here after all; steeled himself -against disappointment where logic told him disappointment had no place -at all, since he was but a fool to harbor any hope. And yet--and yet -there were a thousand things, a thousand unforeseen contingencies which -might have turned the tables upon Millman! The money _might_ still be -here. And if it were! He was dead now--and free to use it! Free! His -lips thinned into a straight line. - -The door closed noiselessly behind him. The flashlight in his hand, also -borrowed from Emmanuel's car, played around the shed. It was the same -old place, perhaps a little more down-at-the-heels, perhaps a little -dirtier, a little more cumbered up with odds and ends than it had been -five years before, but there was no other change. And there was the door -of the pigeon-cote above him, that he could just reach from the ground. - -He moved toward it now with a swift, impulsive step, and snarled in -sudden anger at himself, as he found his hand trembling with excitement, -causing the flashlight to throw a jerky, wavering ray on the old -pigeon-cote door. What was the use of that! He expected nothing, didn't -he? The pigeon-cote would be empty; he knew that well enough. And yet -he was playing the fool. He knew quite well it would be empty; he had -prepared himself thoroughly to expect nothing else. - -He reached up, opened the door, and felt inside. His hand encountered -a moldy litter of chaff and straw. He reached further in, with quick -eagerness, the full length of his arm. He remembered that he had pushed -the package into the corner, and had covered it with straw. - -For a minute, for two full minutes, his fingers, by the sense of touch, -sifted through the chaff, first slowly, methodically, then with a sort -of frantic abandon; and then, in another moment, he had stooped to the -floor, seized an old box, and, standing upon it, had thrust head and -shoulders into the old pigeon-cote, while the flashlight's ray swept -every crevice of the interior, and he pawed and turned up the chaff and -straw where even it lay but a bare inch deep and only one bereft of his -senses could expect it to conceal anything. - -He withdrew himself from the opening, and closed the pigeon-cote door -again, and stood down on the floor. He laughed at himself in a low, -bitter, merciless way. He had expected nothing, of course; he had -expected only to find what he had found--nothing. He had told himself -that, hadn't he? Quite convinced himself of it, hadn't he? Well, then, -what did it matter? His hands, clenched, went suddenly above his head. - -“I paid five years for that,” he whispered. “Do you hear, Millman--five -years--five years! And I'll get you--Millman! I'll get you for this, -Millman--are you listening?--whether you are in New York--or hell!” - -He put the box upon which he had stood back in its place, went out of -the shed, closed the door behind him, and made his way back to the car. -He drove quickly now, himself driven by the feverish, intolerant passion -that had him in its grip. He was satisfied now. There were not any more -doubts. He knew! Well, he would go to Nicolo Capriano's, and then--his -hands gripped fiercely on the steering wheel. He was dead! Ha, ha! Dave -Henderson was dead--but Millman was still alive! - -It was not far to Capriano's. He left the car where Emmanuel had awaited -him the night before, and gained the back porch of Nicolo Capriano's -house. - -Teresa's voice from the other side of the closed door answered his -knock. - -“Who's there?” she asked. - -He laughed low, half in facetiousness, half in grim humor. He was in a -curious mood. - -“The dead man,” he answered. - -There was no light in the porch to-night. She opened the door, and, as -he stepped inside, closed it behind him again. He could not see her in -the darkness--and somehow, suddenly, quite unreasonably, he found the -situation awkward, and his tongue, as it had been the night before, -awkward, too. - -“Say,” he blurted out, “your father's got some clever head, all right!” - -“Has he?” Her voice seemed strangely quiet and subdued, a hint of -listlessness and weariness in it. - -“But you know about it, don't you?” he exclaimed. “You know what he did, -don't you?” - -“Yes; I know,” she answered. “But he has been waiting for you, and he is -impatient, and we had better go at once.” - -It was Tony Lomazzi! He remembered her grief when he had told her last -night that Tony was dead. That was what was the matter with her, he -decided, as he followed her along the passageway. She must have thought -a good deal of Tony Lomazzi--more even than her father did. He wished -again that he had not broken the news to her in the blunt, brutal way he -had--only he had not known then, of course, that Tony had meant so -much to her. He found himself wondering why now. She could not have had -anything to do with Tony Lomazzi for fifteen years, and fifteen years -ago she could have been little more than a child. True, she might -perhaps have visited the prison, but---- - -“Well, my young friend--eh?” Nicolo Capriano's voice greeted him, as he -followed Teresa into the old Italian's room. “So Ignace Ferroni has done -you a good turn--eh? And old Nicolo! Eh--what have you to say about old -Nicolo? Did I not tell you that you could leave it to old Nicolo to find -a way?” - -Dave Henderson caught the other's outstretched hand, and wrung it hard. - -“I'll never forget this,” he said. “You've pulled the slickest thing I -ever heard of, and I----” - -“Bah!” Nicolo Capriano was chuckling delightedly. - -“Never mind the thanks, my young friend. You owe me none. The old -fingers had the itch in them to play the cards against the police once -more. And the police--eh?--I do not like the police. Well, perhaps we -are quits now! Ha, ha! Do you know Barjan? Barjan is a very clever -little man, too--ha, ha!--Barjan and old Nicolo have known each other -many years. And that is what Barjan said--just what you said--that he -would not forget. Well, we are all pleased--eh? But we do not stop at -that. Old Nicolo does not do things by halves. You will still need help, -my young friend. You will go at once to New York--eh? That is what you -intend to do?” - -“Yes,” said Dave Henderson. - -Nicolo Capriano nodded. - -“And you will find your man--and the money?” - -“Yes!” Dave Henderson's lips thinned suddenly. “If he is in New York, as -I believe he is, I will find him; if not--then I will find him just the -same.” - -Again Nicolo Capriano nodded. - -“Ah, my young friend, I like you!” he murmured. “If I had had -you--eh?--fifteen years ago! We would have gone far--eh? And Tony went -no farther than a prison cell. But we waste time--eh? Old Nicolo is not -through yet--a Capriano does not do things by halves. You will need help -and friends in New York. Nicolo Capriano will see to that. And money to -get to New York--eh? You will need some ready money for that?” - -Dave Henderson's eyes met Teresa's. She stood there, a slim, straight -figure, just inside the door, the light glinting on her raven hair. -She seemed somehow, with those wondrous eyes of hers, to be making an -analysis of him, an analysis that went deeper than a mere appraisal of -his features and his clothes--and a little frown came and puckered the -white brow--and, quick in its wake, with a little start of confusion, -there came a heightened tinge of color to her cheeks, and she lowered -her eyes. - -“Teresa, my little one,” said Nicolo Capriano softly, “go and get some -paper and an envelope, and pen and ink.” - -Dave Henderson watched her as she left the room. - -Nicolo Capriano's fingers, from plucking at the counterpane, tapped -gently on Dave Henderson's sleeve. - -“We were speaking of money--for your immediate needs,” Nicolo Capriano -suggested pleasantly. - -Dave Henderson shook his head. - -“I have enough to keep me going for a while,” he answered. - -The old bomb king's eyebrows were slightly elevated. - -“So! But you are just out of prison--and you said yourself that the -police had followed you closely.” - -Dave Henderson laughed shortly. - -“That wasn't very difficult,” he said. “I had a friend who owed me some -money before I went to the pen--some I had won on the race-track. I gave -the police the slip without very much trouble last night in order to get -here, and it was a good deal more of a cinch to put it over them long -enough to get that money.” - -“So!” said Nicolo Capriano again. “And this friend--what is his name?” - -Dave Henderson hesitated. He had seen to it that Square John Kelly was -clear of this, and he was reluctant now, even to this man here to whom -he owed a debt beyond repayment, to bring Square John into the matter at -all; yet, on the other hand, in this particular instance, it could make -very little difference. If Square John was involved, Nicolo Capriano was -involved a hundredfold deeper. And then, too, Nicolo Capriano might very -well, and with very good reason, be curious to know how he, Dave -Henderson, could, under the circumstances, have come into the possession -of a sum of money adequate for his present needs. - -“I'd rather keep his name out of it,” he said frankly; “but I guess -you've got a right to ask about anything you like, and if you insist -I'll tell you.” - -Nicolo Capriano's eyes were half closed--and they were fixed on the foot -of the bed. - -“I think I would like to know,” he said, after a moment. - -“All right! It was Square John Kelly,” said Dave Henderson quietly--and -recounted briefly the details of his visit to the Pacific Coral Saloon -the night before. - -Nicolo Capriano had propped himself up in bed. He leaned over now as -Dave Henderson finished, and patted Dave Henderson's shoulder in a sort -of exultant excitement. - -“Good! Excellent!” he exclaimed. “Ah, my young friend, I begin to love -you! It brings back the years that are gone. But--bah!--I shall get -well again--eh? And I am not yet too old--eh? Who can tell--eh?--who can -tell! We would be invincible, you and I, and----” He checked himself, as -Teresa reentered the room. “Yes, yes,” he said. “Well, then, as far as -money is concerned, you are supplied; but friends--eh?--are sometimes -more important than money. You have found that out already--eh? Listen, -then, I will give you a letter to a friend in New York whom you can -trust--and I promise you he will stop at nothing to carry out my orders. -You understand? His name is Georges Vardi, but he is commonly known as -Dago George; and he, too, was one of us in the old days. You will want -somewhere to go. He keeps a little hotel, a very _quiet_ little hotel -off the Bowery, not far from Chatham Square. Any one will tell you there -where to find Dago George. You understand?” - -“Yes,” said Dave Henderson. - -Nicolo Capriano motioned his daughter abruptly to a small table on the -opposite side of the bed. - -“Teresa will write the letter, and put it in Italian,” he said, as she -seated herself at the table. “I do not write as easily as I used to. -They say old Nicolo is a sick man. Well, maybe that is so, but old -Nicolo's brain is not sick, and old Nicolo's fingers can at least still -sign his name--and that is enough. Ha, ha, it is good to be alive again! -Well”--he waved his hand again toward his daughter--“are you ready, my -little one?” - -“Yes, father,” she answered. - -“To Dago George, then,” he said. “First--my affectionate salutations.” - -Her pen scratched rapidly over the paper. She looked up. - -“Yes, father?” - -Nicolo Capriano's fingers plucked at the coverlet. - -“You will say that the bearer of this letter--ah! Yes!” He turned with -a whimsical smile to Dave Henderson. “You must have a name, eh, my young -friend--since Dave Henderson is dead! We shall not tell Dago George -everything. Fools alone tell all they know! What shall it be?” - -Dave Henderson shrugged his shoulders. - -“Anything,” he said. “It doesn't matter. One is as good as another. Make -it Barty Lynch.” - -“Yes, that will do. Good!” Nicolo Capriano gestured with his hand in -his daughter's direction again. “You will say that the bearer of this -letter is Barty Lynch, and that he is to be treated as though he were -Nicolo Capriano himself. You understand, my little one? Anything that he -asks is his--and I, Nicolo Capriano, will be responsible. Tell him, my -little one, that it is Nicolo Capriano's order--and that Nicolo Capriano -has yet to be disobeyed. And particularly you will say that if our young -friend here requires any help by those who know how to do what they are -told and ask no questions, the men are to be supplied. You understand, -Teresa?” - -She did not look up this time. - -“Yes, father.” - -“Write it, then,” he said. “And see that Dago George is left with no -doubt in his mind that he is at the command of our young friend here.” - -Teresa's pen scratched rapidly again across the paper. - -Nicolo Capriano was at his interminable occupation of plucking at the -counterpane. - -Dave Henderson pushed his hand through his hair in a curiously -abstracted sort of way. There seemed to be something strangely and -suddenly unreal about all this--about this man, with his cunning brain, -who lay here in this queer four-poster bed; about that trim little -figure, who bent over the table there, and whose profile only now was in -view, the profile of a sweet, womanly face that somehow now seemed to be -very earnest, for he could see the reflection of a puckered brow in the -little nest of wrinkles at the corner of her eye. - -No, there wasn't anything unreal about her. She was very real. - -He remembered her as she had stood last night on the threshold there, -and when in the lighted doorway he had seen her for the first time. He -would never forget that--nor the smile that had followed the glorious -flood of color in her cheeks, and that had lighted up her eyes, and that -had forgiven him for his unconscious rudeness. - -That wasn't what was unreal. All that would remain living and vibrant, -a picture that would endure, and that the years would not dim. It was -unreal that in the space of a few minutes more everything here would -have vanished forever out of his existence--this room with its vaguely -foreign air, this four-poster bed with its strange occupant, whose -mental vitality seemed to thrive on his physical weakness, that slimmer -figure there bending over the table, whose masses of silken hair seemed -to curl and cluster in a sort of proudly intimate affection about the -arched, shapely neck, whose shoulders were molded in soft yielding lines -that somehow invited the lingering touch of a hand, if one but had the -right. - -His hand pushed its way again through his hair, and fumbled a little -helplessly across his eyes. And, too, it was more than that that -was unreal. A multitude of things seemed unreal--the years in the -penitentiary during which he had racked his brain for a means of eluding -the police, racked it until it had become a physical agony to think, -were now dispelled by this man here, and with such ease that, as an -accomplished, concrete fact, his mind somehow refused to accept it as -such. He was dead. It was very strange, very curious! He sank back a -little in his chair. There came a vista of New York--not as a tangible -thing of great streets and vast edifices, but as a Mecca of his -aspirations, now almost within his grasp, as an arena where he could -stand unleashed, and where the iron of five years that had entered -his soul should have a chance to vent itself. Millman was there! There -seemed to come an unholy joy creeping upon him. Millman was there--and -he, Dave Henderson, was dead, and in Dave Henderson's place would be a -man in that arena who had friends now at his back, who could laugh at -the police. Millman! He felt the blood sweep upward to his temples; he -heard his knuckles crack, as his hand clenched in a fierce, sudden -surge of fury. Millman! Yes, the way was clear to Millman--but there was -another, too. Bookie Skarvan! - -His hand unclenched. He was quite cool, quite unconcerned again. Teresa -had finished the letter, and Nicolo Capriano was reading it now. He -could afford to wait as far as Bookie Skarvan was concerned--he could -not afford to wait where Millman was concerned. And, besides, there -was his own safety. Bookie Skarvan was here in San Francisco, but the -further he, Dave Henderson, got from San Francisco for the present now, -and the sooner, the better it would be. In a little while, a few months, -after he had paid his debt to Millman--he would pay his debt to Bookie -Skarvan. He was not likely to forget Bookie Skarvan! - -His eyes fell on Teresa. He might come back to San Francisco in a few -months. With ordinary caution it ought to be quite safe then. Dave -Henderson would have been dead quite long enough then to be utterly -forgotten. They would not be talking on every street corner about him as -they were to-night, and---- - -Nicolo Capriano was nodding his head approvingly over the letter. - -“Yes, yes!” he said. “Excellent! With this, my young friend, you will -be a far more important personage in New York than you imagine. Old -Nicolo's arm still reaches far.” He stared for a moment musingly at Dave -Henderson through half closed eyes. “You have money, and this letter. -I do not think there is anything else that old Nicolo can do for -you--eh?--except to give you a little advice. You will leave here -shortly, and from that moment you must be very careful. Anywhere -near San Francisco you might be recognized. Travel only by night at -first--make of yourself a tramp and use the freight trains, and hide by -day. After two or three days, which should have taken you a good many -miles from here, you will be able to travel more comfortably. But -still do not use the through express trains--the men on the dining and -sleeping cars have all started from here, too, you must remember. You -understand? Go slowly. Be very careful. You are not really safe -until you are east of Chicago. I do not think there is anything else, -unless--eh?--you are armed, my young friend?” - -Dave Henderson shook his head. - -“So!” ejaculated Nicolo Capriano, and pursed his lips. “And it would not -be safe for you to buy a weapon to-night--eh?--and it might very well be -that to-night you would need it badly. Well, it is easily remedied.” He -turned to his daughter. “Teresa, my little one, I think we might let -our young friend have that revolver upstairs in the bottom of the old -box--and still not remain defenseless ourselves--eh? Yes, yes! Run and -get it, Teresa.” - -She rose from her seat obediently, and turned toward the door--but her -father stopped her with a quick impulsive gesture. - -“Wait!” he said. “Give me the pen before you go, and I will sign this -letter. Dago George must be sure that it came from Nicolo Capriano--eh?” - -She dipped the pen in the ink, and handed it to him. Nicolo Capriano -propped the letter on his knees, as he motioned her away on her errand. -His pen moved laboriously across the paper. He looked up then, and -beckoned Dave Henderson to lean over the bed. - -“See, my young friend,” he smiled--and pointed to his cramped writing. -“Old Nicolo's fingers are old and stiff, and it is a long while since -Dago George has seen that signature--but, though I am certain he would -know it again, I have made assurance doubly sure. See, I have signed: -'_Con Amore_, Nicolo Capriano.' You do not know Italian--eh? Well, it -is a simple phrase, a very common phrase. It means--'with love.' But to -Dago George it means something else. It was a secret signal in the old -days. A letter signed in that way by any one of us meant--'trust to the -death!' You understand, my young friend?” He smiled again, and patted -Dave Henderson's arm. “Give me die envelope there on the table.” - -He was inserting the letter in the envelope, as Teresa entered the room -again. He sealed the envelope, reached out to her for the revolver which -she carried, broke the revolver, nodded as he satisfied himself that it -was loaded--and handed both envelope and weapon to Dave Henderson. -He spread out his hands then, and lifted his shoulders in a whimsical -gesture of finality. - -“It is only left then to say good-by--eh?--my young friend--who was -the friend of Tony Lomazzi. You will have good luck, and good fortune, -and----” - -Dave Henderson was on his feet. He had both of the old Italian's hands -in his. - -“I will never forget what you have done--and I will never forget Nicolo -Capriano,” he said in a low tone, his voice suddenly choked. - -The old bomb king's eyelids fluttered down. It was like a blind man -whose face was turned to Dave Henderson. - -“I am sure of that, my young friend,” he said softly. “I am sure that -you will never forget Nicolo Capriano. I shall hear of you through Dago -George.” He released his hands suddenly. His eyes opened--they were -inscrutable, almost dead, without luster. “Go,” he said, “I know what -you would say. But we are not children to sob on one another's neck. -Nicolo is not dead yet. Perhaps we will meet again--eh? We will not -make a scene--Teresa will tell you that it might bring on an attack. Eh? -Well, then, go! You will need all the hours from now until daylight to -get well away from the city.” He smiled again, and waved Dave Henderson -from the bed. - -In an uncertain, reluctant way, as though conscious that his farewell to -the old Italian was entirely inadequate, that his gratitude had found -no expression, and yet conscious, too, that any attempt to express his -feelings would be genuinely unwelcome to the other, Dave Henderson moved -toward the door. Teresa had already passed out of the room, and was -standing in the hall. On the threshold Dave Henderson paused, and looked -back. - -“Good-by, Nicolo Capriano!” he called. - -The old Italian had sunk back on the pillows, his fingers busy with the -counterpane. - -“The wine of life, my young friend”--it was almost as though he were -talking to himself--“ha, ha!--the wine of life! The old days back -again--the measured blades--the fight, and the rasp of steel! Ha, ha! -Old Nicolo is not yet dead! Good-by--good-by, my young friend! It is -old Nicolo who is in your debt; not you in his. Good-by, my young -friend--good-by!” - -Teresa's footsteps were already receding along the passageway toward -the rear door. Dave Henderson, with a final wave of his hand to the old -Italian, turned and walked slowly along the hall. He heard the porch -door ahead of him being opened. He reached it, and halted, looking -around him. It was dark, as it always was here, and he could see -nothing--not even a faint, blurred outline of Teresa's form. Surprised, -he called her name softly. There was no answer--only the door stood wide -open. - -He stepped out into the porch. There was still no sign of her. It was -very strange! He called her again--he only wanted to say good-by, to -thank her, to tell her, as he had told her father, that he would not -forget. And, yes, to tell her, too, if he could find the words, that -some day he hoped that he might see her again. But there was no answer. - -He was frowning now, piqued, and a little angry. He did not -understand--only that she had opened the door for him, and in some way -had deliberately chosen to evade him. He did not know why--he could -find no reason for it. He moved on through the porch. Perhaps she had -preceded him as far as the lane. - -At the lane, he halted again, and again looked around him--and stood -there hesitant. And then there reached him the sound of the porch door -being closed and locked. - -He did not understand. It mystified him. It was not coquetry--there was -no coquetry in those steady, self-reliant eyes, or in that strong, sweet -face. And yet it had been deliberately done, and about it was something -of finality--and his lips twisted in a hurt smile, as he turned and -walked from the lane. - -“Beat it!” said Dave Henderson to himself. “You're dead!” - - - - -VI--THE HOUSE OF MYSTERY DRAWS ITS BLINDS - - -TERESA'S fingers twisted the key in the lock of the porch door that -she had closed on Dave Henderson. There was a queer, tight little smile -quivering on her lips. - -“There was no other way,” she whispered to herself. “What could I do? -What could I say?” - -Behind her, and at one side of the passage, was a small panel door, long -out of use now, a relic of those days when Nicolo Capriano's dwelling -had been a house of mystery. She had hidden there to let Dave Henderson -pass by; she closed it now, as she retraced her steps slowly to her -father's room. And here, on the threshold, she paused for a moment; then -reached in quietly to close the door, and retire again. Her father lay -back on the bed, his eyes closed, and his hands, outstretched on the -coverlet, were quiet, the long, slim fingers motionless. He was asleep. -It was not uncommon. He often did that. Sleep came at the oddest times -with the old man, even if it did not last long, and---- - -“Teresa--eh--what are you doing?” Nicolo Capriano's eyes half opened, -and fixed on his daughter. “Eh--what are you doing?” - -“I thought you were asleep, father,” she murmured. “Asleep! Bah! I have -been asleep for fifteen years--is that not long enough? Fifteen years! -Ha, ha! But I am awake now! Yes, yes, old Nicolo has had enough of -dreams! He is awake now! Come here, Teresa. Come here, and sit by the -bed. Has our clever young friend gone?” - -“Yes, father,” she told him, as she took the chair at the bedside. - -Nicolo Capriano jerked his head around on his pillows, and studied -her face for a moment, though his black eyes, with their smoldering, -introspective expression, seemed not at all concerned with her. - -“And what do you think of him--eh--Teresa, my little one--what do you -think of him?” - -She drew back in her chair with a little start. - -“Why--what do you mean, father?” she asked quickly. - -“Bah!” There was a caustic chuckle in the old bomb king's voice. “We do -not speak of love--I suppose! I do not expect you to have fallen in love -just because you have seen a man for a few minutes--eh? Bah! I mean just -what I say. I called him clever. You are a Capriano, and you are clever; -you are the cleverest woman in San Francisco, but you do not get it from -your mother--you are a Capriano. Well, then, am I right? He is clever--a -very clever fellow?” - -Her voice was suddenly dull. - -“Yes,” she said. - -“Good!” ejaculated Nicolo Capriano. “He was caught five years ago, but -it was not his fault. He was double-crossed, or he would never have seen -the inside of a penitentiary. So you agree, then, that he is clever? -Well, then, he has courage, too--eh? He was modest about his fight at -Vinetto's--eh? You heard it all from Vinetto himself when you went there -this morning. Our young friend was modest--eh?” - -Teresa's eyes widened slightly in a puzzled way. She nodded her head. - -“Yes,” she said. - -“Good!” said Nicolo Capriano--and the long, slim fingers began to twine -themselves together, and to untwine, and to twine together again. “Well, -then, my little one, with his cleverness and his courage, he should -succeed--eh--in New York? Old Nicolo does not often make a mistake--eh? -Our young friend will find his money again in New York--eh?” - -She pushed back her chair impulsively, and stood up. - -“I hope not,” she answered in a low voice. - -“Eh?” Nicolo Capriano jerked himself sharply up on his pillows, and his -eyes narrowed. “Eh--what is that you say? What do you mean--you hope -not!” - -“It is not his money now any more than it was before he stole it,” she -said in a dead tone. “It is stolen money.” - -“Well, and what of it?” demanded Nicolo Capriano. “Am I a fool that I do -not know that?” Sudden irascibility showed in the old Italian's face and -manner; a flush swept his cheeks under the white beard, the black -eyes grew lusterless and hard--and he coughed. “Well, am I a fool?” he -shouted. - -She looked at him in quick apprehension. - -“Father, be careful!” she admonished. “You must not excite yourself.” - -“Bah!” He flung out his hand in a violent gesture. “Excite myself! Bah! -Always it is--'do not excite yourself!' Can you find nothing else to -say? Now, you will explain--eh?--you will explain! What is it about this -stolen money that Nicolo Capriano's daughter does not like? You hear--I -call you Nicolo Capriano's daughter!” - -It was a moment before she answered. - -“I do not like it--because it has made my soul sick to-night.” She -turned her head away. “I hid behind the old panel when he went out. I do -not like it; I hate it. I hate it with all my soul! I did not understand -at first, not until your talk with him to-night, that there was any -money involved. I thought it was just to help him get away from the -police who were hounding him even after his sentence had been served, -and also to protect him from that gang who tried to get him in Vinetto's -place--and that we were doing it for Tony's sake. And then it all seemed -to come upon me in a flash, as I went toward the door to let him out -to-night--that there was the stolen money, and that I was helping him, -and had been helping him in everything that was done here, to steal it -again. I know what I should have done. It would have done no good, it -would have been utterly useless; I realized that--but I would have been -honest with myself. I should have protested there and then. But I shrank -from the position I was in. I shrank from having him ask me what I had -to do with honesty, I, who--and you have said it yourself but a moment -ago--I, who was Nicolo Capriano's daughter; I, who, even if I protested -on one score, had knowingly and voluntarily done my share in hoodwinking -the police on another. He would have had the right to think me mad, to -think me irresponsible--and worse. I shrank from having him laugh in my -face. And so I let him go, because I must say that to him or nothing; -for I could not be hypocrite enough to wish him a smiling good-by, -to wish him good fortune and success--I couldn't--I tell you, I -couldn't--and so--and so I stepped behind the panel, and let him pass.” - -Nicolo Capriano's two hands were outthrust and clenched, his lips had -widened until the red gums showed above his teeth, and he glared at his -daughter. - -“By God!” he whispered hoarsely, “it is well for you, you kept your -mouth shut! Do you hear, you--you-----” A paroxysm of coughing seized -him, and he fell back upon the pillows. - -In an instant, Teresa was bending over him anxiously. - -He pushed her away, and struggled upward again, and for a moment he -shook his fists again at his daughter--and then his eyes were half -veiled, and his hands opened, and he began to pat the girl's arm, and -his voice held a soft, purring note. - -“Listen! You are not a fool, my little one. I have not brought you up to -be a fool--eh? Well, then, listen! We have a little money, but it is not -much. And he will get that hundred thousand dollars. Do you understand? -He is clever, and he has the courage. Do you think that I would have -tricked the police for him, otherwise? Eh--do you think old Nicolo -Capriano does not know what he is about?” - -She stared at him, a sort of dawning dismay in her eyes. - -“You mean,” she said, and the words seemed to come in a hard, forced way -from her lips, “you mean that if he gets that money again, you are to -have a share?” - -“A share! Ha, ha!” The old Italian was rocking backward and forward in -glee. “No, my little one, not a share--Nicolo Capriano does not deal -in shares any more. All--my little one--all! One hundred thousand -dollars--all! And my little black-eyes will have such gowns as----” - -“Father!” It came in a startled, broken cry of amazed and bitter -expostulation. - -Nicolo Capriano stopped his rocking, and looked at her. A sudden glint -of fury leaped from the smoldering eyes. - -“Bah!” he said angrily. “Am I mistaken after all? Is it that you are -your mother--and not a Capriano! Perhaps I should not have told you; but -now you will make the best of it, and behave yourself, and not play the -child--eh? Do you think I risked myself with the police for nothing! -Yes--all! All--except that I must pay that leech Dago George something -for looking after our young friend--_con amore--con amore_, Nicolo -Capriano--eh?--since I signed the letter so.” - -She stood an instant, straight and tense, but a little backward on -her heels, as though she had recoiled from a blow that had been struck -her--and then she bent swiftly forward, and caught both her father's -wrists in her strong young grasp, and looked into his eyes for a long -minute, as though to read deep into his soul. - -“You signed that letter _con amore!_” Her voice was colorless. “You -signed it--_con amore_--the code word of the old, horrible, miserable -days when this house was a den of outlaws, the code word that marked out -the victim who was to be watched and hounded down!” - -The old bomb king wrenched himself still further up in bed. He shook his -wrists free. - -“What is it to you!” he screamed in a blaze of fury--and fell into a -second, and more violent paroxysm of coughing--and now caught at his -breast with his thin, blue-tipped fingers, and now in unbridled -passion waved his arms about like disjointed flails. “Yes--I signed it -that--_con amore_. And it is the old signal! Yes, yes! And Dago George -will obey. And he will watch our young friend--watch--watch--watch! -And in the end--bah!--in the end our young friend will supply Nicolo -Capriano with that hundred thousand dollars. Ha! And in the end we will -see that our young friend does not become troublesome. He is a pawn--a -pawn!” Old Nicolo's face, between rage and coughing, had grown a mottled -purple. “A pawn! And when a pawn has lost its usefulness--eh?--it is -swept from the board--eh? _Con amore!_ The old days again! The finger -of Nicolo Capriano lifted--and the puppets jump! _Con amore!_ I will see -that Dago George knows what to do with a young man who brings him Nicolo -Capriano's letter! Ha, ha! Yes, yes; I will take care of that!” - -She had not moved, except to grow a little straighter in her poise, and -except that her hands now were clenched at her sides. - -“I cannot believe it!” Her voice was scarcely above a whisper. “I cannot -believe it! I cannot believe that you would do this! It is monstrous, -horrible!” - -It seemed as though Nicolo Capriano could not get his breath, or at -least one adequate enough to vent the access of fury that swept upon -him. He choked, caught again at his breast, and hooked fingers ripped -the nightdress loose from his throat. - -“Out of the room!” he screamed at last. “Out of it! I will teach you a -chit of a girl's place! Out of it!” - -“No; I will not go out--not yet,” she said, and steadied her voice with -an effort. “I will not go until you tell me that you will not do -this thing. You can't do it, father--you can't--you can't!” Even the -semblance of calmness was gone from her now, and, instead, there was a -frantic, almost incoherent pleading in her tones. “He came--he came from -Tony Lomazzi. Father, are you mad? Do you not understand? He came from -Tony Lomazzi, I tell you!” - -“And I tell you to get out of this room, and hold your tongue, you -meddling little fool!” screamed Nicolo Capriano again. “Tony Lomazzi! He -came from Tony Lomazzi, did he? Damn Tony Lomazzi--damn him--damn him! -What do I owe Tony Lomazzi but the hell of hate in a man's soul that -comes only in one way! You hear! It was the prison walls only that -saved Lomazzi from my reach--from these fingers of mine that are strong, -strong at the throat, and never let go! Do you think I was blind that -I could not see, that I did not know--eh?--that I did not know what was -between your mother and that accursed Lomazzi! But he died--eh?--he died -like a rat gnawing, gnawing at walls that he could not bite through!” - -Teresa's face had gone suddenly a deathly white, and the color seemed to -have fled her lips and left them gray. - -“It is a lie--a hideous lie!” she cried--and all the passion of her -father's race was on the surface now. “It is a lie! And you know it -is--you know it is! My mother loved you, always loved you, and only -you--and you broke her heart--and killed her with the foul, horrible -life of crime that seethed in this house! Oh, my God! Are you trying -to make me hate you, hate _you_, my father! I have tried to be a good -daughter to you since she died. She made me promise that I would, -on that last night. I have tried to love you, and I have tried to -understand why she should have loved you--but--but I do not know. It is -true that Tony Lomazzi loved her, but, though he was one of you in your -criminal work, his love was the love of a brave, honest man. It is true, -perhaps, that it was for her, rather than for you, that it was because -of his love, a great, strong, wonderful love, and to save her from -horror and despair because she loved _you_, that he gave his life for -you, that he went to prison in your stead, voluntarily, on his own -confession, when he was less guilty than you, and when the police -offered him his freedom if he would only turn evidence against you, the -man they really wanted. But that is what he did, nevertheless. He kept -you together.” She was leaning forward now, her eyes ablaze, burning. -“That was his love! His love for my mother, and for me--yes, for me--for -he loved me too, and I, though I, was only a little girl, I loved -Tony Lomazzi. And he gave his life--and he died there in prison. -And now--now--you mean to betray his trust--to betray his friend who -believed in you because he believed in Tony, who trusted you and sent -him here. And you tricked him, and tricked the police for your own ends! -Well, you shall not do it! You shall not! Do you hear? You shall not!” - -Nicolo Capriano's face was livid. A fury, greater than before, a fury -that was unbalanced, like the fury of a maniac, seized upon him. He -twisted his hands one around the other with swift insistence, his lips -moved to form words--and he coughed instead, and a fleck of blood tinged -the white beard. - -“You dare!” he shrieked, catching for his breath. “You, a girl, dare -talk to me like that, to me--Nicolo Capriano! I shall not--eh? You say -that to me! I shall not! And who will stop me?” - -“I will!” she said, through tight lips. “If you will not stop it -yourself--then I will. No matter what it costs, no matter what it -means--to you, or to me--I will!” - -Nicolo Capriano laughed--and the room rang with the pealing laughter -that was full of unhinged, crazy, shuddering mirth. - -“Fool!” he cried. “You will stop it--eh? And how will you stop it? Will -you tell the police? Ha, ha! Then you, too, would betray dear Tony's -friend! You would tell the police what they want to know--that Dave -Henderson can be found in New York, and that he has gone there to get -the money back. Or perhaps you will write another letter--and tell Dago -George to pay no attention to my orders? Ha, ha! And it is too bad that -our young friend himself has gone, and left you no address so that you -could intercept him!” - -Teresa drew back a little, and into her eyes came trouble and dismay. -And Nicolo Capriano's laugh rang out again--and was checked by a spasm -of coughing--and rang out once more, ending in a sort of triumphant -scream. - -“Well, and what do you think now about stopping it--eh? Do you imagine -that Nicolo Capriano sees no farther than his nose? Stop it! Bah! No one -will stop it--and, least of all, you!” - -She seemed to have overcome the dismay that had seized upon her, though -her face had grown even whiter than before. - -“It is true, what you say,” she said, in a low, strained voice. “But -there is one way left, one way to find him, and warn him, and I will -take that way.” - -“Hah!” Nicolo Capriano glared at her. His voice dropped. “And what is -that way, my little one?” he purred, through a fit of coughing. “Old -Nicolo would like to know.” - -“To go where Dave Henderson is going,” she answered. “To go where he can -be found, to go to New York, to keep him from going to Dago George's, -or, if I am too late for that, to warn him there before Dago -George has had time to do him any harm, and----” - -Her words ended in a startled cry. Nicolo Capriano's long, slim fingers, -from the bed, had shot out, locked about her waist, and were wrenching -at her in a mad-man's fury. - -“You--you would do that!” the old Italian screamed. “By God! No! No! -_No!_ Do you hear? No!” His hands had crept upward, and, with all his -weight upon her, he was literally pulling himself out of the bed. “No!” - he screamed again. “No! Do you hear? No!” - -“Father!” she cried out frantically. “Father, what are you doing? You -will kill yourself!” - -The black eyes of the old man were gleaming with an insane light, his -face was working in horrible contortions. - -“Hah!” He was out of the bed now, struggling wildly with her. “Hah! Kill -myself, will I? I would kill you--_you_--before I would let you meddle -with my plans! It is the old Nicolo again--Nicolo Capriano of the years -when----” - -The room seemed to swirl around her. The clutching fingers had -relaxed. It was she now who struggled and grasped at the man's body -and shoulders--to hold him up. He was very heavy, too heavy for her. -He seemed to be carrying her downward with him--until he fell back half -across the bed. And she leaned over him then, and stared at him for -a long time through her hands that were tightly held to her face--and -horror, a great, blinding horror came, and fear, a fear that robbed her -of her senses came, and she staggered backward, and stumbled over the -chair at the bedside, and clutched at it for support. - -She did not speak. Nicolo Capriano had left his bed for the first time -in three years--to die. - -Her father was dead. That was the theme of the overwhelming horror, -and the paralyzing fear that obsessed her brain. It beat upon her in -remorseless waves--horror--fear. Time did not exist; reality had passed -away. She was in some great, soundless void--soundless, except for that -strange ringing in her ears. And she put her hands up to her ears to -shut out the sound. But it persisted. It became clearer. It became a -tangible thing. It was the doorbell. - -Habit seemed to impel her. She went automatically to the hall, and, in a -numbed sort of consciousness, went along the hall, and opened the door, -and stared at a short, fat man, who stood there and chewed on the butt -of a cigar that dangled from one corner of his mouth. - -“My name's MacBain,” said Bookie Skarvan glibly. “And I want to see -Nicolo Capriano. Very important. You're his daughter, aren't you?” - -She did not answer him. Her brain floundered in that pit of blackness -into which it had been plunged. She was scarcely aware of the man's -presence, scarcely aware that she was standing here in the doorway. - -“Say, you look scared, you do; but there's nothing to be scared about,” - said Bookie Skarvan ingratiatingly. “I just want to see Nicolo Capriano -for a few minutes. You go and tell him a reporter wants to see him -about that bomb explosion, and 'll give him a write-up that'll be worth -while.” - -She drew back a little, forcing herself to shake her head. - -“Aw, say, go on now, there's a good girl!” wheedled Bookie Skarvan. “The -paper sent me here, and I've got to see him. There's nothing for you -to look so white about. I'm only a reporter. I ain't going to hurt -him--see?” - -Teresa shivered. How cold the night was! This man here--what was it he -had said? That he wanted to see Nicolo Capriano? Strange that words came -with such curious difficulty to her tongue--as though, somehow, she had -been dumb all her life, and was speaking now for the first time. - -“Nicolo Capriano is dead,” she said--and closed the door in Bookie -Skarvan's face. - - - - -BOOK IV: THE IRON TAVERN - - - - -I--THE RENDEZVOUS - -THE metamorphosis in Dave Henderson's appearance since the night, nine -days ago, when he had left San Francisco and Nicolo Capriano's house, -had been, by necessity, gradual; it had attained its finished state now, -as he stepped from a train to one of the sub-level station platforms -in the City of New York. Then, he had been attired in one of the -old Italian's cast-off and ill-fitting suits, an object neither too -respectable nor presentable; now, the wide-brimmed soft hat was new -and good, and the dark tweed suit, of expensive material, was that of a -well-groomed man. - -It had taken time--all this. Nor had it been entirely simple of -accomplishment, in spite of the ample funds received from Square John -Kelly, funds that now, wary of unsavory corners into which a certain -business that he had on hand might lead him here in New York, he had -taken the precaution to secrete about his person in a money belt beneath -his underclothing. - -He had scarcely needed old Nicolo Capriano's warning to be careful. Dave -Henderson had not changed so much in five years in prison that he could -take liberties with the risk of recognition in that section of the -country where, in the days before, he had been so familiar a figure -on the local race-tracks. He had made his way out of California, and -considerably beyond California, in the same way that, once before, he -had attempted to elude the police--and on which former occasion would -have succeeded, he was quite satisfied, had it not been for the wound -that had finally robbed him of consciousness and placed him at their -mercy. - -He had traveled during three nights, and only at night, in boxcars, and -on freight trains, stealing his way. But there had been no hurry. The -night of the twenty-fourth of June, the date of the rendezvous that -Millman had given him, had not been very far off, and though it had -always obtruded itself upon him and never allowed itself to be forgotten -from the moment he had heard it from Millman's lips, he had consistently -told himself that the twenty-fourth of June was a consideration to be -entirely disregarded. Since Millman was a thief and had double-crossed -him, the rendezvous was blatantly a fake. It existed only as a sort of -jeering, ironical barb with which Millman at times, out of the nowhere, -like a specter, grinning maliciously, prodded and made devil's sport of -him. He had no concern with Millman's twenty-fourth of June! He would -meet Millman in due time--two hemispheres were not big enough, or wide -enough apart, to prevent that--but the meeting would be by his, not -Millman's, appointment. - -And then he had passed out of the more critical danger zone, and got -further east. But, even then, he had taken no chances. Dave Henderson -was dead--the creation of one Barty Lynch was not a matter to be trifled -with. He had taken no chances; if anything, he had erred on the side -of extreme caution. The abrupt transition into respectability by one -in misfitting, threadbare garments, and who looked, moreover, a -disreputable tramp from his nights in the boxcars, was only to invite -suspicion at any ordinary store where he might attempt to buy clothes. -A second-hand suit, therefore, of fairly creditable appearance, -first replaced Nicolo Capriano's discarded garments; later, at a more -exclusive establishment still further east, in Chicago, to be exact, -this was exchanged for the attire he now wore--while, here and there, -he had stocked a dress-suit case with needed requirements. He had been -deliberately leisurely in his progress east once he had felt it safe to -dispense with his boxcar mode of travel--and this, actually, as a sort -of defiance and challenge flung down by his common sense to that jeering -prod with which Millman, and Millman's cynical rendezvous, plagued him -in spite of himself. The evening of June twenty-fourth at the St. Lucian -Hotel in New York was of no particular interest to him! It had taken him -a week to reach Chicago. It was nine days now since he had left Nicolo -Capriano's house. Nine days! He was now in New York, standing here -on one of the station platforms--and it was the evening of the -twenty-fourth of June! - -He looked at his watch, as he made his way to the main section of the -station. It was seven-thirty. He deposited his dress-suit case in the -parcel-room, and went out to the street. Here, he asked a policeman to -direct him to the St. Lucian Hotel. - -He smiled a little grimly as he walked along. The much vaunted challenge -of his common sense had gone down to rout and defeat, it seemed! He was -on his way now to the St. Lucian Hotel--and he would be there at eight -o'clock on the evening of June twenty-fourth. He laughed outright at -himself, suddenly, mirthlessly. - -Well, why not! And why not be entirely honest with himself? Despite -self-argument to the contrary, he knew all along that he would be at -the rendezvous at the appointed time. He was a fool--undoubtedly a fool. -Nothing could come of it except, possibly, to afford Millman, if Millman -had elected to watch from some safe vantage point in hiding, an amusing -spectacle. - -He was a fool--he offered nothing in defense of himself on that score. -But, too, as far as any results had been obtained, he had been a fool to -go searching the old pigeon-cote for the money, when he had beforehand -already persuaded himself in his own mind that the money was gone! It -was the same thing over again now--the elimination of doubt, that would -always have crept insidiously into his mind; the substitution of doubt, -however ill-founded, for an established certainty. He had felt better -for that visit to the old pigeon-cote; he would feel better, even at the -expense of pampering again to fantastic doubts, for his visit to the -St. Lucian Hotel to-night. Millman would not be there, any more than -the money had been in the pigeon-cote; but, equally, he, Dave Henderson, -would have established that fact beyond the reach of any brain quibbling -which, of late, had been, it seemed, so prone to affect him. - -He stopped again to ask directions from an officer, and to ask this time -another question as well--a question prompted by a somewhat unpleasant -possibility which, having once decided to keep the rendezvous, he could -not now ignore. What kind of a place _was_ this St. Lucian Hotel? - -“One of the best,” the officer answered. “There you are--two blocks -ahead, and one to the left.” - -Dave Henderson smiled with a sort of patient tolerance at himself. The -locality alone should have been sufficient answer to his question. It -was not the setting, very far from it, for a trap! His hand, that had un -consciously closed around the stock of his revolver in the side pocket -of his coat, was withdrawn and swung now at his side, as he walked along -again. - -He looked at his watch once more, as he turned the corner indicated. It -was five minutes to eight. A half block ahead of him he saw the hotel. -He walked slowly now, the short distance remaining. “The St. Lucian -Hotel. Eight o'clock in the evening. June twenty-fourth.” The words -seemed to mock at him now, and the gibe to sting. He had fallen for it, -after all! He could call himself a fool again if he wished, but what was -the use of that? It was obvious that he was a fool! He _felt_ like one, -as he passed a much bedecked functionary at the doorway, and found -himself standing a moment later in the huge, luxuriously appointed -rotunda of the hotel. He was not even recompensed by novelty, as he -stared aimlessly about him. It was just the usual thing--the rug-strewn, -tiled floor; the blaze of lights; the hum of talk; the hurry of -movement; the wide, palm-dotted corridors, whose tables were crowded -with men and women in evening dress at after-dinner coffee; the deep -lounging chairs in his more immediate vicinity; the strains of an -orchestra trying to make itself heard above the general hubbub. - -A clock from the hotel desk behind him began to chime the hour. -He turned mechanically in that direction, his eyes seeking the -timepiece--and whirled suddenly around again, as a hand fell upon his -shoulder. The police! The thought flashed swift as a lightning stroke -through his mind. Somewhere, somehow he had failed, and they had found -him out, and---- - -The rotunda, the lights, seemed to swirl before him, and then to vanish -utterly, and leave only a single figure to fill all the space, a -figure in immaculate evening clothes, a figure whose hand tightened its -shoulder-grip upon him, a figure whose clear, gray eyes stared into his -and smiled. - -He touched his lips with the tip of his tongue. - -“Millman!” he said hoarsely. “You!” - -“Well,” said Millman easily, “this is the St. Lucian Hotel; it's eight -o'clock, and June twenty-fourth--who did you expect to meet here?” - -“You,” said Dave Henderson--and laughed unnaturally. - -Millman's gray eyes narrowed, and his face clouded suddenly. - -“What's the matter with you, Dave?” he demanded sharply. - -Dave Henderson's hands, at his sides, were clenched. Millman--this was -Millman! Millman, whom he hadn't expected to meet here! Millman, whom -he had promised himself he would track down if it took a lifetime, and, -once found, would settle with as he would settle with a mad dog! And -Millman was here, smiling into his face! His mind groped out through a -haze of bewilderment that robbed him of the power to reason; his tongue -groped for words. It was as though he were dazed and groggy from a blow -that had sent him mentally to his knees. He did not understand. - -“There's nothing the matter with me,” he said mechanically. - -He felt Millman's hand close on his arm. - -“Come on up to my rooms,” said Millman quietly. “It's a little public -here, isn't it?” - -Dave Henderson did not disengage his arm from the other's hold, but his -hand slipped unostentatiously into his coat pocket. A rift seemed to -come breaking through that brain fog, as he silently accompanied Millman -to the elevator. He had dismissed the probability of such a thing but a -few minutes before, had even jeered at himself for considering it, but, -in spite of the eminent respectability of the St. Lucian Hotel, in spite -of its fashion-crowded corridors and lobby, the thought was back now -with redoubled force--and it came through the process of elimination. If -Millman was a crook, as he undoubtedly was, and had secured the money, -as he undoubtedly had, why else should Millman be here? There seemed -to be no other way to account for Millman having kept the rendezvous. -Strange things, queer things, had happened in hotels that were quite -as enviable of reputation as the St. Lucian--perhaps it was even -the _safest_ place for such things to happen, from the perpetrator's -standpoint! His lips were tight now. Well, at least, he was not walking -blindfold into--a trap! - -They had ascended in silence. He eyed Millman now in cool appraisal, as -the elevator stopped, and the other led the way and threw open the door -to a suite of rooms. There was quite a difference between the prison -stripes of a bare few months ago and the expensive and fashionably -tailored evening clothes of to-night! Well, Millman had always claimed -he was a gentleman, hadn't he? And he, Dave Henderson, had believed -him--once! But that did not change anything. Millman was no less a crook -for that! From the moment Millman had gone to that pigeon-cote and -had taken that money, he stood out foursquare as a crook, and---- Dave -Henderson felt his muscles tauten, and a chill sense of dismay seize -suddenly upon him. There was still another supposition--one that swept -upon him now in a disconcerting flash. Suppose Millman had _not_ gone to -that pigeon-cote, suppose it was _not_ Millman who had taken the money, -suppose that, after all, it had been found by some one else, that -Tooler, for instance, had stumbled upon it by chance! And, instead of -Millman having it, suppose that it was gone forever, without clue to -its whereabouts, beyond his, Dave Henderson's, reach! It was not -impossible--it was not even improbable. His brain was suddenly in -turmoil--he scarcely heard Millman's words, as the other closed the -door of the suite behind them. - -“The family is in the country for the summer months,” said Millman with -a smile, as he waved his hand around the apartment; “and I have gone -back to my old habit--since I have been free to indulge my habits--of -living here during that time, instead of keeping a town house open, too. -Sit down there, Dave, by the table, and make yourself comfortable.” - -It sounded plausible--most plausible! Dave Henderson scowled. Across -his mind flashed that scene in the prison library when Millman had been -plausible before--damnably plausible! His mind was in a sort of riot -now; but, through the maze of doubt and chaos, there stood out clearly -enough the memory of the hours, and days, and weeks of bitter resolve -to “get” this man who now, offensively at his ease, and smiling, was -standing here before him. - -And then Dave Henderson laughed a little--not pleasantly. - -Well, he was face to face with Millman now. It would be a showdown -anyhow. Trap, or no trap, Millman would show his hand. He would know -whether Millman had got that money, or whether somebody else had! He -would know whether Millman was straight--or whether Millman was a crook! - -He jerked his shoulders back sharply; his fingers closed a little more -ominously on the revolver in his coat pocket. Was he quite crazy? Had he -lost all sense of proportion? The chances were a thousand to one that it -_was_ Millman who had looted the pigeon-cote; the chances were one in a -thousand that it could have been any one else. - -“Yes,” he said coolly. “Nice rooms you've got here, and a bit of a -change from--out West!” He jerked his head abruptly toward a door across -the room. “I notice you've got a closed door there. I hope I'm not -butting in, if you're entertaining friends, or anything like that!” He -laughed again--raucously now. His nerves seemed suddenly to be raw and -on edge. Millman was favoring him with what, whether it was genuine or -not, was meant for a blank stare. - -“Friends?” said Millman questioningly. And then his gray eyes softened. -“Oh, I see!” he exclaimed. “It's hard to get over the habit, isn't it? -No; there's no one there. But perhaps you'd feel better satisfied to -look for yourself.” - -“I would!” said Dave Henderson bluntly. - -“Go ahead, then!” invited Millman readily, and waved his hand toward the -door. - -“I'll follow _you_,” said Dave Henderson curtly. - -Millman turned toward the door, hesitated, and stopped. - -“Dave, what's the matter with you?” he demanded for the second time. - -“Nothing much!” replied Dave Henderson. “But we'll get this over first, -eh? Go on, let's see the rest' of this suite of yours. It's good to know -that an old pal is enjoying such pleasant surroundings.” - -Without a word, Millman stepped across the room, and opened the door in -question. It led into a bedroom, and from there to a bathroom; there -was nothing else. Dave Henderson inspected these in silence. He eyed -Millman, frowning in a renewed perplexity, as they returned to the outer -room. - -“All right!” he said gruffly. “You win the first trick. But how about -a certain little package now? I'll trouble you to hand that over, -Millman!” - -Millman shook his head in a sort of tolerant expostulation. - -“As we used to say 'out there,' I don't get you, Dave!” he said slowly. -“You are acting very strangely. I've been looking forward to this -meeting--and you haven't even a handshake for an old friend. I don't -understand.” - -“I don't myself!” returned Dave Henderson evenly. “There's a whole -lot of things that don't fit. But it's five years since I've seen that -package, and maybe I'm a trifle over-anxious about it. Suppose you come -across with it!” - -Millman shrugged his shoulders a little helplessly. - -“You're a queer card, Dave,” he said. “Of course, I'll come across with -it! What else in the world are we here for to-night?” He stepped to the -table, pulled a drawer open, and produced a neatly tied parcel, which he -laid on the table. “I took it out of the vault to-day, so as to have it -ready for you to-night.” - -From the package, Dave Henderson's eyes lifted, and held Millman's in -a long stare. It was as though, somehow, the ground had been swept from -under his feet. He had expected anything but the package. Logically, -from every conclusion based on logic, Millman should not be handing -over that package now. And this act now was so illogical that he could -account for it on no other basis than one of trickery of some sort. -He tried to read the riddle in the other's eyes; he read only a cool, -imperturbable composure. His hand still toyed with the revolver in his -pocket. - -“There's an outside wrapper on it, I see,” he said in a low voice. “Take -it off, Millman.” - -Millman's brows knitted in a sort of amused perplexity. - -“You're beyond me to-night, Dave,” he said, as he stripped off the outer -covering. “Utterly beyond me! Well, there you are!” - -The package lay there now on the table, intact, as it had been on the -night it had found a hiding-place in the old pigeon-cote. The original -brown-paper wrapper was still tied and sealed with its several bank -seals in red wax; the corner, torn open in that quick, hasty examination -in Martin K. Tydeman's library, still gaped apart, disclosing the edges -of the banknotes within. It was the package containing one hundred -thousand dollars, intact, untouched, undisturbed. - -Dave Henderson sat down mechanically in the chair behind him that was -drawn up close to the table. His hand came from his pocket, and, joined -by the other, cupped his chin, his elbows resting on the table's edge, -as he stared at the package. - -“I'm damned!” said Dave Henderson heavily. - -His mind refused to point the way. It left him hung up in midair. It -still persisted in picturing the vengeance he had sworn against this man -here, in picturing every stake he owned flung into the ring to square -accounts with this man here--and the picture took on the guise now of -grotesque and gigantic irony. But still he did not understand. That -picture had had its inception in a logical, incontrovertible and true -perspective. It was strange! He looked up now from the package to -Millman, as he felt Millman's hand fall and press gently upon his -shoulder. Millman was leaning toward him over the table. - -“Well, Dave,” said Millman, and his smile disarmed his words, “you've -treated me as though I were a thug up to the moment I opened that -package, and now you act as though the sight of it had floored you. -Perhaps you'll tell me now, if I ask you again, what's the matter?” - -Dave Henderson did not answer for a moment. His hand went into his -pocket and came out again--with his revolver balanced in its palm. - -“I guess I made a mistake,” he said at last, with a queer smile. “Thug -is right! I was figuring on pulling this on you--in another way.” - -Millman drew a chair deliberately up to the opposite side of the table, -and sat down. - -“Go on, Dave,” he prompted quietly. “I'm listening.” - -Dave Henderson restored the weapon to his pocket, and shrugged his -shoulders in a way that was eloquent of his own perturbed state of mind. - -“I guess you'll get the point in a word or two,” he said slowly. “The -story you told me in the pen, and the way you acted for two years made -me believe you, and made me think you were straight. Understand? And -then that afternoon before you were going out, and I was up against it -hard--you know--I told you where this money was. Understand? Well, I -had hardly got back to my cell when I figured you had trapped me. If -you were straight you wouldn't touch that money, unless to do me in -by handing it back to the police, for it would be the same thing as -stealing it again, and that would make a crook of you; if you were a -crook then you weren't playing straight with me to begin with, since the -story you told me was a lie, and the only reason I could see for that -lie was to work me up to spilling the beans so that you could cop the -loot and give me the slip. Either way, it looked raw for me, didn't it? -Well, when I got out, the money _hadn't_ gone back to the police, but -it _had_ gone! I swore I'd get you. Don't make any mistake about that, -Millman--I swore I'd get you. I didn't expect to meet you here to-night. -I called myself a fool even for coming. You were either straight or a -crook, and there wasn't much room left for doubt as to which it was. -See, Millman?” - -Millman nodded his head gravely. - -“I see,” he said, in the same quiet tones. “And now?” - -Dave Henderson jerked his hand toward the package of banknotes that lay -on the table before him. - -“I guess that's the answer, isn't it?” he said, with a twisted smile. -“There's the hundred thousand dollars there that you pinched from the -old pigeon-cote.” He shoved out his hand impulsively to Millman. “I'm -sorry, Millman. Shake! I've been in wrong all the time. But I never -seemed to get that slant on it before; that you were--a straight crook.” - -Millman's gray eyes, half amused, half serious, studied Dave Henderson -for a long minute, as their hands clasped. - -“A straight crook, eh?” he said finally, leaning back again in his -chair. “Well, the deduction is fairly logical, Dave, I'll have to admit. -And what's the answer to that?” - -Dave Henderson jerked his hand toward the package of banknotes again. - -“There's only one, isn't there?” he returned. “You've got a stake in -that coin now. A fair share of it is yours, and I'll leave it to you to -say what you want.” - -Millman lighted a cigarette before he answered. - -“All right!” he said, with a curious smile, as his eyes through the -spiral of blue smoke from the tip of his cigarette fixed on Dave -Henderson again. “All right! I'll accept that offer, Dave. And I'll -take--all, or none.” - -Dave Henderson drew sharply back in his chair. There was something -in Millman's voice, a significance that he did not like, or quite -understand, save that it denied any jocularity on Millman's part, or -that the other was making a renunciation of his claim through pure -generosity. His eyes narrowed. The money was here. Millman had come -across with it. Those facts were not to be gainsaid; but they were facts -so utterly at variance with what months of brooding over the matter had -led him to expect they should be, that he had accepted them in a sort of -stunned surprise. And now this! Was he right, after all--that there was -some trickery here? - -“What do you mean--all, or none?” he said, a hint of menace creeping -into his voice. - -“Just that,” said Millman, and his tones were low and serious now. “Just -what I said--all, or none.” - -Dave Henderson laughed shortly. - -“Then I guess it'll be--none!” he said coolly. - -“Perhaps,” admitted Millman slowly. “But I hope not.” He leaned forward -now, earnestly, over the table. “Dave,” he said steadily, “let us get -back to the old pal days again when we believed in each other, just man -to man, Dave; because now you've got a chip on your shoulder. I don't -want to knock that chip off; I want to talk to you. I want to tell you -why I committed what you have rightly called theft in going to that -pigeon-cote and taking that money. And I want to try and make you -understand that my life in prison and the story that I told you there, -in spite of the fact that I have 'stolen' the money now, was not a lie. -There is not a soul on this wide earth, Dave, except yourself, who knows -that Charles Millman served two years in the penitentiary with prison -stripes on his back. If it were known I think it would mean ruin to -me, certainly in a social sense, very probably in a commercial sense as -well. And yet, Dave, I would rather you knew it than that you didn't. -Does that sound strange? Well, somehow, I've never pictured the -flaring headlines that would be in every paper in this city if I were -exposed--because, well, because I couldn't picture it--not through you, -Dave--and that's the only way it could come about. And so you see, Dave, -I did not ask you for faith in me without reposing my own faith in you -in the same full measure.” - -Dave Henderson's brows gathered. He stared at the other. It was like -the Charlie Millman of old talking now. But the whole business was -queer--except that the money lay here now within reach of his hand after -five years of hell and torture. He made no comment. - -“And so, Dave, what could I do?” Millman went on. “As far as I could see -then, and as far as I can see now, I had no choice but to offer to get -that money from its hiding-place. I knew you meant literally what you -said when you swore you'd fight for it if all the police in America were -blocking your way, and that you'd either get it or go down and out. I -knew you'd do that; I knew the police _would_ watch you, and I feared -for you either physical harm or another long prison sentence. And so I -took the money and shared your guilt. But, Dave, once I was committed to -that act, I was committed to another as well--I hadn't any choice there, -either--I mean, Dave, the return of the money to the estate where it -belongs.” - -Dave Henderson was on his feet. His face, that had softened and relaxed -as Millman was speaking, was suddenly hard and set again, and now a red, -angry flush was dyeing his cheeks. He choked for his words. - -“What's that you say!” he rasped out. “Return it!” He laughed raucously. -“Have you been drinking, Millman--or are you just crazy?” - -A strange, whimsical smile crept to Millman's lips. “No,” he said. “I -guess I'm what you called me--just a straight crook. I can't see any -other way out, Dave. I've stolen the money too, and it's up to me as -well as you. It's got to go back.” - -“By God--no!” said Dave Henderson through his teeth. “No! You -understand--no!” - -Millman shook his head slowly. - -“Dave, it's no good,” he said quietly. “Apart from every other -consideration, it won't get you anywhere. Listen, Dave, I----” - -“No!” Dave Henderson interrupted savagely. “You can cut that out! You're -going to preach; but that's no good, either! You're going to pull the -goody-goody stuff, and then you're going to tell me that sooner or later -I'll be caught, anyhow. Well, you can forget it--the preaching, because -I don't want to listen to you; and the other, because there's nothing -to it now.” He leaned across the table, and laughed raucously again, and -stared with cynical humor at the other. “I'm dead--see? Dave Henderson -is dead. A friend of mine pulled the trick on them in 'Frisco. -They think Dave Henderson is dead. The book is closed, slammed shut -forever--understand? I'm dead--but I've got this money now that I've -fought for, and paid for with the sweat of hell, and it's going to pay -me back now, Millman! Understand? It's going to pay the dividends now -that I've earned--and that, by God, no man is going to take away from -me!” - -“Good old Dave!” said Millman softly. “That's what's the matter with -you--you'd drop in your tracks before you'd let go. If only you weren't -looking through the wrong glasses, Dave, you'd fight just as hard the -other way. No, I don't want to preach to you, and I'm not going to -preach; but there's a great big bond, two years of prison together, -between you and me, and I want you to listen to me. You were never meant -for a crook, Dave. There's not a crooked thing in the world about you, -except this one distorted brain kink that's got hold of you. And now -you're in wrong. Look at it from any angle that you like, and it doesn't -pay. It hasn't paid you so far--and it never will.” - -“Hasn't it!” snapped Dave Henderson. “Well, maybe not! But that's -because it hasn't had the chance. But the chance is here now, and it's -all bust wide open. You can forget everything else, Millman, except just -this, and then you'll understand once for all where I stand: Here's the -money--and I'm dead!” - -“Your soul isn't,” said Millman bluntly. - -Dave Henderson's jaws set. - -“That's enough!” he flung out curtly. “Once for all--no!” - -Millman did not answer for a moment, nor did he look at Dave -Henderson--his eyes, through the curling cigarette smoke, were fixed on -the package of banknotes. - -“I'm sorry, Dave,” he said at last, in a low, strained way. “I'm sorry -you won't take the biggest chance you'll ever have in your life, the -chance you've got right now, of coming across a white man clean through. -I thought perhaps you would. I hoped you would, Dave--and so I'm sorry. -But that doesn't alter my position any. The money has got to go back to -the estate, and it is going back.” - -For an instant Dave Henderson did not move, then he thrust his head -sharply forward over the table. The red had flooded into his face again, -and his eyes were hard and full of menace. - -“That's better!” he said through tight lips. “You're talking a language -now that I understand! So that money is going back, is it? Well, you've -talked a lot, and I've listened. Now you listen to me, and listen hard! -I don't want to hurt you, Millman, as God is my judge, I don't want to -hurt you, but it will be one or the other of us. Understand, Millman? -One or the other of us, if you start anything like that! You get me, -Millman? You've called a showdown, and that goes; but, by God, unless -you've got a better hand than I have, you'll never send that money -back!” - -Millman's hand was resting on the package of banknotes. He pushed it now -quietly across the table to Dave Henderson. - -“Not this, Dave,” he said simply. “You settled that when I asked for all -or none. This is yours--to do with as you like. Don't misunderstand me, -Dave; don't make any mistake. You can put that package under your arm -and leave here this minute, and I'll not lift a finger to stop you, -or, after you are gone, say a word, or make any move to discredit your -assumed death, or bring the police upon your heels. I told you once, -Dave--do you remember?--that you could trust me. But, Dave, if you won't -return the stolen money, then I will. I haven't any choice, have I? I -stole it, too.” - -Dave Henderson stared, frowning, into the steel-gray eyes across the -table. - -“I don't get you!” he said shortly. “What do you mean?” - -“Just what I say, Dave,” Millman answered. “That if you won't return it -yourself, I will pay it back out of my own pocket.” - -For a minute Dave Henderson eyed the other incredulously, then he threw -back his head and laughed, but it was not a pleasant laugh. - -“You will, eh!” he said. “Well, if you feel that way about it, go to it! -Maybe you can afford it; I can't!” - -“Yes,” said Millman soberly, “as far as that goes, I am a rich man, and -I can afford it. But, Dave, I want to say this to you”--he was standing -up now--“the richest man in the world couldn't afford to part with a -nickel as well as you could afford to part with that hundred thousand -dollars there. It isn't money that you've got at stake, Dave. Well, -that's all. Either you pay--or I do. It's up to you, Dave.” - -Dave Henderson's hands were clenching and unclenching, as he gripped at -the edge of the table. Vaguely, dimly, he sensed an awakening something -within him which seemed to be striving to give birth to some discordant -element that sought to undermine and shake his resolution. It was not -tangible yet, it was confused; his mind groped out in an effort to grasp -it in a concrete way so that he might smother it, repudiate it, beat it -down. - -“No!” he shot out. - -Millman shook his head. - -“I don't ask you for an answer to-night,” he said gravely. “I don't -think you're ready to give an answer now, and be fair to yourself. It's -a pretty big stake, Dave. You'll never play for a bigger--and neither -will I. I'm staking a hundred thousand dollars on the Dave Henderson -I know--the chap that's dead for a while. It doesn't matter much now -whether the money is back in the hands of the estate in a day, or a -week, or a month from now. Take a month, Dave. If at the end of a month -the estate has not received the money from you--and I shall know whether -it has or not--it will receive a hundred thousand dollars in cash from -me, anonymously, with the statement that it is to square the account for -which Dave Henderson was convicted.” - -Dave Henderson raised a clenched hand, and swept it, clenched, across -his eyes. He had it now! He understood that thing within him that seemed -quite as eager to offer battle as he was to give it. And it was -strong, and insidious, and crafty. He cursed at it. It took him at a -disadvantage. It placed him suddenly on the defensive--and it angered -him. It placed him in a position that was not a nice one to defend. He -cursed at it; and blind fury came as his defense. And the red that had -surged into his face left it, and a whiteness came, and his lips thinned -into a straight line. - -“Damn you, Millman!” he whispered hoarsely. “I get you now! Damn you, -you've no right to put the screws on me like this! Who asked you to -offer your money as a sacrifice for me--to make me out a white-livered -cur if I turned you down! But it doesn't go, understand? It's blackmail, -that's what it is! It may be whitewashed with holiness, but it's -blackmail just the same--and you can go to hell with it!” - -He snatched up the package of banknotes, whipped the outer wrapping -around it, and tucked it under his arm--and paused, as though awaiting -or inviting some action on Millman's part. But Millman neither moved nor -spoke. And then Dave Henderson, with a short laugh, crossed to the door, -wrenched it open, stepped out of the room, and slammed the door behind -him. - - - - -II--THE FIRST GUEST - - -BLIND to his surroundings, mechanically retracing his steps to the -railway station, Dave Henderson swung along the street. He walked as -though he would outwalk his thoughts--fast, indifferent to all about -him. He clung stubbornly to the fury in which he had sought refuge, and -which he had aroused within himself against Millman. He clung to this -tenaciously now, because he sensed a persistent attempt on the part of -some unwelcome and unfamiliar other-self to argue the pros and cons, -both of Millman's motives and Millman's acts; an attempt, that sought -to introduce a wedge doubt into his mind, that sought to bring about -a wavering of purpose with the insidious intent of robbing him, if it -could, of the reward that was now within his grasp. - -Within his grasp! He laughed out sharply, as he hurried along. It was -_literally_ within his grasp! The reward was his now--his absolutely, -concretely, tangibly--the hundred thousand dollars was in this -innocent-looking parcel that was at this precise moment tucked under his -arm. He laughed out again. There was enough in that one fact to occupy -his mind and attention, and to put to utter rout and confusion those -other thoughts that endeavored to make cunning and tricky inroads upon -him. It shattered and swept aside, as though by the waving of some -magical wand, every mental picture he had drawn of himself in New York, -every plan that he had made for his sojourn here. - -He had been prepared to spend weeks and months of unceasing effort to -run Millman to earth; he had planned to rake the dens and dives of the -underworld, to live as one of its sordid and outlawed inhabitants, if -necessary, in order to get upon Millman's track; he had meant to play -Millman at his own game until he had trapped Millman and the final -showdown came. And, instead, he had scarcely been in New York an hour, -and he was walking now along the street with the hundred thousand -dollars under his arm, with Millman no longer a vicious and stealthy -antagonist to be foiled and fought wherever he might be found--with -nothing to do now but spend or employ this money under his arm as his -fancy or his judgment dictated, free of all hindrance or restraint, for -Millman was no longer a source of danger or concern, and Dave Henderson -was dead to the world in general and to the police in particular, -and that left Barty Lynch as the unfettered possessor of one hundred -thousand dollars! - -Millman had given him a month, and--ah! he was back on that tack, was -he? He clenched his hand. No! A month represented time, and it was time -in a purely abstract way that he was considering now; it had nothing to -do with Millman, or Millman's “month,” It would take time to make new -plans and new arrangements. He did not intend to act hastily. - -He had come by that money by too brutally hard a road not to realize the -worth of every cent of it. He needed time now to think out the future -carefully. He was not a fool--to scatter that money to the winds. A -thousand times in prison he had buoyed himself up with the knowledge -that in the returns from that sum of money lay independence for life. -That was what he had taken it for in the first place! It meant, safely -invested, a minimum of five thousand dollars a year. He could get along -very well, even luxuriously, on five thousand a year! He had only now to -decide where and how he should invest that money; and he needed only now -the time to arrive at that decision without any undue haste that might -afterwards be bitterly regretted. Would he go to Australia, or to -South America, for example, and begin life anew there as a gentleman of -independent means? Or somewhere in Europe, perhaps? It needed time now -to make this decision, and, as a natural corollary, a temporary abode -was required, an abode where he could feel quite secure, both as regards -his money, and as against any eleventh-hour trick of fate that might -disclose his identity and spill the fat into the fire. - -Well, he had had that latter problem solved for him from the first, -hadn't he? There was Dago George's; and in his pocket was Nicolo -Capriano's letter that was an “open sesame” to Dago George's -hospitality, and, more vital still, to Dago George's fidelity. He was -going there now, as soon as he got his dress-suit case again from the -station which now loomed ahead of him down the block. - -His thoughts reverted to Nicolo Capriano, and, from the old Italian, to -the old Italian's daughter. Teresa! He had not forgotten Teresa! Again -and again, in those jolting boxcars, and during his flight from San -Francisco, there had come a mental picture in which those fearless eyes -had met his, and he had seen her smile, and watched the color mount and -crimson her face as it had done on that occasion when he had first seen -her. - -He had not forgotten Teresa, he had not tried to; he had even invited -those mental pictures of her. It was like some fragrant and alluring -memory that had seemed to ding to him, and he had dung to it. Some day -he wanted to see Teresa again--and she was the only woman toward whom he -had ever felt that way. He wasn't in love with her, that was ridiculous, -unless he had fallen in love with her since he had left her! But of one -thing he was distinctly conscious, and that was that her attitude on -that last night, when she had let him go in so strange a way, still -plagued and tormented him. It was as though she had slammed the door -of her presence in his face, and he wanted to see her again--some -time--and---- - -Queer fancies crept into his brain. The old Italian said he was -getting better. Perhaps Nicolo Capriano would like Australia, or South -America--or perhaps Europe! - -Dave Henderson shrugged his shoulders a little helplessly, and smiled -ironically at himself, as he reached and entered the station. It was -Nicolo Capriano alone, of course, of whom he was thinking! But--he -shrugged his shoulders again--his immediate business now was to get to -this Dago George! - -He secured his dress-suit case from the parcel-room, deposited the -package of banknotes in the dress-suit case, and sought a taxi. That was -the easiest and most convenient way of reaching Dago George's. He did -not know either in what direction or how far he had to go, and somehow, -both physically and mentally, he suddenly, and for the first time, -realized that he was tired. - -“Chatham Square,” he told the starter, as he climbed into the taxi; -and then, as the car moved forward, he leaned over and spoke to the -chauffeur: “There's a fellow called Dago George who keeps a place right -near there,” he said. “I don't know exactly where it is; but I guess you -can find it, can't you?” - -“Sure!” said the chauffeur heartily, with an extra tip in sight, “Sure! -Leave it to me!” - -Dave Henderson settled himself comfortably back on the seat, and -relaxed. The strain of the days since he had left San Francisco, the -strain of the days since the prison doors had opened and let him free, -the strain of the five years behind those pitiless walls of stone -and those bars of steel was gone now. The money was his, in his sole -possession, here in the dress-suit case at his feet. It was the end of -the bitter struggle. It was finished. He could let go now, and relax -luxuriously. And, besides, he was tired. - -He refused to think of Millman, because it irritated him. He refused -to think of anything now, because his brain was like some weary thing, -which, with a sigh of relief, stretched itself out and revelled in -idleness. His future, Nicolo Capriano, Teresa--all these could wait -until to-morrow, until a night's sleep, the first he would have known -for many nights that was not haunted by distracting doubts and problems, -should bring him fresh to the consideration of his new plans. - -He lighted a cigarette and smoked, and watched the passing crowds and -traffic through the window. He had only to present his letter to Dago -George, and turn in for the night, with the feeling, also for the first -time in many nights, of absolute security. - -Dave Henderson continued to gaze out of the window. The localities -through which he passed did not seem to improve. He smiled a little. He -knew nothing about New York, but this was about what he had expected. -Dago George was not likely either to reside or conduct his business in a -very exclusive neighborhood! - -Finally the taxi stopped, but only to permit the chauffeur to ask -directions from a passer-by on the sidewalk. They went on again then, -turned a corner, and a moment later drew up at the curb. - -“I guess this is the place all right,” announced the chauffeur. - -A glance confirmed the chauffeur's statement. Across the somewhat dingy -window of a barroom, as he looked out, Dave Henderson read in large, -white, painted letters, the legend: - - -THE IRON TAVERN - -GEORGES VARDI, PROP. - - -That was Dago George's name, he remembered Nicolo Capriano had told -him--Georges Vardi. He alighted, paid and dismissed the chauffeur, and -stood for an instant on the sidewalk surveying the place. - -It was a small and old three-story frame building. The barroom, to which -there was a separate entrance, bordered on a lane at his right; while, -almost bisecting the building, another door, wide open, gave on a narrow -hall--and this, in turn, as he could see through the end window at his -left, gave access to the restaurant, such as it was, for at several -small tables here the occupants were engaged in making a belated dinner. -Above, there was a light or two in the second story windows, the third -story was in complete darkness. - -It was certainly not over-prepossessing, and he shrugged his shoulders, -half in a sort of philosophical recognition of a fact that was to be -accepted whether or no, and half in a sort of acquiescent complacence. -It was the sort of a place he wanted for the present anyhow! - -Dave Henderson chose the restaurant entrance. An Italian waiter, in -soiled and spotted apron, was passing along the hall. Dave Henderson -hailed the man. - -“I want to see Dago George,” he said. - -The waiter nodded. - -“I tell-a da boss,” he said. - -Again Dave Henderson surveyed the place--what he could see of the -interior now. It had evidently been, in past ages, an ordinary dwelling -house. The stairs, set back a little from the entrance, came down at his -right, and at the foot of these there was a doorway into the barroom. -At his left was the restaurant which he had already seen through the -window. Facing him was the narrow hall, quite long, which ended in a -closed door that boasted a fanlight; also there appeared to be some -other mysterious means of egress under the stairs from the hall, an -entrance to the kitchen perhaps, which might be in the cellar, for the -waiter had disappeared in that direction. - -The door with the fanlight at the rear of the hall opened now, and a -tall, angular man, thin-faced and swarthy, thrust out his head. His -glance fell upon Dave Henderson. - -“I'm Dago George--you want to see me?” His voice, with scarcely a trace -of accent, was suave and polite--the hotel-keeper's voice of diplomacy, -tentatively gracious pending the establishment of an intruder's identity -and business, even though the intrusion upon his privacy might be -unwelcome. - -Dave Henderson smiled, as he picked up his dress-suit case and stepped -forward. He quite understood. The proprietor of The Iron Tavern, though -he remained uninvitingly upon the threshold of the door, was not without -tact! - -“Yes,” said Dave Henderson; and smiled again, as he set down his -dress-suit case in front of the blocked doorway, and noted an almost -imperceptible frown cross Dago George's face as the other's eyes rested -on that article. His hand went into his pocket for Nicolo Capriano's -letter--but remained there. He was curious now to see, or, rather, to -compare the reception of a stranger with the reception accorded to one -vouched for by the old bomb king in San Francisco. “Yes,” he said; “I'd -like to get a room here for a few days.” - -“Ah!” Dago George's features suddenly expressed pain and polite regret. -“I am so sorry--yes! I do not any longer keep a hotel. In the years -ago--yes. But not now. It did not pay. The restaurant pays much better, -and the rooms above for private dining parties bring the money much -faster. I am desolated to turn you away; but since I have no rooms, I -have no rooms, eh? So what can I do?” - -Dave Henderson studied the other's face complacently. The man was not -as old as Nicolo Capriano; the man's hair was still black and shone with -oil, and in features he was not Nicolo Capriano at all; but somehow it -_was_ Nicolo Capriano, only in another incarnation perhaps. He -nodded his head. He was not sorry to learn that The Iron Tavern was -ultraexclusive! - -“That's too bad,” he said quietly. “I've come a long way--from a friend -of yours. Perhaps that may make some difference?” - -“A friend?” Dago George was discreetly interested. - -“Nicolo Capriano,” said Dave Henderson. - -Dago George leaned suddenly forward, staring into Dave Henderson's eyes. - -“What!” he exclaimed. “What is that you say? Nicolo Capriano!” He caught -up the dress-suit case from the floor, and caught Dave Henderson's arm, -and pulled him forward into the room, and closed the door behind them. -“You come from Nicolo Ca-priano, you say? Ah, yes, my friend, that is -different; that is _very_ different. There may still be some rooms here, -eh? Ha, ha! Yes, yes!” - -“You may possibly already have heard something from him about me,” said -Dave Henderson. “Barty Lynch is the name.” - -Dago George shook his head. - -“Not a word. It is long, very long, since I have heard from Nicolo -Capriano. But I do not forget him--no one forgets Nicolo Capriano. -And you have come from Nicolo, eh? You have some message then--eh, my -friend?” - -Dave Henderson extended the old bomb king's letter. - -Dago George motioned to a chair, as he ripped the envelope open. - -“You will excuse, while I read it--yes?” he murmured, already engrossed -in its contents. - -Dave Henderson, from the proffered chair, looked around the room. It was -blatantly a combination of sleeping room and office. In one corner was -a bed; against the wall facing the door there was a safe; and an old -roll-top desk flanked the safe on the other side of the only window -that the room possessed. His eyes, from their cursory survey of his -surroundings, reverted to Dago George. The man had folded up the letter, -and was stretching out his hands effusively. - -“Ah, it is good!” Dago George ejaculated. “Yes, yes! Anything--anything -that I can do for you is already as good as done. I say that from my -heart. You are Barty Lynch--yes? And you come from the old master? Well, -that is enough. A room! You may be sure there is a room! And now--eh-- -you have not perhaps dined yet? And what else is there? It is long, very -long! You may be sure there is a room! And now--eh--you have not -perhaps dined yet? And what else is there? It is long, very long, since -I have heard from the old master the old master? Well, that is enough. A -room! You may be sure there is a room! ” - -Dave Henderson laughed. - -“There is nothing else--and not even that,” he said. “There was a -dining-car on the train to-night. There's not a thing, except to show me -my room and let me turn in.” - -“But, yes!” exclaimed Dago George. “Yes, that, of course! But wait! The -old master! It is long since I have heard from him. He says great things -of you; and so you, too, are a friend of Nicolo Capriano. Well, then, it -is an occasion, this meeting! We will celebrate it! A little bottle of -wine, eh? A little bottle of wine!” - -Dave Henderson shook his head. - -“No,” he said, and smiled. “As a matter of fact, I'm rather all in; and, -if you don't mind, I'll hit the hay to-night pronto.” - -Dago George raised his hands protestingly. - -“But what would Nicolo Capriano say to me for such hospitality as that!” - he cried. “So, if not a bottle, then at least a little glass, eh? -You will not refuse! We will drink his health--the health of Nicolo -Capriano! Eh? Wait! Wait!” And he rushed pell-mell from the room, as -though his life depended upon his errand. - -Dave Henderson laughed again. The man with his volubility and -effervescence amused him. - -Dago George was back in a few minutes with a tray and two glasses -of wine. He offered one of the glasses with an elaborate bow to Dave -Henderson. - -“It is the best in my poor house,” he said, and held the other glass -aloft to the light. “To Nicolo Capriano! To the old master! To the -master of them all!” he cried--and drank, rolling his wine on his tongue -like a connoisseur. - -Dave Henderson drained his glass. - -“To Nicolo Capriano!” he echoed heartily. - -“Good!” said Dago George brightly. “One more little glass? No? You are -sure? Well, you have said that you are tired--eh? Well, then, to make -you comfortable! Come along with me!” He picked up the dress-suit case, -opened the door, and led the way into the hall He was still talking as -he mounted the stairs. “There will be many things for us to speak -about, eh? But that will be for to-morrow. We are perhaps all birds of -a feather--eh--or Nicolo Capriano perhaps would not have sent you here? -Well, well--to-morrow, my friend, if you care to. But I ask nothing, you -understand? You come and you go, and you talk, or you remain silent, as -you wish. Is it not so? That is what Nicolo Capriano writes--and it -is enough.” He paused at the second-story landing. “You see,” he said, -waving his hand around the dimly lighted passage. “Little private -dining-rooms! But there is no business to-night. Another flight, my -friend, and perhaps we shall find better accommodations there.” - -It was as the other had said. Partially opened doors showed the three -or four small rooms, that opened off the hall, to be fitted up as -dining-rooms. Dave Henderson made no comment, as he followed the other -up the next flight of stairs. He was tired. He had been telling himself -lazily so from the moment he had taken the taxi. He was acutely aware of -it now. It was the relaxation, of course--but he had become of a sudden -infernally sleepy. - -Dago George unlocked a door at the head of the third floor landing, -entered, deposited the dress-suit case on the floor, and turned on the -light. He handed the key of the room to Dave Henderson. - -“It is plain, it is not rich,” he said apologetically; “but the bed is -good, and you will be quiet here, my friend, very _quiet_--eh?--you can -take my word for that.” - -“It looks good to me, all right!” said Dave Henderson, and stifled a -yawn. “I certainly owe you my best thanks.” - -Dago George shrugged his shoulders in expostulation. - -“But it is nothing!” he protested. “Do you not come from Nicolo -Capriano? Well, that is enough. But--you yawn! No, no; do not try to -hide it! It is I who am to blame. I talk--and you would rest. But, one -thing, my friend, before I go. It is my curiosity. The letter--it is -signed by Nicolo Capriano, and I know the signature well--but it is -written by a woman, is it not? How is that? I am curious. But perhaps -you do not know?” - -“Yes,” Dave Henderson answered, and yawned frankly this time, and smiled -by way of apology. “It was his daughter who wrote it. Nicolo Capriano is -sick.” - -“Sick!” repeated Dago George. “I did not know! But it is so long since I -have heard from him--yes? He is not very sick, perhaps?” - -“I don't know,” replied Dave Henderson sleepily. “He's been laid up in -bed for three years now, I think.” - -“Godam!” ejaculated the Italian. “Is that so! But to-morrow--eh?--we -will talk to-morrow. Goodnight, my friend! Good-night--and sleep well!” - -“Good-night!” responded Dave Henderson. - -He closed and locked the door as Dago George went out, and, sitting down -on the edge of the bed, looked at his watch. It was a quarter to ten. - -“I'll stretch out for ten minutes before I turn in,” said Dave Henderson -to himself--but at the end of ten minutes Dave Henderson was asleep. - - - - -III--THE SECOND GUEST - - -IN the hallway of The Iron Tavern, as Dago George descended the stairs -from Dave Henderson's room, a slim little figure in black, heavily -veiled, stood waiting. Beside her, the greasy waiter, who had previously -conveyed Dave Henderson's message to the proprietor, bowed and scraped -and wiped his hands on his spotted apron, and pointed to Dago George on -the stairs. - -“Dat-a da boss,” he announced. - -A taxi chauffeur had already deposited two valises in the hall, and had -retired. Outside, as the taxi moved away, another taxi, a short, but -discreet, distance up the block, started suddenly out from the curb, as -its fare, a fat man who chewed upon the butt of a cigar, dug with pudgy -fingers into his vest pocket, and handed his chauffeur an address. - -“Baggage and all--that's good enough!” said the fat man to himself; and -to the chauffeur: “Beat it--and beat it fast!” - -The waiter retired from the hall. The almost imperceptible frown on Dago -George's face at sight of the valises, was hidden by an ingratiating -smile as he hurried forward. - -“Madam,” he inquired, “you desire to see me?” The little figure in black -nodded her head. - -“Yes--in private,” she answered quietly. - -“Ah!” Dago George bowed profoundly. “But, yes--certainly! This way, -then, if you please, madam.” - -He led the way into the rear room, and closed the door. - -The little figure in black raised her veil. - -“Do you not know me?” she asked. - -Dago George stared for a long minute into her face. He shook his head. - -“I am desolated!” he murmured apologetically. “It is my memory that is -unbelievably stupid, madam.” - -“I am Teresa Capriano,” she said. - -Dago George moved closer. He stared again into her face, and suddenly -into his own there came the light of recognition. - -“You--the so-little Teresa--the little bambino!” he cried. “But, -yes--yes, it is true!” He caught both her hands, and began to pat them -effusively. “Is it possible? Yes, yes! I begin to see again the little -girl of the so-many years ago! Ah, no; Dago George has not forgotten, -after all! The little Teresa! The little bandit queen! Eh? And you--do -you remember that we called you that?” He led her to a chair, and seated -her. “Well, well, the little Teresa! And your father, my good friend -Nicolo--I had heard that he was sick. He is better--yes? And he is -perhaps here, too, in New York?” - -“My father is dead,” Teresa answered in a low voice. - -“Dead!” Dago George drew back, and stared again, but in a curiously -bewildered way now. “Dead!” he repeated. “You say that Nicolo Capriano -is--dead?” - -“Yes,” she said, and turned her face away from his gaze--only to raise -her eyes again, and watch the man covertly, narrowly, as he now began to -walk rapidly up and down the room with quick, nervous strides. Her hands -tightened a little on the arms of her chair. Here was the end of that -long race across the continent, the goal of those fearsome, harried days -of haste in San Francisco while her father lay dead. Was she first or -last in that frantic race? What did Dago George know? A thousand times -she had pictured this scene, and planned for it every word and act that -was to be hers--but it was actuality now, and the room for an instant -seemed to swirl around her. _She_ remembered Dago George--as one of the -most crafty, callous and unscrupulous of the lawless band over whom the -man who had been her father had reigned as king. The letter! Had Dago -George received it--yes or no? Had Dave Henderson reached here before -her? Was he already in danger; or did it require but just a simple bit -of acting on her part to undo the treachery of which her father had been -guilty--a simple story, for instance, that she was on her way to her -father's people in Italy, which would enable her to stay here in this -place unsuspected until Dave Henderson came, and she could intercept -him, and warn him before any harm was done? Which was it? She dared not -ask. If Dago George knew nothing, he must at all costs continue to know -nothing. A hint, and Dago George, if he were the Dago George of old, -would be like a bloodhound on the scent, and, exactly as though Dago -George had actually received her father's letter, Dave Henderson would -be the quarry. But if, on the other hand, the letter had already been -delivered, well, then--then there was another rôle to play. She dared -not ask; not until Dago George had shown his hand, not until she was -sure of her own ground. She turned her head away again; Dago George had -halted abruptly in front of her chair. - -“Dead!” he said uneasily. “You say that Nicolo Capriano, that your -father, is dead?” - -Teresa nodded without looking up. - -Dago George, as abruptly as he had halted, turned and paced the length -of the room and back again, and abruptly halted once more in front of -her. He leaned toward her, one hand now laid over his heart. - -“I am unpardonable!” he said softly. “I say nothing to you of your -so-great grief. I do not sympathize. I am heartless! But you will -forgive! It is the shock of my own grief for the loss of my friend from -which I have not recovered. I bleed for you in your deep sorrow. My poor -little bambino! But you understand--yes--do you not?” - -Teresa's hands, in her lap now, toyed with one of her gloves which she -had taken off. She did not look up. - -“Yes, yes,” murmured Dago George. “You understand! But we will speak -no more of that now--it is but to depress us both. There are other -things--that you have come all this way from San Francisco, and that you -have come immediately to me, for you have but just arrived in New York -to-night, is it not so?” - -“Yes,” Teresa answered. “The train was very late. I came here at once -from the station.” - -“Then, thanks to your train being late,” said Dago George, with a -significant lowering of his voice, “I think I can tell you why you came. -If you had been an hour earlier, it would have been you who would have -had to tell me. Eh? Is it not so? There was a letter--eh? A letter which -you wrote for Nicolo Capriano, for your father--is it not so?” - -The blood seemed suddenly to Teresa to grow hot, and as suddenly to grow -chill and cold in her veins. Dago George had answered her question. -Dave Henderson had already delivered the letter! It brought fear; but it -brought, too, a sense of relief. The road was clear now before her. It -was her wits against Dago George--to draw, and win, and hold the other's -full and unreserved confidence, to make herself appear essential to -Dago George--for an hour--a week--a month--until she could reach Dave -Henderson, wherever he might be, and meanwhile checkmate any move that -this man here might make. She glanced furtively, with well simulated -caution, around her. - -“Yes,” she said, in a guarded voice. “You are right. It is the letter -that brought me. What else? My father died the night it was written. -He had no time to communicate with you. I do not know all, but I know -enough, I think, to make the matter sure. There is a great deal of money -at stake, and so I came.” - -“Ah!” Dago George was whispering excitedly now. “Wait! Wait a minute, my -little bambino!” He ran to the door, opened it, looked out, closed and -locked it again, and, crossing the room, pulled the half drawn roller -shade down to the window sill. He drew a chair close up to Teresa's, -and sat down. “It is better to be sure, is it not? Yes, yes! And we will -continue to speak English, eh? It is less understood here. Ah, my little -bambino! You are your father's daughter! Yes, yes! Nicolo Capriano is -not dead! Well, the letter, eh? There is money in it, much money in it, -you say?” - -“Yes,” she replied. Her voice sharpened, and became a little imperious. -“Yes, there is money in it, provided you have not lost sight of the man -who brought the letter to you.” - -Dago George rubbed his hands together softly. - -“Have no fear of that!” he whispered eagerly. “Dago George did not serve -under Nicolo Capriano for nothing! The young man is upstairs, and safely -asleep. He came perhaps a little more than half an hour ago. We had a -little glass of wine together, and--” He shrugged his shoulders, and -made a significant little circling motion with his thumb and forefinger. - -Teresa's eyebrows lifted in frank impatience. - -“What do you mean by that?” she asked sharply. - -Again Dago George shrugged his shoulders. - -“Have I not said that he is--asleep?” he smiled. - -“Drugged!” exclaimed Teresa. - -“But, yes--naturally! What would you have?” smiled Dago George. - -Teresa's glove slipped from her lap to the floor. She was deliberate and -long in picking it up. - -“But why?” There was irritation and censure in her voice now, as she -looked up at him and frowned. - -“I don't see why! You know nothing of the reasons that prompted my -father to write that letter. Why should you drug him? What could you -expect to accomplish by that, except to excite his suspicions when he -wakes up?” - -“Ah, but you do me an injustice, my little bambino!” said Dago George -smoothly. “It was but a pinch of the drug, a drug that I know very well, -and that never plays tricks on me. He has had but enough to last for -four or five hours, and he will experience no ill effects when he wakes -up. You can trust Dago George for that. And as for why--what else could -I do? It was precisely because I had had no word from Nicolo Capriano, -and because it was all a mystery to me, except that the letter was -signed _con amore_. Eh? You know well enough what that means, and that -it was not to be disobeyed. The man must never leave my sight or hands -until the little game, whatever it was, was played out. Is it not so? It -was also necessary that, having nothing further from the old master to -guide me, I should look this Signor Barty Lynch over for myself--yes? Is -it not so, my little bambino?” - -Teresa preserved her frown. - -“Perhaps,” she admitted, with well assumed unwillingness. “Well?” - -Dago George drew a little closer. - -“Well, he is safe upstairs, then. You see that Dago George had his head -about him, after all, eh? And now--the letter! What is it that the old -master was about to do?” - -Teresa's mind was working swiftly. Dave Henderson was upstairs, drugged, -but safe so far. It might be hours before he could make any move; but by -morning surely, by morning before daylight, he could get away, and -until then she must stay here. There was only one way she could do -that without arousing suspicion, and at the same time have freedom of -action--as an ally, an indispensable ally, of this man here. There was -only one dominating consideration, therefore, to guide her in what, or -how much, she told Dago George, for once Dave Henderson had slipped away -that was the last Dago George would ever see of him, or her; and the -consideration involved was, that, while she knew Dago George too well -to trust him in the smallest degree, Dago George must be made to trust -_her_ in the fullest measure, and from the strongest of all reasons from -Dago George's standpoint--that of self-interest. And the surest way to -accomplish that was to tell Dago George enough of the truth to, at -one and the same time, arouse his cupidity and leave him in a sense -dependent upon her cooperation for his future activities. - -“I can only tell you what I heard them saying to each other that night -when I wrote that letter for my father,” she said deliberately. “But -that is enough, I think; anyway, it was enough to decide me to come here -to you. My father, of course, intended to communicate with you--in just -what way, I do not know--but he died that same night. The only thing, -then, that I could see to do was to get here without a moment's delay, -and I left San Francisco immediately after my father's burial. You -understand?” - -“Yes, yes!” Dago George nodded his head vigorously in assent. “But, of -course! Yes, yes, my little bambino! Well--and then?” - -She leaned forward impressively toward Dago George. - -“This Barty Lynch stole some money,” she said, in a quick, eager voice; -“a great deal of money, thousands; I heard them speak of a hundred -thousand. My father had helped him to get away from the police; that -is why he trusted my father. But this money was stolen again from Barty -Lynch by a man who Barty Lynch said had run here to New York for cover. -That is what has brought Barty Lynch here--to find that man, and get -the money back. You see? Once Barty Lynch gets hold of the money again, -he--but that is why my father gave him a letter to you, and-----” - -“Signed it _con amore_ broke in Dago George,” whispering feverishly, and -almost as though speaking to himself. “Yes, yes! I see! It is the hand -of the old master, and it has lost none of its cunning! Yes, yes! I see! -There is no risk! It is stolen money to begin with! Signor Barty -Lynch has no recourse to the law! And even if Signor Barty Lynch -_disappeared_--eh?--who is to know the difference, since he has already -arranged things so nicely in hiding himself away from the police! Eh? -Yes! It is excellent, superb! Is it not so?” - -Teresa's face was impassive. - -“Yes, except that we have not got that money yet!” she said curtly. -“It may not be as easy as it looks. That is why I am here--to help; and -also”--she stared Dago George levelly in the face--“to see that Dago -George does not get more than his share.” - -The Italian's hands were raised instantly in protestation. - -“But, my little bambino--that you should say that!” He shook his head -in an aggrieved way. “I am hurt that you should think I forget Nicolo -Capriano, though he is dead, or that you should think I would do -anything like that.” - -“Nor do I think so,” she answered steadily. “I warn you, that is all. We -shall work all the better together if we understand to begin with that -Nicolo Capriano's daughter, though Nicolo Capriano is dead, has still -some power; and if we understand that this is Nicolo Capriano's plan, -and not yours, and that the division will be made on the same basis that -Nicolo Capriano would have made it.” - -“It is Nicolo himself speaking,” murmured Dago George. He was smiling -now. “I had no thought of anything but that. It is understood. I could -ask for nothing better.” - -“Very well!” she said. “There is nothing to be done at first then, but -to watch him in everything he does here in New York. You have plenty of -men you can depend upon--I know that; but I think I can do more, or -at least as much, as they can, and certainly with all of us working -together we should succeed. He is in a room upstairs, you say. You have -another one next to his that is empty, perhaps? Yes? Well, that is good. -I will take it. He will be surprised to see me here, but he will not -be suspicious. He believes that you were a very intimate friend of -my father. Naturally, then, it would be at the house of that intimate -friend that I would come to stay when, owing to my father's death, I am -making arrangements to sail to my father's people back in Italy. Barty -Lynch trusted my father absolutely. That is plain. He therefore trusts -me equally. It may not even be necessary to watch him; he is even more -likely than not--if he is played right--to make a confident of me.” - -Dago George rubbed his hands together excitedly. “Yes,” he cried. “It -is superb! I salute you. You do credit to Nicolo Capriano! Ah, my little -bambino, you have your father's brains!” - -Teresa, with a prettily imperious nod of her head, rose from her chair. - -“It is getting late,” she said. “It must be nearly eleven o'clock, and -I have had a long journey. Since he is drugged, he is safe for the time -being, and there is nothing more to be done to-night. To-morrow we can -begin our work. Take me to my room.” - -“Yes--it is superb!” Dago George repeated exultantly. He bowed Teresa to -the door, and, picking up the valises, led the way upstairs. He chuckled -with perverted humor, as they passed Dave Henderson's door. “He is in -there,” he said; “but we must not disturb his rest, eh? He said he was -very tired!” He ushered Teresa into the next room, and turned on the -light. “If there is anything that the little bambino requires?”--his -head and hands gestured eloquently. - -Teresa was looking around the none too clean, and none too well -furnished, room. - -“Nothing!” she said. - -Dago George Retreated to the door. He cleared his throat, and hesitated, -and shuffled a little awkwardly with his feet. - -“It is that the little bambino will know that I am thinking of her great -sorrow, though I have said little, that I speak of it again,” he said -softly. “The master has been long dead? It is true you have told me he -died on the night you wrote that letter for him, but the letter”--he -produced it from his pocket, and scanned it earnestly--“yes, I am -right--it bears no date.” - -“My father died nine days ago,” Teresa answered tersely, and half turned -away her head. - -“Ah, yes! Nine days ago!” Dago George shook his head sorrowfully, as he -backed across the threshold. “The old master! It is very sad! Nine days -ago! It is very sad! I wish you repose, my little bambino. Good-night!” - -Teresa closed and locked the door behind Dago George--and stood still -for an instant listening. Dago George's footsteps died away on the -stairs below. She moved a little then, and stood with her ear pressed -against the partition of the next room. There was no sound. And then she -began to walk slowly about the room, and a few minutes later, the time -that it would ordinarily have taken her to prepare for bed, she turned -out the light--and sat down in a chair, fully dressed, and stared into -the blackness. - -She pressed her hand a little wearily across her eyes. She was here now -at the end of those thousands of miles, every one of which had seemed to -yawn as some impassable gulf between her and her goal; she was here now, -and, in spite of her fears, she had reached that goal--in time. She had -even outwitted--for the moment anyhow--Dago George. True, Dave Henderson -lay there in that next room drugged, but she was not too late. She -smiled a little ironically. In a purely literal sense she was too early! -She dared not make a move now for perhaps hours yet, not until she was -sure the house was closed for the night, and that Dago George--she did -not trust Dago George--had gone to bed. - -And so she must sit here and stare into the blackness. She would not -fall asleep; there was no fear of that. She could not sleep. Already -thoughts and memories, as myriad in divergence as they were in numbers, -were crowding upon her, and goading her brain into an abnormal and -restless activity. - -She twisted her hands together now in her lap. She remembered, and she -could not forget, the horror and the fear of that night when her father -had died, and of the days thereafter when she had performed--alone--the -last duties that had devolved upon her. Yes, it had been alone. She -had lied to Dago George. It had been alone! If Nicolo Capriano had had -friends and been powerful in life, Nicolo Capriano had been alone in -death. She had lied to Dago George; there had been no heritage of power. -She had lied--but then her whole life was a lie! - -A low sound, a bitter moan, came suddenly from her lips. It was not the -Teresa now who had faced Dago George with cool complacence in the room -below. She slipped from the chair to her knees, and buried her face in -her hands. It was the black hour, of which she had known so many since -that fearful night, that surged and swept upon her now again. It whirled -scenes and thoughts of the past, and pictures of the future, before her -like some bewildering and tormenting kaleidoscope. She could not define -to herself her feelings relative to her father's death; grief seemed to -mingle indissolubly with bitter abhorrence at his act of treachery. But -in another way her father's death meant something to her that she was -coming to grasp more clearly. It seemed to release her from something, -from--from a tangled life. - -All her life had been a lie. She was the daughter of a criminal, and all -her life had been a lie; her environment had been a lie. In big things, -in little things, it had been a lie. She had lied to herself that night -when she had let this man in the next room here go without a word of -protest from her lips to carry out a criminal act. She had been a coward -that night, and it had shamed her. She had owed something to her father, -a loyalty to her father; perhaps, fundamentally, that was the basis -for her refusal to face the issue squarely that night; perhaps it was -because the habit of years, the lies, and only lies, that had been lived -around her, had strangled her and weakened her. Perhaps it was that; but -if so, and if she had owed and given loyalty to her father, then she -had given more than loyalty--she had given her soul. And her soul turned -miserably away from this pitiful landscape of life upon which now she -was forcing it to gaze. - -But this was a picture of the past, for if it were true, or in any -degree true, her father's death had brought her release--her father -was dead. And so she faced the future--alone. In so many a different -sense--alone. She was alone now, a free agent to mold her own life, and -the test was before her; whether the lie, for example, she had acted -that night when she had sent Dave Henderson away, was the outcome of -things extraneous to her soul, or inherent in that soul itself. Her -hands, that clasped her face, tightened. Thank God, she knew! Thank God, -that from the moment her brain had staggered out of its blind pit of -horror and darkness on that night, she had seen the way clearly lighted -before her! Her first duty was to save the man in the next room from her -father's treachery, and she was here now to do that; but she was here, -too, to do something else. She could, and would, stand between Dave -Henderson and the personal harm that threatened him through the trust he -had reposed in Nicolo Capriano, and she would do this at any cost and at -any sacrifice to herself; but she could not, and she would not, connive -at anything that would tend to keep the stolen money from the possession -of its rightful owners. - -Her hands lifted now and pressed hard against her temples, which had -begun to throb. Yes, and she must do even more than that. There had been -not only treachery on her father's part toward Dave Henderson, there had -been treachery and trickery toward the police in an effort to cover up -the stolen money; and, tacitly at least, she had been an accomplice in -that, and therefore morally she was as much a thief as that man next -door, as much a thief as her father had intended to be--unless now, -with all her strength, with all her might, she strove to undo and make -restitution for a crime in which she had had a part. If it lay within -her power, not adventitiously, not through haphazard, but through the -employment toward that end of every faculty of brain and wit and courage -she possessed, she had no choice now but to get possession of that money -and return it to the authorities. Her conscience was brutally frank -on that point, and brutally direct; there was no room to temporize, no -halfway course--and here was the final, ultimate and supreme test. - -Her face in the darkness whitened. Her lips moved silently. It was -strength and help she asked now. Her mind was already made up. She would -fight for, and, in any way or by any means that offered, get that money, -and return it. And that meant that _she_ must watch Dave Henderson, too. -There was no other way of getting it. He alone knew where it was, and -since it was not to be expected that he would voluntarily give it up, -there seemed left but one alternative--to _take_ it from him. - -Her mind was almost overpoweringly swift now in its flow of tormenting -thoughts. It seemed an impossible situation that she should warn him of -danger from one source, only to do to him again what--no! His life was -not in danger with her; that was the difference. But--but it was not -easy to bring herself to this. She was alone now, with no bonds between -herself and any living soul, except those strange, incongruous bonds -between herself and that man in the next room whom she was, in the same -breath, both trying to save and trying to outwit. Why was it that he was -a thief? They could have been friends if he were not a thief; and she -would have been so glad of a friend now, and she had liked him, and he -did not look like a thief. Perhaps her mother had liked Nicolo Capriano -in the early days, and perhaps Nicolo Capriano then had not looked like -a thief, and perhaps her mother had counted on turning Nicolo Capriano -into an honest man, and---- - -Teresa rose abruptly to her feet. She felt the hot color flood her face. -She saw the man as he had stood that first night on the threshold of her -father's room, and he had looked at her so long and steadily--and there -had been no offence in his look. She caught her breath sharply. Her mind -was running riot! It must not do that! She had many things to accomplish -tonight, and she would need all her wits. - -She forced her thoughts violently into another channel. How long would -it be before this Iron Tavern closed for the night, and Dago George was -in bed and asleep? She did not trust Dago George! She knew him as -one utterly without scruples, and one who was insidiously crafty and -dangerously cunning. She began to rehearse again the scene that she had -had with him--and suddenly drew herself up tensely. Why, at the last -moment as he had left the room, had he reverted to her father's death, -and why had he waited until then, when it should naturally have been -one of his first questions, to inquire--so plausibly--when her father's -death had taken place? - -Her lips grew suddenly hard. Nine days! She had told him nine days. Was -there any significance in that--to Dago George, or to herself? She had -been delayed in leaving San Francisco by her father's funeral. Dave -Henderson had left there several days earlier, but he had only arrived -here at Dago George's to-night. True, the difference in time might be -accounted for through Dave Henderson's presumed necessity of travelling -under cover; but, equally, it might not. Had Dago George thought of -that--as she was thinking of it now? Was it possible that Dave Henderson -had _already_ got that money, and had come here for refuge with it; that -it was now, at this moment, in that next room there, and that, below -stairs, Dago George, too, was sitting, waiting for the hours to pass, -and sleep to come to all but himself! - -She went mechanically to the window, and stood for a moment staring out -upon a vista of dark, shadowy buildings that made jagged, ill-defined -points against the sky-line--and then, with a sudden start, she raised -the window cautiously, soundlessly, inch by inch, and leaned out. Yes, -she was right! The iron platform of a fire-escape was common to her room -and to the room next door. - -For another moment she stood there, and then returned softly across the -room to her chair. - -“It is too early yet!” she whispered--and, with her chin in her hands, -settled back in her chair, and stared into the blackness. - - - - -IV--THE THIRD GUEST - - -BOOKIE SKARVAN, alias the fat man in the taxicab who chewed on the -butt of his cigar, leaned back in his seat, and nibbed his pudgy hands -together in a sort of gratified self-applause. - -“Baggage and all,” repeated Bookie Skarvan to himself. “I guess that's -good enough--what? I guess that's where she's going to hang out, all -right. And I guess the place looks the part! The Iron Tavern--eh?” He -read the window sign, as his taxi rolled by. “Well, leave it to Bookie! -I guess I'll blow back there by-and-by and register--if the rates ain't -too high! But there ain't no hurry! I've been sticking around now for -five years, and I guess I can take a few minutes longer just to make -sure the numbers go up right on the board this time!” - -Bookie Skarvan, with the adroit assistance of his tongue, shifted the -cigar butt to the other corner of his mouth. He expectorated on the -floor of the taxi--and suddenly frowned uneasily. He had had uneasy -moments more than once on his late trip across the continent, but they -were due, not so much to the fear that anything was wrong with his -“dope-sheet,” as they were to the element of superstition which was -inherent in him as a gambler--so far he had not had any luck with that -hundred thousand dollars, in the theft of which he had been forestalled -by Dave Henderson five years ago. That was what was the matter. He was -leery of his luck. - -He chewed savagely. He had an attack of that superstition now--but at -least he knew the panacea to be employed. At times such as these he -communed and reasoned patiently with himself. He communed with himself -now. - -“Sure, she knows where the money is! She's the dark horse, and the long -shot--and I got the tip and the inside dope, ain't I? Sure, she's the -play!” he reassured himself. “She hustled that funeral along something -fierce. And she went tearing around like a wet hen raising money, -letting things go and grabbing at any old price until she'd got enough -to see her through, and then she suddenly locks the house up and beats -it like hell. 'Twasn't natural, was it? She was in _some hurry_--believe -me! What did she do it for--eh? Well, I'll tell you, Bookie--on the -quiet. What Nicolo Capriano knew, she knew. And Nicolo Capriano wasn't -the bird to let one hundred thousand dollars get as close to his claws -as it did without him taking a crack at it. If you ask me, Nicolo pulled -Dave Henderson's leg for the dope; and if you ask me, Nicolo was the guy -who handed out that bomb, and he did it to bump Dave Henderson off--same -as I figured to do once--and cop the loot for himself. Mabbe I'm -wrong--but I guess I'm not. And I guess the odds weren't too rotten to -stake a ride on across the country, I guess they weren't!” - -Bookie lifted a fat hand, pushed back his hat, and scratched -ruminatively at the hair over his right temple. - -“Dave must have had a pal, or he must have slipped it to some one that -time Baldy chased him in the car. It must have been that--he slipped it -to some one during them days the bulls was chasing him, and whoever it -was mabbe has been keeping it for him here in New York. So she beats -it for New York--what? It don't figure out any other way. He didn't go -nowhere and get it after he got out of prison, _I_ know that. And he got -killed the same night, and he didn't have it then. Sure, Capriano bumped -him off! Sure, my hunch is good for the limit! Dave fell for the Lomazzi -talk, and goes and puts his head on Nicolo's bosom so's to give the -police the go-by, and Nicolo sucks the orange dry and heaves away the -pip! And then the old geezer cashes in himself, and the girl flies the -coop. Mabbe she don't know nothing about it”--Bookie Skarvan stuck his -tongue in his cheek, and grinned ironically--“oh, no, mabbe she don't! -And I guess there ain't any family resemblance between the old man and -the girl, neither--eh?--oh, no, mabbe not!” - -The taxi stopped abruptly. The chauffeur reached around and dexterously -opened the door. - -“Here you are!” he announced briefly. - -Bookie Skarvan looked out--upon a very shabby perspective. With the -sole exception of a frankly dirty and disreputable saloon, designated -as “O'Shea's,” which faced him across the sidewalk, the neighborhood -appeared to consist of nothing but Chinese tea-shops, laundries, -restaurants, and the like; while the whole street, gloomy and -ill-lighted, was strewn with unprepossessing basement entrances where -one descended directly from the sidewalk to the cellar level below. - -Bookie Skarvan picked up his hand-bag, descended to the sidewalk, paid -and dismissed the chauffeur, and pushed his way in through the swinging -doors of the saloon. - -“I guess I ain't drinking--not here!” confided Bookie Skarvan to -himself, as he surveyed the unkempt, sawdust-strewn floor and dirty -furnishings, and a group of equally unkempt and hard-looking loungers -that lined the near end of the bar. “No, I guess not,” said Bookie to -himself; “but I guess it's the place, all right.” - -He made his way to the unoccupied end of the bar. The single barkeeper -that the place evidently boasted disengaged himself from the group of -loungers, and approached Bookie Skarvan. - -“Wot's yours?” he inquired indifferently. - -Bookie Skarvan leaned confidentially over the rail, “I'm looking for a -gentleman by the name of Smeeks,” he said, and his left eyelid drooped, -“Cunny Smeeks.” - -The barkeeper's restless black eyes, out of an unamiable and unshaven -face, appraised Bookie Skarvan, and Bookie Skarvan's well-to-do -appearance furtively. - -“It's a new one on me!” he observed blandly. “Never heard of him!” - -Bookie Skarvan shifted his cigar butt--with his tongue. - -“That's too bad!” he said--and leaned a little further over the bar. -“I've come a long way to see him. I'm a stranger here, and mabbe -I've got the wrong place. Mabbe I've got the wrong name too”--Bookie -Skarvan's left eyelid twitched again--“mabbe you'd know him better as -the Scorpion?” - -“Mabbe I would--if I knew him at all,” said the barkeeper -non-committally. “Wot's your lay? Fly-cop?” - -“You're talking now!” said Bookie Skarvan, with a grin. He pulled a -letter from his pocket, and pushed it across the bar. “You can let the -Scorpion figure out for himself how much of a fly-cop I am when he gets -his lamps on that. And it's kind of important! Get me--friend?” - -The barkeeper picked up the plain, sealed envelope--and twirled it -meditatively in his hands for a moment, while his eyes again searched -Bookie Skarvan's face. - -“Youse seem to know yer way about!” he admitted finally, as though not -unfavorably impressed by this later inspection. - -Bookie Skarvan shoved a cigar across the bar. - -“It's straight goods, colonel,” he said. “I'm all the way from 'Frisco, -and everything's on the level. I didn't blow in here on a guess. Start -the letter on its way, and let the Scorpion call the turn. If he don't -want to see me, he don't have to. See?” - -“All right!” said the barkeeper abruptly. “But I'm tellin' youse -straight I ain't seen him to-night, an' I ain't sayin' he's to be found, -or that he's stickin' around here anywhere.” - -“I'll wait,” said Bookie Skarvan pleasantly. - -The barkeeper walked down the length of the bar, disappeared through a -door at the rear for a moment, and, returning, rejoined the group at the -upper end of the room. - -Bookie Skarvan waited. - -Perhaps five minutes passed. The door at the rear of the bar opened -slightly, the barkeeper sauntered down in that direction, and an instant -later nodded his head over his shoulder to Bookie Skarvan, motioning him -to come around the end of the bar. - -“Cunny'll see youse,” he announced, stepping aside from the doorway -to allow Bookie Skarvan to pass. “De Chink'll show youse de way.” He -grinned suddenly. “I guess youse are on de level all right, or youse -wouldn't be goin' where youse are!” - -The door closed behind him, and Bookie Skarvan found himself in a -narrow, dimly-lighted passage. A small, wizened Chinaman, in a white -blouse, standing in front of him, smiled blandly. - -“You fliend of Scorpy's--that allee same belly glood. You come,” invited -the man, and scuffled off along the had. - -Bookie Skarvan followed--and smiled to himself in complacent -satisfaction. Cunny Smeeks, alias the Scorpion, was, if surroundings -were any criterion, living up to his reputation--which was a not -insignificant item on Bookie Skarvan's “dope-sheet”--as one of the -“safest,” as well as one of the most powerful criminal leaders in the -underworld of New York. - -“Sure!” said Bookie Skarvan to himself. “That's the way I got the -dope--and it's right!” - -The passage swerved suddenly, and became almost black. Bookie Skarvan -could just barely make out the flutter of the white blouse in front of -him. And then the guide's voice floated back: - -“Allee same stlairs here--you look out!” - -Cautioned, Bookie Skarvan descended a steep flight of stairs warily into -what was obviously, though it was too dark to see, a cellar. Ahead of -him, however, there appeared, as through an opening of some sort, a -faint glow of light again, and toward this the white blouse fluttered -its way. And then Bookie Skarvan found himself in another passage; and a -strange, sweetish odor came to his nostrils; and strange sounds, subdued -whisperings, rustlings, the dull ring of metal like coin thrown upon -a table, reached his ears. And there seemed to be doors now on either -side, and curtained hangings, and it was soft and silent underfoot. - -“I dunno,” observed Bookie Skarvan to himself. “I dunno--it ain't got -much on 'Frisco, at that!” - -The guide halted, and opened a door. A soft, mellow light shone out. -Bookie Skarvan smiled knowingly. He was not altogether unsophisticated! -A group of richly dressed Chinamen were absorbed in cards. Scarcely one -of them looked up. Bookie Skarvan's eyes passed over the group almost -contemptuously, and fixed on the only man in the room who was not -playing, and, likewise, the only man present who was not an Oriental, -and who, with hands in his pockets, and slouch hat pushed back from his -forehead, stood watching the game--a man who was abnormally short in -stature, and enormously broad in shoulder, who had hair of a violently -aggressive red, and whose eyes, as he turned now to look toward the -door, were of a blue so faded as to make them unpleasantly colorless. - -Bookie Skarvan remained tentatively on the threshold. He needed no -further introduction--no one to whom the man had been previously -described could mistake Cunny Smeeks, alias the Scorpion. - -The other came quickly forward now with outstretched hand. - -“Any friend of Baldy Vickers is a friend of mine,” he said heartily. -“You want to see me---eh? Well, come along, cull, where we can talk.” - -He led the way a little further down the passage, and into another room, -and closed the door. The furnishings here were meager, and evidently -restricted entirely to the votaries of poppy. There was a couch, and -beside it a small tabouret for the opium smoker's paraphernalia. - -The Scorpion pointed to the couch; and possessed himself of the -tabouret, which he straddled. - -“Sit down,” he invited. “Have a drink?” - -“No,” said Bookie Skarvan. “Thanks just the same. I guess I won't take -anything to-night.” He grinned significantly. “I'm likely to be busy.” - -The Scorpion nodded. - -“Sure--all right!” he agreed. “Well, we'll get to cases, then. Baldy -says in his letter that you and him are in on a deal, and that you may -want a card or two slipped you to fill your hand. What's the lay, and -what can I do for you?” - -“It's a bit of a long story.” Bookie Skarvan removed the cigar butt from -his lips, eyed it contemplatively for a moment, finally flung it away, -fished another cigar from his pocket, and, without lighting it, settled -it firmly between his back teeth. “I got to be fair with you,” he said. -“Baldy said he handed it to you straight in the letter, but I got to -make sure you understand. We think we got a good thing, and, if it is, -anything you do ain't going for nothing; but there's always the chance -that it's a bubble, and that there's a hole gets kicked in it.” - -“That's all right!” said Cunny Smeeks, alias the Scorpion, easily. -“If there's anything coming I'll get mine--and I'm satisfied with any -division that Baldy puts across. Baldy and me know each other pretty -well. You can forget all that end of it--Baldy's the whitest boy I ever -met, and what Baldy says goes with me all the way. Go ahead with the -story--spill it!” - -“The details don't count with you,” said Bookie Skarvan slowly; “and -there's no use gumming up the time with them. The bet is that a nice, -sweet, little Italian girl, that's just piked faster'n hell across the -continent, knows where there's a hundred thousand dollars in cold -cash, that was pinched and hidden five years ago by a fellow named Dave -Henderson--see? Dave served his spaces, and got out a few days ago--and -croaked--got blown up with a Dago bomb--get me? He didn't have no time -to enjoy his wealth--kind of tough, eh? Well he stood in with this -Italian girl's father, an old crook named Nicolo Capriano, and he went -there the night he got out of prison. The way we got it doped out is -that the old Italian, after getting next to where the money was, bumped -off Dave Henderson himself--see? Then Nicolo dies of heart disease, and -the girl hardly waits to bury the old man decently, and beats it for -here--me trailing her on the same train. Well, I guess that's all--you -can figure for yourself why we're interested in the girl.” - -“I get you!” said the Scorpion, with a sinister grin. “It don't -look very hard bucking up against a lone female, and I guess you can -telegraph Baldy that he don't need to worry. What do you want--a -bunch to pinch the girl, or a box-worker to crack a safe? You can have -anything that's on tap--and I guess that ain't passing up many bets.” - -Bookie Skarvan shook his head. - -“I don't want either--not yet,” he said. “The girl ain't got the money -yet, and there ain't anything to do but just watch her and keep her from -getting scared until she either grabs it, or lets out where it is.” He -leaned forward toward the Scorpion. “D'ye know a place, not far from -here, that's called The Iron Tavern?” he demanded abruptly. - -The Scorpion shrugged his shoulders. - -“Everybody knows it!” he said caustically. “It's a dump! It's the -rendezvous of the worst outfit of black-handers in America; and the guy -that runs it, a fellow named Dago George, runs the gang, too--and he's -_some_ guy. But what's that got to do with it?” - -“The girl's there,” said Bookie Skarvan tersely. “Oh, she is, eh?” There -was a new and sudden interest in the Scorpion's voice. - -“She went there from the train with her grips.” Bookie Skarvan's cigar -grew restive in his mouth. - -“Well, me, too, I'm for the same joint, only I don't want to take any -chances of spilling the beans.” - -“You mean you're afraid she'll pipe you off?” - -“No,” said Bookie Skarvan. “No, I ain't afraid of that. She never got -a peep at me on the train, and she only saw me once before in her life, -and that time, besides it being dark and me being outside on the front -doorstep, she was so scared I might have been a lamppost, for all she'd -know me again. It was the night her old man croaked--see? No, I ain't -afraid of her--but I couldn't afford to take any chances by blowing -in there right after her. I wasn't afraid of her, but I had my fingers -crossed on whoever ran the place, and I guess, after what you've said, -that my hunch was right. It was a queer place for her to go right off -the bat the minute she landed in New York, and she didn't go there -instead of to a decent hotel just by luck--get me? I figured she might -stand in there pretty thick--and if she did, and I blew in right on top -of her, the betting odds were about one million dollars to a peanut that -I'd be a sucker. I'm sure of it now that you say the fellow who runs -it is a Dago in the same old line of business that her father was in. -What?” - -The Scorpion's pale blue eyes scrutinized Bookie Skarvan's face--and -lighted with a curious benignity. - -“You and Baldy make a pretty good combination, I guess!” he observed -with dry admiration. - -Bookie Skarvan indulged in his wheezy chuckle. “We've had a little luck -together once in a while,” he admitted modestly. “Well, you get me, -don't you? I've got to get into that Iron Tavern joint just the same. -That's the first card we play. I figured that mabbe this Dago George -would know you by reputation anyhow, and that you could fix it for me -without it looking as though it were anything more than a friend of -yours, say, who'd got into a little temporary difficulty with the police -down in Baltimore, say, and was keeping quiet and retired for a few days -till the worst of it blew over--and that you'd picked out his joint as -the best bet for me.” - -The Scorpion got up from his seat abruptly. - -“Say,” he said cordially, “I'm glad I met you! That listens good! Sure! -I guess I can fix that! Dago George and me ain't exactly pals, and we -don't love each other any more than you'd notice--but he knows where he -gets off with Cunny Smeeks! You wait a minute, and I'll get him on the -phone.” - -Cunny Smeeks, alias the Scorpion, of the élite of the New York -underworld, left the room. Bookie Skarvan sprawled negligently back on -the couch. He smiled softly--and chewed contentedly on his cigar. Things -were working well. - -“There's nothing like credit in this wicked world,” Bookie Skarvan -confided sapiently to himself. “I may have to run up quite a bill with -Mr. Cunny Smeeks before I'm through, mabbe quite a fat little bill--but -he can always send it to Baldy--if I'm not here! What? It's beginning to -look good again. Five years I've been trying to get the grappling -hook on that coin. It looks pretty good now, and I guess I can see it -coming--and I guess I won't have to wait as long as Baldy will!” He -wagged his head pleasantly. “I never was fond of San Francisco--and I -always wanted to travel! Perhaps Baldy and Mr. Cunny Smeeks won't be -such good friends by-and-by. I dunno! I only know that Bookie Skarvan -won't be sticking around to see them go into mourning for their share -of that hundred thousand that they think they're going to get--not so's -you'd observe it!” - -Bookie Skarvan's eyes swept the den indifferently and without interest. -They fastened finally on the toe of his own boot. The minutes passed, -and as they passed a scowl came gradually to Bookie Skarvan's face, and -a fat hand in a sudden nervous gesture went to his forehead and brushed -across his eyes. His thoughts seemed to have veered into a less pleasant -channel. - -“Yes,” he muttered, “you can take it from me that I ain't sorry Dave -Henderson's dead--not very! He never saw all my cards, and that's the -one hold Baldy had on me.” The room was apparently over-heated--for a -fat man. A bead of sweat came out on Bookie Skarvan's forehead. He swore -savagely. “You damn fool, can't you forget it! You're not afraid of a -dead man now, are you!” - -The Scorpion came back. - -“Come on!” he said, from the doorway. “It's fixed! He put up a howl and -wouldn't stand for it at first, and he kicked so hard that I guess he's -in with the girl all right. He said he had no place to put anybody; but -he came across all right--with a twist of the screws. You're a friend of -mine, and your Baltimore spiel goes--see?” The pale blue eyes darkened -suddenly. “You get what I've done, don't you? Dago George don't forgive -easily, and if this thing busts open and Dago George tumbles to what -I've handed him, I'm mabbe going to have a little gang war on my hands.” - -“I get you!” said Bookie Skarvan earnestly, as he joined the other in -the doorway. “And that goes into the bill at a hundred cents on the -dollar--and you know Baldy well enough to know what that means.” The -Scorpion laughed. - -“Oh, well, it's nothing to worry about! As I told you, I've never been -very fond of Dago anyhow, and I guess I can take care of anything he -wants to start. There'd be only one of us in at the finish--and it -wouldn't be Dago George! You can go the limit, and you'll find you've -got the biggest backing--on any count--in little old New York! Well, -come on over, and I'll introduce you.” - -“Sure! That's the stuff!” said Bookie Skarvan, as he accompanied the -other to the street. “Baldy said you were the real goods--and I guess I -got to hand it to Baldy!” He chuckled suddenly and wheezingly, as they -went down the block. “The Baltimore crook--eh? Me and Dago George! Leave -it to me! I guess I can handle Dago George!” - -And twenty minutes later, in a room on the third floor of The Iron -Tavern, Bookie Skarvan, “handling” Dago George, laid a detaining hand on -the proprietor's arm, as the latter was bidding him good-night. - -“Look here,” whispered Bookie Skarvan. “I know you're on the level -because Cunny Smeeks says so; but I got to lay low, damned low--savvy? -I ain't for meeting people--not even for passing 'em out in the hall -there. So how about it? Have I got neighbors? I ain't taking any -chances.” - -Dago George laid his forefinger along his nose--and smiled reassuringly. - -“Ah, yes!” he said. “Yes, yes, I understand--eh? But you need have -no fear. I do not take guests, except”--he shrugged his -shoulders--“except--you understand, eh?--to oblige a friend like Cunny -Smeeks. Otherwise”--again the shoulders lifted--“I would not have the -so-great honor of offering you a room. Is it not so? Well, then, there -is no one here, except”--he jerked his thumb toward the opposite door -across the hall--“my niece, who will not trouble you; and in the next -room to hers a friend of mine, who will not trouble you either. There -is no one else. You need have no fear. I assure you, you need have no -fear.” - -Bookie Skarvan nodded. - -“That's all right, then,” he said in a cordial and relieved tone. - -“It's only that I got to be careful.” - -He shook hands with Dago George, as the latter again bade him -good-night. He closed his door, and sat down. The bulge of the -protruding cigar butt metamorphosed what was intended for an amiable -smile into an unlovely grimace. - -“Niece--eh?” murmured Bookie Skarvan to himself. “Well, well--and in -the room across the hall! I guess I won't go to bed just yet, not just -yet--but I guess I'll put out the light.” - - - - -V--THE ROOM ON THE THIRD FLOOR - - -IT was pitch black. Dave Henderson opened his eyes drowsily. He lay -for a moment puzzled and bewildered as to where he was. And then -consciousness returned in fuller measure, and he remembered that he -had thrown himself down on the bed fully dressed--and must have fallen -asleep. - -He stirred now uneasily. He was most uncomfortable. Something brutally -hard and unyielding seemed to be prodding and boring into his side. He -felt down under him with his hand--and smiled quizzically. It was his -revolver. He would probably, otherwise, have slept straight through the -night. The revolver, as he had turned over in his sleep undoubtedly, had -twisted in his pocket, and had resolved itself into a sort of skewer, -muzzle end up, that dug ungraciously and painfully into his ribs. - -He straightened the revolver in his pocket--and the touch of the weapon -seemed to clear his faculties and fling him with a sudden jolt from the -borderland of sleepy, mental indolence into a whirl of mental activity. -He remembered Millman. Millman and the revolver were indissolubly -associated. Only Millman had returned the money. That was the strangest -part of it. Millman had returned the money. It was over there now on the -floor in the dress-suit case. He remembered his scene with Millman. -He remembered that he had deliberately fanned his passion into a white -heat. He should therefore be in an unbridled rage with Millman now--only -he wasn't. Nor would that anger seemingly return--even at his -bidding. Instead, there seemed to be a cold, deliberate, reasoned -self-condemnation creeping upon him. It was not pleasant. He tried to -fight it off. It persisted. He was conscious of a slight headache. He -stirred uneasily again upon the bed. Facts, however he might wish to -avoid them, were cold-blooded, stubborn things. They began to assert -themselves here in the quiet and the darkness. - -Where was that sporting instinct of fair play of his of which he was so -proud! Millman had _not_ gone to that pigeon-cote with any treacherous -motive. Millman had _not_ played the traitor, either for his own -ends or at the instigation of the police. Millman, in blunt language, -knowingly accepting the risk of being caught, when, already known as a -prison bird, no possible explanation could avail him if he were -found with the money in his possession, had gone in order to save a -friend--and that friend was Dave Henderson. - -Dave Henderson shook his head. No--he would not accept that--not so -meekly as all that! Millman hadn't saved him from anything. He could -have got the money himself all right when he got out, and the police -would have been none the wiser. - -He clenched his hands. A voice within him suddenly called him--_coward!_ -In that day in the prison library when he had felt himself cornered, he -had been desperately eager enough for help. It was true, that as things -had turned out, he could have gone safely to the pigeon-cote himself, -as he actually had done, but he had not foreseen the craft of Nicolo -Capriano then, and his back had been to the wall then, and the odds had -seemingly piled to an insurmountable height against him--and Millman, -shifting the danger and the risk to his own shoulders, had stepped into -the breach. Millman had done that. There was no gainsaying it. Well, -he admitted it, didn't he? He had no quarrel with Millman on that score -now, had he? He scowled savagely in the darkness. It was Millman with -his infernal, quixotic and overweening honesty that was the matter. That -was what it was! His quarrel with Millman lay in the fact that Millman -was--_an honest man_. - -He sat bolt upright on the bed, his hands clenched suddenly again. Why -hadn't Millman kept his honesty where it belonged! If Millman felt the -way he did after going to the pigeon-cote and getting that money, why -hadn't Millman stuck to his guns the way any ordinary man would, instead -of laying down like a lamb--why hadn't he fought it out man to man, -until the better man won--and that money went back, or it didn't! Fight! -That was it--fight! If Millman had only fought it out--like an ordinary -man--and---- - -“Be _honest_--at least with yourself!” whispered that inner voice -quietly. “Millman was just as honest with you as he was with his own -soul. He kept faith with you in the only way he could--and still keep -faith with himself. Did he throw you down--Dave?” - -For a moment Dave Henderson did not stir; he seemed mentally and -physically in a strange and singular state of suspended animation. And -then a queer and twisted smile flickered across his lips. - -“Yes, he's white!” he muttered. “By God, the whitest man on -earth--that's Millman! Only--damn him! Damn him, for the hole he's put -me in!” - -Yes, that was it! He had it at last, and exactly now! Over there on the -floor in the dress-suit case was the money; but it wasn't the money that -he, Dave Henderson, had taken a gambler's risk and a sporting chance to -get, it wasn't the money he had fought like a wildcat for--it was -Millman's money. It wasn't the money he had staked his all to win--he -staked nothing here. It was another man's stake. Over there was the -money, and he was free to use it--if he chose to take it as the price of -another man's loyalty, the price that another man paid for having taken -upon himself the risk of prison bars and stone walls again because that -other man believed his _risk_ was substituted for the _certainty_ that -Dave Henderson would otherwise incur that fate! - -The inner voice came quietly again--but it held a bitter gibe. - -“What is the matter? Are you in doubt about anything? Why don't you get -up, and undress, and go to bed, and sleep quietly? You've got the money -now, you're fixed for all your life, and nothing to worry you--Millman -pays the bills.” - -“Five years!” Dave Henderson muttered. “Five years of hell--for -nothing?” - -His face hardened. That was Nicolo Capriano lying over there on his -bed, wasn't it?--and plucking with thin, blue-tipped fingers at -the coverlet--and eyeing him with those black eyes that glittered -virulently--and twisting bloodless lips into a sardonic and contemptuous -sneer. And why was that barbed tongue of Nicolo Capriano pouring out -such a furious and vicious flood of vituperation? - -Another vision came--an oval face of great beauty, but whose expression -was inscrutable; whose dark eyes met his in a long and steady gaze; and -from a full, white, ivory throat, mounting upward until it touched the -wealth of hair that crowned the forehead, a tinge of color brought a -more radiant life. What would Teresa say? - -His hands swept again and again, nervously, fiercely, across his eyes. -In the years of his vaunted boast that neither hell nor the devil would -hold him back, he had not dreamed of this. A thief! Yes, he had been a -thief--but he had never been a piker! He wasn't a vulture, was he, to -feed and gorge on a friend's loyalty! - -He snarled suddenly. Honesty! What was honesty? Millman was trying -to hold himself up as an example to be followed--eh? Well, that was -Millman's privilege, wasn't it? And, after all, how honest was Millman? -Was there anybody who was intrinsically honest? If there were, it might -be different--it might be worth while then to be honest. But Millman -could afford that hundred thousand, Millman had said so himself; it -didn't mean anything to Millman. If, for instance, it took the last -penny Millman had to make good that money there might be something in -honesty to talk about--but that sort of honesty didn't exist, either in -Millman, or in any other human being. He, Dave Henderson, had yet to see -any one who would sacrifice all and everything in an absolutely literal -way upon the altar of honesty as a principle. Every one had his price. -His, Dave Henderson's, price had been one hundred thousand dollars; he, -Dave Henderson, wouldn't steal, say, a hundred dollars--and a hundred -dollars was probably an even greater matter to him than a hundred -thousand was to Millman, and-- - -He brought his mental soliloquy roughly to an end, with a low, half -angry, half perturbed exclamation. What had brought him to weigh the -pros and cons of honesty, anyway! He had never been disturbed on that -score in those five years behind prison bars! Why now? It wasn't that -that concerned him, that held him now in the throes of a bitter mental -conflict, that dismayed him, that tormented him, that mocked at the hell -of torture he would--if he yielded--have endured in vain, that grinned -at him out of the darkness sardonically, and awaited with biting irony -his decision. It didn't matter what degree of honesty Millman possessed; -it was Millman's act, in its most material and tangible sense, that -threatened now to crush him. - -Both hands, like gnarled knobs, went above his head. He was a thief; -but, by God, he was a man! If he kept that money there, he became a -puling, whining beggar, sneaking and crawling his way through life -on--_charity!_ Charity! Oh, yes, he might find a softer name for it; -but, by any name, he would none the less feed to the day he died, like -a parasite and a damned puny, pitiful whelp and cur, on another -man's--charity! - -“Give it back--no!” he whispered fiercely through set lips. “I've paid -too much--it's mine--I've paid for it with the sweat of hell! It's mine! -I will not give it back!” - -“Are you sure?” whispered that inner voice. “It begins to look as though -there were something in life, say, an _honest_ pride, that was worth -more than money--even to you, Dave.” - -He sprang restively from the bed to the floor, and groped his way across -the room to the light. He was in for a night of it--subconsciously he -realized that, subconsciously he realized that he would not sleep, -but subconsciously he was prompted to get his clothes off and obtain, -lacking mental ease, what physical comfort he could. - -He turned on the light, and the act diverted his thoughts momentarily. -He did not seem to remember that he had ever turned off that light--but -rather, in fact, that the light had been on when Dago George had left -the room, and he, Dave Henderson, had flung himself down on the bed. -It was rather strange! His eyes circled the room curiously, narrowed -suddenly as they fell upon the dress-suit case, and upon one of the -catches that appeared to have become unfastened--and with a bound he -reached the dress-suit case, and flung up the lid. - -The money was gone. - - - - -VI--HALF AN ALLEY - - -MOTIONLESS, save that his lips twitched queerly, Dave Henderson stood -erect, and stared down into the pillaged dress-suit case. And then his -hands clenched slowly--tightened--and grew white across the knuckles. - -The money was gone! The agony of those days and nights, when, wounded, -he had fled from the police, the five years of prison torment which he -had endured, seemed to pass with lightning swiftness in review before -him--and to mock him, and to become a ghastly travesty. The money was -gone! - -The pillaged dress-suit case seemed to leer and mock at him, too. He -might have saved himself that little debate, which he had not settled, -and which was based upon a certain element of ethics that involved the -suggestion of charity. It was settled for him now. He _owed_ Millman now -one hundred thousand dollars, only the choice as to whether he would pay -it or not was no longer his, and---- - -Damn it! _The money was gone!_ Could he not grasp that one, single, -concrete, vital fact, and act upon it, without standing here, with his -brain, like some hapless yokel's, agog and maundering? The money was -gone! Gone! Where? When? How? He could only have been asleep for a short -time, surely. He wrenched his watch suddenly from his pocket. Three -o'clock! It was three o'clock in the morning! Five hours! He had been -asleep five hours, then! He must have slept very soundly that any one -could have entered the room without arousing him! - -His lips hardened. He was alert enough now, both mentally and -physically. He stepped over to the door. It was still locked. His eyes -swept around the room. The window, then! What about the window? - -He felt suddenly for his money-belt beneath his underclothing, as he -started across the room. The belt was there. That, at least, was safe. A -twisted smile came to his lips. Naturally! His brain was exhibiting some -glimmer of sense and cohesion now! It was evident enough that no one, -since no one knew anything about it, had been specifically after that -package of banknotes. It could only have been the work of a sneak -thief--who had probably stumbled upon the greatest stroke of luck in his -whole abandoned career. It was undoubtedly a quarter of the city wherein -sneak thieves were bred! The man would obviously not have been fool -enough, with a fortune already in his possession, to have risked the -frisking of his, Dave Henderson's, sleeping person! Was the man, then, -an inmate of The Iron Tavern, say, that greasy waiter, for instance; -or had he gained entrance from outside; or, since the theft might have -taken place hours ago, was it a predatory hanger-on at the bar who had -sneaked his way upstairs, and---- - -The window, too, was locked! It was queer! Both window and door locked! -How had the man got in--and got out again? - -Mechanically, he unlocked and raised the window--and with a quick jerk -of his body forward leaned out excitedly. Was this the answer--this -platform of a fire escape that ran between his window and the next? But -his window had been _locked!_ - -He stood there hesitant. Should he arouse Dago George? He could depend -upon and trust Dago George, thanks to Nicolo Capriano; but to go to Dago -George meant that confidences must be led up to which he desired to give -to no man. His brain seemed suddenly to become frantic. The money was -gone--his, or Millman's, or the devil's, it didn't matter which now--the -money was gone, swallowed up in the black of that night out there, -without a clue that offered him a suggestion even on which to act. But -he couldn't stand here inactive like a fool, could he? Nor--his brain -jeered at him now--could he go out and prowl around the city streets, -and ask each passer-by if he or she had seen a package of banknotes -whose sum was one hundred thousand dollars! What else was there, then, -to do, except to arouse Dago George? Dago George, from what Nicolo -Capriano had said, would have many strings to pull--underground strings. -That was it--_underground strings!_ It wasn't a _police_ job! - -He turned from the window, took a step back across the room, and halted -again abruptly. _What was that?_ It came again--a faint, low, rustling -sound, and it seemed to come from the direction of the fire escape. - -In an instant he was back at the window, but this time he crouched down -at the sill. A second passed while he listened, and from the edge of the -sash strained his eyes out into the darkness, and then his hand crept -into his side pocket and came out with his revolver. Some one, a dark -form, blacker than the night shadows out there, was crawling from the -next window to the fire escape. - -Dave Henderson's lips thinned. Just a second more until that “some one” - was half-way out and half-way in, and at a disadvantage and--_now!_ - -With a spring, lithe and quick as a cat, Dave Henderson was through the -window, and the dark form was wriggling and squirming in his grasp, and -a low cry came--and Dave Henderson swore sharply under his breath. - -It was a woman! A woman! Well, that didn't matter! One hundred thousand -dollars was gone from his dress-suit case, and this woman was -crawling to the fire escape from the next room at three o'clock in the -morning--that was what mattered! - -They were on the iron platform now, and he pushed her none too gently -along it toward the window of his own room--into the light. And then -his hands dropped from her as though suddenly bereft of power, and as -suddenly lifted again, and, almost fierce in their intensity, gripped at -her shoulders, and forced her face more fully into the light. - -“Teresa!” he whispered hoarsely. “You--Teresa!” - -She was trying to smile, but it was a tremulous effort. The great, dark -eyes, out of a face that was ivory white, lifted to his, and faltered, -and dropped again. - -“It's you, Teresa--isn't it?” His voice, his face, his eyes, were full -of incredulous wonder. - -Her lips were still quivering in their smile. She nodded her head in a -sort of quaint, wistful way. - -The blood was pounding and surging in his veins. Teresa! Teresa was -here, standing here before him! Not that phantom picture that had -come to him so often in the days and nights since he had left San -Francisco--the glorious eyes, half veiled by the long lashes, though -they would not look at him, were real; this touch of his hands upon her -shoulders, this touch that thrilled him, was real, and---- - -Slowly his hands fell away from her; and as though to kill and stifle -joy, and mock at gladness, and make sorry sport of ecstasy, there came -creeping upon him doubt, black, ugly, and bitter as gall. - -Yes, it was Teresa! And at sight of her there had come suddenly and -fully, irrefutably, the knowledge that he cared for her; that love, -which comes at no man's bidding, had come to him for her. Yes, it was -Teresa! But what was she doing here? In view of that money, gone in the -last few hours from his dress-suit case, what _could_ Teresa Capriano be -doing here in the next room to his? - -He laughed a little, low, sharply--and turned his head away. Love! How -could he love--and doubt! How could he love--and condemn the one he -loved unheard! He looked at her again now; and the blood in his veins, -as though over-riding now some obstacle that had dammed its flow, grew -swifter, and his pulse quickened. How could he doubt--Teresa! - -But it was Teresa who spoke. - -“We are standing here in the light, and we can be seen from everywhere -around,” she said in a low tone. “You--there is danger. Turn the light -off in your room.” - -“Yes,” he said mechanically, and stepping back into his room, turned off -the light. He was beside her again the next instant. Danger! His mind -was mulling over that. What danger? Why had she said that? What was -its significance in respect of her presence here? The questions came -crowding to his lips. “Danger? What do you mean?” he asked tensely. “And -how did you get here, Teresa? And why? Was it your father who sent you? -There is something that has gone wrong? The police----” - -She shook her head. - -“My father died the night you went away,” she said. - -He drew back, startled. Nicolo Capriano--dead! - -Her father--dead! He could not seem somehow to visualize Nicolo Capriano -as one dead. The man's mentality had so seemed to triumph over his -physical ills, that, sick though he had been, Nicolo Capriano had seemed -to personify and embody vitality and life itself. Dead! He drew in his -breath sharply. Then she was alone, this little figure standing here in -the darkness beside him, high up here in the world of night, with a -void beneath and around them, strangely, curiously cut off, even in a -physical sense, from any other human touch or sympathy--but his. - -He reached out and found her hand, and laid it between both his own. - -“I--I'm no good at words,” he fumbled. “They--they won't come. But he -was the best friend I ever, had in life, too. And so I----” - -“Don't say that! Don't! You mustn't! Do you hear, you mustn't!” Her -hand, that lay in his, was suddenly clenched, and she was striving to -draw it away. “It isn't true! I--that is why I came--I came to tell you. -He was not your friend. He--he betrayed you.” - -He held her hand tighter--in a grip that made her efforts to escape -pitifully impotent. And, almost fiercely, he drew her closer, trying to -read her face in the darkness. - -“He betrayed me! Nicolo Capriano _betrayed_ me!” His mind was suddenly -a riot. Incredulity and amazement mingled with a sickening fear that her -words were literally true--the money was gone! And yet--and yet--Nicolo -Capriano--a traitor! His words rasped now. “Do you know what you are -saying, Teresa? Quick! Answer me! Do you know what you are saying?” - -“I know only too well.” Her voice had broken a little now. “I know that -the money was taken from your room to-night. Please let my hand -go. I--you will hate me in, a moment--for--for, after all, I am his -daughter. Will you please let me go, and I will tell you.” - -Mechanically he released her. - -She turned half away from him, and leaned on the iron hand-rail of the -platform, staring down into the blackness beneath her. - -“Dago George took it--an hour ago,” she said. - -“Dago George!” Dave Henderson straightened. “Ah, so it was Dago George, -was it!” He laughed with sudden menace, and turned impulsively toward -the window of his room. - -“Wait!” she said, and laid a hand detainingly upon his sleeve. “The -money, I am sure, is safe where it is until daylight, anyway. I--I have -more to tell you. It--it is not easy to tell. I--I am his daughter. -Dago George was one of my father's accomplices in the old days in San -Francisco. That letter which I wrote for my father meant nothing that -it said, it contained a secret code that made you a marked man from the -moment you delivered it here, and----” - -“You, too!” There was bitter hurt in Dave Henderson's voice. And then -suddenly he threw his shoulders back. “I don't believe you!” he flung -out fiercely. “I don't understand how you got here, or what you are -doing here, but you _wrote_ that letter--and I don't believe it was a -trap. Do you understand, Teresa--I don't believe you!” - -She raised her head--and it seemed that even in the darkness he caught -the sudden film of tears in her eyes, and saw the lips part in a -quivering smile. She shook her head slowly then. - -“It was not what I wrote,” she said. “It was what my--what he added -afterwards when he signed it. _Con amore_--that was the secret code, -and----” - -“But you did not know that, then--Teresa!” There was a strange, -triumphant uplift in his voice. “I remember! It was while you were out -of the room. Did I not say I did not believe you!” - -Her lips were still quivering, but the smile was gone. “No, I did not -know then,” she said. “But his shame is my shame, nothing can alter -that--I am his daughter. I did not know it until after you had gone--and -then--my father had a--a sudden attack--and that night he died. I--there -was only one thing that I could do. I had no way of warning you except -to try and get here before you did, or at least to get here before Dago -George had gone too far. There--there were things I had to do in San -Francisco--and then I came as quickly as I could. I got here to-night. -I found that you were already here--just a little ahead of me, and that -you had given Dago George the letter. I had only one chance then--to -make Dago George believe that I had come, since my father was dead, to -carry on the plot against you where my father had left off. Dago George -had no suspicions. He knew me.” Her voice held a sudden merciless note. -“I was a Capriano. He told me that you were upstairs here, drugged, and -he gave me the room next to yours.” - -“Drugged!” Dave Henderson passed his hand across his eyes. That -accounted for a great deal! He remembered the slight headache with which -he had awakened; he was suddenly conscious of it now. “Drugged!” he -repeated. - -“In a way,” she said, “I was too late. But Dago George, of course, did -not know any details, and he had not gone any further than that. He had -just left you in your room when I came. He had not, of course, heard -from my father, since my father was dead, and he drugged you so that, -during the night, he could have free access to your room and your -belongings and find out what he could about you. I--I thought to turn -him from that purpose by telling him enough of the truth to make him -content to wait patiently and watch your movements until you had the -money in your possession. Do--do you understand? He said the effects of -the drug would wear off in a few hours, and I meant to warn you then, -and--and we would both make our escape from here. I--that is why I told -you there was danger. Dago George would stop at nothing. He has a band -of men here in New York that I know are as unscrupulous as he is; and -this place here, I am only too sure, has been the trap for more than one -of his victims.” - -She paused. Her voice, though guarded, had grown excited, and a little -breathless. - -It was a moment before Dave Henderson spoke. - -“And you?” His voice was hoarse. “If Dago George had found you out you -wouldn't have had a chance for your life! And you knew that?” - -“Yes,” she said quietly, “I knew that. But that has no place here. There -was no other way.” - -“And you did this for me?” His hands reached out, and fell upon -the girl's slight shoulders, and tightened there. “You did this for -me--Teresa?” - -“I did it because there was no other thing to do, because--because”--her -voice lost its steadiness---“it was my father's guilt.” - -He drew her closer, with a strange, gentle, remorseless strength. - -“And for no other reason--Teresa?” he whispered. “For only that? If it -had not been your father? If he had had nothing to do with it? If it -had been only me?” Her face was very close to his now, so close that the -quick, sudden panting of her breath was upon his cheek, so close that -her lips were almost warm upon his own. - -She put out her hands, and pressed them with a curious gentleness -against his face to ward him off. - -“Don't!” Her voice was very low. “Have you forgotten that I am the -daughter of the man who meant--who meant perhaps to take your life; that -I am the daughter of a criminal?” - -“And I”--he had her wrists now, and was holding the soft, trembling -hands against his cheeks--“I am a thief.” - -“Oh, don't!” She was almost crying now. “You--you don't understand. -There is more. I meant, if I could, to take that money from you myself.” - -In sheer astonishment he let her go, and drew back a step. She seemed to -waver unsteadily on her feet there in the darkness for an instant, -and her hand groped out to the platform railing for support; and then -suddenly she stood erect, her face full toward him, her head thrown back -a little on her shoulders. - -“I meant to get it, if I could--to give it back to those to whom it -belongs. And I still mean to.” Her voice was quiet now, quivering a -little, but bravely under control, “All my life has been a lie. I lived -a lie the night I let you go away without a word of protest about what -you were going to do. I do not mean to throw the blame upon my father, -but with his death all those old ties were broken. Will you try to -understand me? I must either now go on in the old way, or go straight -with my conscience and with God. I could not bargain with God or my -conscience. It was all or nothing. I had a share in enabling you to -hoodwink the police. Therefore if you came into possession of that money -again, I was as much a thief as you were, and as guilty. But I owed it -to you, above all other things, to warn you of your danger; and so I -came here--to warn you first--and afterwards, when you were safe from -Dago George's reach, to watch you, and get the money myself if I could. -Do you understand? - -“When I came here to-night, I did not think that you had yet got the -money; but something that Dago George said made me think that perhaps -you had, and that perhaps he thought so, too. And so I sat there in my -room in the darkness waiting until all was quiet in the house, and I -could steal into your room and search, if I could get in through either -door or window; and then, whether I got in or not, or whether the search -was successful or not, I meant to wait until the drug had worn itself -off sufficiently to enable me to arouse you, and tell you to get away. - -“And then, I do not know what time it was, I heard some one steal up the -stairs and go to the door of your room, and work at the lock very, -very quietly, and go into your room, and move around in there. I was -listening then with my ear to the partition, and I could just make -out the sounds, no more. I should never have heard anything had I been -asleep; there was never enough noise to have awakened me. - -“The footsteps went downstairs, then, and I opened my door and waited -until I heard them, louder, as though caution were no longer necessary, -on the second landing; and then I stole downstairs myself. There was a -light in Dago George's room. It came through the fanlight. The door was -closed. But by leaning over the banister of the lower flight of stairs, -I could see into the far end of the room through the fanlight. He had a -package in his hand. It was torn at one corner, and from this he pulled -out what I could see were a number of yellow-back banknotes. He looked -at these for a moment, then replaced them in the package, and went to -his safe. He knelt down in front of it, laid the package on the floor -beside him, and began to open the safe. I heard some one moving above -then, and I tiptoed back, and hid in what seemed to be a small private -dining room on the second floor. I heard some one go quietly down the -stairs, and then I came back here to my room to wait until I could -arouse you. The money was in Dago George's safe. It would be there until -morning at least, and on that account it no longer concerned me for the -moment. And then after a long time I heard you move in your room. It was -safer to come this way than to go out into the hall, for I did not know -what Dago George might intend to do with you, or with me either, now -that he had the money. He would not hesitate to get rid of us both if -his cunning prompted him to believe that was his safest course. And I -was afraid of that. Only you and I, besides himself, knew anything about -that money--and he had got it into his possession. Do you understand? -When I heard you move, I started through the window to go to you, -and--and you saw me.” - -Dave Henderson had sunk his elbows on the iron railing, his chin resting -in his hands, and was staring at the strange, fluted sky-line where the -buildings jabbed their queer, uneven points up into the night. It was a -long time before he spoke. - -“It's kind of queer, Teresa,” he said slowly. “It's kind of queer. -You're something like a friend of--like a man I know. It's kind of -queer. Well, you've given me my chance, you've risked your life to give -me my chance, you've played as square as any woman God ever made--and -now what are you going to do?” - -She drew in her breath sharply, audibly, as though startled, as -though his words were foreign, startlingly foreign to anything she had -expected. - -“I--have I any choice?” she answered. “I know where the money is, and I -must notify the authorities. I must tell the police so that they can get -it.” - -Dave Henderson's eyes, a curious smile in them that the darkness hid, -shifted from the sky-line to the little dark figure before him. - -“And do you think I will let you tell the police where that money is?” - He laughed quietly. “Do you? Did you think you could come and tell me -just where it was, and then calmly leave me, and walk into the police -station with the news--and get away with it?” - -She shook her head. - -“I know!” she said. “You think it's a woman's inconsistency. It isn't! -I didn't know what you would do, I don't know now. But I have told you -all. I have told you what I intend to do, if I possibly can. I had to -tell you first. If I was to be honest all the way with myself, I had -first of all to be honest with you. After that I was free. I don't know -what you will do. I don't see what you can do now. But if you keep me -from notifying the police to-night--there is to-morrow--and after that -another to-morrow. No matter what happens, to you, or to me, I am going -through with this. I”--her voice choked suddenly--“I have to.” - -Dave Henderson straightened up. - -“I believe you!” he said under his breath. “After what you've done, I'd -be a fool if I didn't. And you're offering me a square fight, aren't -you, Teresa?” He was laughing in that quiet, curious way again. “Well, -I'm not sure I want to fight. Just before I found out that money was -gone, I was wondering if I wouldn't give it back myself.” - -“_Dave!_” It was the first time she had ever called him by his name, and -it came now from her lips in a quick, glad cry. Her hands caught at both -his arms. “Dave, do you mean that? Do you? Dave, it _is_ true! You're -honest, after all!” - -He turned his head away, a sudden hard and bitter smile on his lips. - -“No,” he said. “And I haven't made up my mind yet about giving it back, -anyway. But maybe I had other reasons for even getting as far as I did. -Not honesty. I can't kid, myself on that. I am a thief.” - -Her fingers were gripping at his arms with all their strength, as though -she were afraid that somehow he would elude and escape her. - -“You _were_ a thief”--it seemed as though her soul were in the -passionate entreaty in her voice now--“and I was the daughter of a -criminal, with all the hideous memories of crime and evil that stretch -back to childhood. But that is in the past, Dave, if we will only leave -it there, isn't it? It--it doesn't have to be that way in all the years -that are coming. God gives us both a chance to--to make good. I'm going -to take mine. Won't you take yours, Dave? You were a thief, but how -about from now on?” - -He stood rigid, motionless; and again his face was turned away from her -out into the darkness. - -“From now on.” He repeated the words in a low, wondering way. - -“Yes!” she cried eagerly. “From now on, Dave. Let us get away from -here, and go and notify the police that Dago George has that money, -and--and--and then, you see, the police will come and get it, and return -it where it belongs, and that will end it all.” - -It was a moment before he turned toward her again, and then his face was -white, and drawn, and haggard. He shook his head. - -“I can't do that,” he said hoarsely. “There are more reasons than one -why I can't do that.” Her hands were clasping his arms. He forced them -gently from their hold now, and took them in his own, and drew her -closer to him, and held her there. “And one of those reasons is you, -Teresa. You've played fair with me, and I'll play fair with you. I--I -can't buy you with a fake. I----” - -“Dave!” She struggled to free herself. “Dave, - -“Wait!” His voice was rough with emotion. “We'll talk straight--there -isn't any other way. I--I think I loved you, Teresa, that night, the -first time I saw you, when you stood on the threshold of your father's -room. To-night I know that I love you, and-------” - -“Dave!” - -His hold had brought her very close again to him. He could see a great -crimson tide flood and sweep the white and suddenly averted face. - -“Wait!” he said again. “I think I have learned other things as well -to-night--that you care, Teresa, too, but that the stolen money stands -between you and me. That is what I mean by buying you, and your love, -with a fake. If I returned the money on that account it would not be -because I had suddenly become honest--which is the one thing above all -else that you ask for. It would not be for honesty's sake, but because -I was a hypocrite and dishonest with you, and was letting the money go -because I was getting something for it that was worth more to me than -the money--because I was making a good _bargain_ that was cheap at a -hundred thousand dollars. I can't make myself believe that I feel a -sense of honesty any more to-night than I did the night I first took -that money, and I would be a cur to try to make you think I did.” - -He could feel her hands tremble in his; he could see the sweet face, the -crimson gone from it, deathly pale again. Her lips seemed quivering for -words, but she did not speak. And suddenly he dropped her hands; and his -own hands clenched, and clenched again, at his sides. There was biting -mockery at himself stirring and moiling in his brain. “You fool! You -fool!” a voice cried out. “She's yours! Take her! All you've got to do -is change your tune; she'll believe you--so if you're not honest, why -don't you _steal_ her?” - -“Listen!” It seemed as though he were forcing himself to speak against -his will. “There is another reason; but, first, so that you will -understand, there is Millman. It is too long a story to tell you all of -it. Millman is the man I spoke of--who is honest--like you. I told -him when I was in prison where the money was, and I thought he had -double-crossed me. Instead, he gave it back to me to-night--that is how -I got it so soon.” He laughed out sharply, harshly. “But Millman said if -I didn't give it back to the estate of the man from whom I took it, -he would pay it out of his own pocket, because, for me, he had been a -thief, too. Do you understand? That's why I said I didn't know what I -was going to do. My God--I--I don't know yet. I know well enough that if -the police were tipped off to-night, and got the money, that would let -Millman out of paying it; but that's not the point. I can't squeal now, -can I? I can't go sneaking to the police, and say: 'There it is in -Dago George's safe; I can't get my own paws on it again, so I've turned -honest, and you can go and take it!' I wouldn't like to face Millman -and tell him the money had gone back _that_ way--because I couldn't help -it--because it had been taken from me, and I was doing the smug act in a -piker play!” - -She stepped toward him quickly. - -“Dave,” she whispered tremulously, “what do you mean? What are you going -to do?” - -“I'm going to get that money--from Dago George,” he said in a flat -voice. “I'll get that money if I go through hell again for it, as I've -been through hell for it already. Then maybe it'll go back where it came -from, and maybe it won't; but if it does go back, it'll go back from -_Dave Henderson_--not Dago George!” - -She clutched frantically at his arm. - -“No, no!” she cried out. - -“Listen!” he said. “You have said you meant that money should be -returned if it were within your power to accomplish it. I understand -that. Well, no matter what the result, to Dago George or to me, I am -going down there to get that money--if I can. But if I get it, I do not -promise to return it. Remember that! I promise nothing. So you are free -to leave here; and if you think, and perhaps you will be right, that -the surest way to get the money back is to go instantly to the police, -I shall not blame you. If the police can beat me to it before I settle -with Dago George, they win--that's all. But in any case, it is not safe -for you stay in this place, and so----” - -“I was not thinking of that!” she said in a low voice. “Nor shall I -leave this house--until you do. I--I am afraid--for you. You do not know -Dago George.” - -He did not stir for a moment; and then, with some great, overwhelming -impulse upon him, he took her face in both his hands, and held it there -upturned to his, and looked into the great dark eyes until the lashes -dropped and hid them from his gaze. - -“Teresa,” he whispered low, “there are some things that are worse than -being a thief. I couldn't lay down my hand now, if I wanted to, could -I? I can't quit now, can I? I can't _crawl. I_ took that money; and, -whether I mean to give it back myself, or keep it, I'd rather go out for -good than tell the police it's there, and see the sneer for an honest -man--turned honest because he had lost his nerve, and didn't dare go -after the money and face the risk of a showdown with Dago George, which -was the only way in which he could stay _dishonest_. Teresa, you -see, don't you?” His voice was passionate, hungry in its earnestness. -“Teresa, what would you do--play the game, or quit?” - -The lashes lifted, and for a moment the dark eyes looked steadily into -his, and then they were veiled again. - -“I will wait here for you,” she said. - - - - -VII--THE MAN WITH THE FLASHLIGHT - - -THE silence seemed like some uncanny, living, breathing thing. It -seemed to beat, and pulsate, until the ear-drums throbbed with it. -It seemed to become some mad, discordant chorus, in which every human -emotion vied with every other one that it might prevail over all the -rest: a savage fury, and a triumphant love; a mighty hope, and a cruel -dismay; joy, and a chill, ugly fear. And the chorus rose and clashed, -and it seemed as though some wild, incoherent battle was joined, until -first one strain after another was beaten down and submerged, and put to -rout, until out of the chaos and turmoil, dominant, supreme, arose fury, -merciless and cold. - -Dave Henderson crept along the upper hall. The pocket flashlight in -his hand, one of his purchases on the way East, winked through the -blackness, the round, white ray disclosing for a second's space the head -of the stairs; and blackness fell again. - -He began to descend the stairs cautiously. Yes, that was it--fury. Out -of that wild riot in his brain that was what remained now. It drew his -face into hard, pitiless lines, but it left him most strangely cool and -deliberate--and the more pitiless. It was Dago George who was the object -of that fury, not Nicolo Capriano. That was strange, too, in a way! It -was Nicolo Capriano who had done him the greater wrong, for Dago George -was no more than the other's satellite; but Nicolo Capriano's treachery -seemed tempered somehow--by death perhaps--by that slim figure that he -had left standing out there in the darkness perhaps; his brain refused -to reason it out to a logical conclusion; it held tenaciously to Dago -George. It seemed as though there were a literal physical itch at his -finger-tips to reach a throat-hold and choke the oily, lying smile from -the suave, smug face of that hypocritical bowing figure that had offered -him a glass of wine, and, like a damnable hound, had drugged him, -and---- - -Was that a sound, a sound of movement, of some one stirring below there, -that he heard--or only an exaggerated imagination? He was half-way down -the upper flight of stairs now, and he stopped to listen. No, there -seemed to be nothing--only that silence that palpitated and made noises -of its own; and yet, he was not satisfied; he could have sworn that he -had heard some one moving about. - -He went on down the stairs again, but still more cautiously now. There -was no reason why there _shouldn't_ be some one moving about, even at -this hour. It might be Dago George himself. Dago George might not have -gone to bed again yet. It was only an hour, Teresa had said, since -the man had come upstairs and stolen the money. Or it might be some -accomplice who was with Dago George. He remembered Teresa's reference -to the band of blacklegs over whom Dago George was in command; and he -remembered that some one had come down the stairs behind her and Dago -George. But Teresa herself had evidently been unseen, for there had -been no attempt to find or interfere with her. It had probably therefore -been--well, any one! - -It presented possibilities. - -It might have been an accomplice; or a prowling guest, if there were -other guests in this unsavory hostelry; or a servant, for some unknown -reason nosing about, if any of the disreputable staff slept in the place -at night--the cook, or the greasy waiter, or the bartender, or any of -the rest of them; though, in a place like this, functionaries of that -sort were much more likely to go back to their own homes after their -work was over. It would not be at all unlikely that Dago George, in view -of his outside pernicious activities, kept none of the staff about the -place at night. - -Dave Henderson's jaws closed with a vicious snap. Useless speculation of -this sort got him nowhere! He would find out soon enough! If Dago George -were not alone, there were still several hours till daylight; and he -could wait his chance with grim patience. He was concerned with only -one thing--to square accounts with Dago George in a way that would both -satiate his fury, and force the man to disgorge the contents of his -safe. - -His jaws tightened. There was but one, single, disturbing factor. If -anything went wrong, Teresa was still upstairs there. In every other -respect the stage was set--for any eventuality. He had even taken the -precaution, before doing anything else, to get their valises, hers and -his, out of the place, since in any case they meant to steal away from -this accursed trap-house of Dago George. It had been simple enough to -dispose of the baggage via the fire escape, and through the yard, and -down the lane, where the valises had found a temporary hiding place in -a shed, whose door, opening on the lane, he had discovered ajar, and -simple enough, with Teresa's help in regaining the fire escape from the -ground, to return in the same way; but he had been actuated by more -than the mere idea of being unimpeded in flight if a critical situation -subsequently arose--though in this, his ulterior motive, he had failed -utterly of success. Teresa had agreed thoroughly in the wisdom of first -removing their belongings; but she had refused positively to accompany -and remain with the baggage herself, as he had hoped he might induce her -to do. “I wouldn't be of any use there, if--if anything happened,” - she had said; “I--I might be of some use here.” Neither argument nor -expostulation had been of any avail. She was still above there--waiting. - -He had reached the head of the lower flight of stairs, and now he -halted, and stood motionless. There _was_ a sound from below. It was -neither imagination nor fancy; it was distinct and unmistakable--a low, -rasping, metallic sound. - -For an interval of seconds he stood there listening; then he shifted -the flashlight, switched off now, to his left hand, and his right -hand slipped into his pocket for his revolver. He moved forward then -silently, noiselessly, and, as he descended the stairway, paused at -every step to listen intently again. The sound, with short, almost -negligible interruptions, persisted; and, with if now, it seemed as -though he could distinguish the sound of heavy breathing. And now it -seemed, too, as though the blackness were less opaque, as though, while -there was still no object discernible, the hallway below was in a sort -of murk, and as though, from somewhere, light rays, that were either -carefully guarded or had expended, through distance, almost all their -energy, were still striving to pierce the darkness. - -Tight-lipped now, a few steps farther down, Dave Henderson leaned out -over the bannister--and hung there tensely, rigidly. - -It was like looking upon some weird, uncannily clever effect that had -been thrown upon a moving picture screen. The door of Dago George's room -was wide open, and through this he could see a white circle of light, -the rays thrown away from and in the opposite direction to the door. -They flooded the face of a safe; and, darkly, behind the light itself, -two figures were faintly outlined, one kneeling at the safe, the other -holding a flashlight and standing over the kneeling man's shoulder. And -now the nature of the sounds that he had not been able to define -was obvious--it was the click of a ratchet, the rasp of a bit eating -voraciously into steel, as the kneeling man worked at the face of the -safe. - -For a moment, his eyes narrowed, half in sudden, angry menace, half in -perplexity, he hung there gazing on the scene; and then, with all the -caution that he knew, his weight thrown gradually on each separate tread -to guard against a protesting creak, he went on down the stairs. - -It was strange--damnably and most curiously strange! Was one of those -figures in there Dago George? If so, it would account for the presence -of a second man--the one Teresa had heard coming down stairs. But, if -so, what was Dago George's game? Was the man going to put up the bluff -that he had been robbed, and was therefore wrecking his own safe? That -was an old gag! But what purpose could it serve Dago George in the -present instance? It wasn't as though he, Dave Henderson, had _confided_ -the package to Dago George's keeping, and Dago George could take this -means of cunningly securing it for himself. Dago George had stolen -it--and, logically, the last thing Dago George would do would be to -admit any knowledge of it, let alone flaunt it openly! - -At the foot of the stairs, Dave Henderson discarded that theory as -untenable. But if, then, neither one of the two in there was Dago -George--_where was Dago George?_ It was a little beyond attributing -to mere coincidence, the fact that a couple of marauding safe-breakers -should have _happened_ to select Dago George's safe to-night in the -ordinary routine of their nefarious vocation. Coincidence, as an -explanation, wasn't good enough! It looked queer--extremely queer! -Where he had thought that no one, save Millman and himself, had known -anything about the presence of that money in New York to-night, it -appeared that a most amazing number were not only aware of it, but were -intimately interested in that fact! - -He smiled a little in the darkness, not pleasantly, as he crept -now, inch by inch, along the hall toward the open door. He, too, was -_interested_ in that package of banknotes in the safe! And, Dago George -or the devil, it mattered very little which, there would be a showdown, -very likely now a grim and very pretty little showdown, before the money -left that room in any one's possession save his own! - -From ahead, inside the room, there came a slight clatter, as though -a tool of some sort had been dropped or tossed on the floor. It was -followed by a muttered exclamation, and then a sort of breathless, but -triumphant grunt. And then a voice, in a guttural undertone: - -“Dere youse are, sport! Help yerself!” - -Dave Henderson crouched back against the wall. He was well along the -hall now, and quite close enough to the doorway of Dago George's private -domain to enable him, given the necessary light, to see the whole -interior quite freely. The door of the safe, in a dismantled condition, -was swung open; strewn on the floor lay the kit of tools through whose -instrumentality the job had been accomplished; and the man with the -flashlight was bending forward, the white ray flooding the inside of the -safe. - -There came suddenly now a queer twitching to Dave Henderson's lips, and -it came coincidentally with a sharp exclamation of delight from the -man with the flashlight. In the man's hand was the original package of -banknotes, its torn corner identifying it instantly to Dave Henderson, -and evidencing with equal certainty to its immediate possessor that it -was the object, presumably, which was sought. - -And now the man with the flashlight, without turning, reached out and -laid the package on the desk beside the safe. The movement, however, -sent the flashlight's ray in a jerky half circle around the room, -and mechanically Dave Henderson raised his hand and brushed it across -his eyes. Was _that_ fancy--what he had seen? It was gone now, it was -dark in there now, for the flashlight was boring into the safe again, -and the man with the flashlight seemed intent on the balance of the -safe's contents. It had been only a glimpse, a glimpse that had lasted -no longer than the time it takes a watch to tick, but it seemed to have -mirrored itself upon Dave Henderson's brain so that he could still see -it even in the darkness: It was a huddled form on the floor, close by -the bed, just as though it had pitched itself convulsively out of the -bed, and it lay there sprawled grotesquely, and the white face had -seemed to grin at him in a horrid and contorted way--and it was the face -of Dago George. - -The man with the flashlight spoke suddenly over his shoulder to his -companion: - -“You've pulled a good job, Maggot!” he said approvingly. “Better than -either Cunny or me was looking for, I guess. And so much so that I guess -Cunny had better horn in himself before we close up for the night. You -beat it over to the joint and bring him back. Tell him there's some -queer stuff in this safe besides what we were after and what we -got--some gang stuff that'll mabbe interest him, 'cause he said he -wasn't very fond of Dago George. I don't know whether he'll want to take -any of it or not, or whether he'd rather let the police have it when -they wise up to this in the morning. He can look it over for himself. -Tell him I want him to see it before I monkey with it myself. You can -leave your watchmaker's tools there. You ought to be back in a little -better than ten minutes if you hurry. We got a good hour and more yet -before daylight, and before any of the crowd that work here gets back -on the job, and until then we got the house to ourselves, but that's no -reason for wasting any fleeting moments, so get a move on! See?” - -“Sure!” grunted the other. - -“Well, then, beat it!” - -Footsteps sounded from the room, coming in the direction of the doorway, -and Dave Henderson slipped instantly across the hall, and edged in -behind the door,-that, opening back into the hall, afforded him both a -convenient and secure retreat. The smile on his lips was more pleasant -now. It was very thoughtful of the man with the flashlight--very! He -cared nothing about the other man, who was now walking stealthily down -the hall toward the front door; the _money_ was still in that room -in there! Also, he was glad to have had confirmed what he had already -surmised--that Dago George slept alone in The Iron Tavern. - -The front door opened and closed again softly. Dave Henderson stole -silently across the hall again, and crouched against the opposite wall -once more, but this time almost at the door jamb itself. - -The flashlight, full on, lay on the desk. It played over the package -of banknotes, and sent back a reflected gleam from the nickel-work of a -telephone instrument that stood a few inches further along on the desk. -The man's form, his back to the door, and back of the light, was like a -silhouetted shadow. It was quiet, silent now in the house. Perhaps five -seconds passed, and then the man chuckled low and wheezingly. - -Dave Henderson grew suddenly rigid. It startled him. Somewhere he had -heard that chuckle before--somewhere. It seemed striving to stir and -awaken memory. There was something strangely familiar about it, and---- - -The man, still chuckling, was muttering audibly to himself now. - -“Sure, that's the dope! The Scorpion--eh? Cunny the Scorpion! Nice name! -Well, we'll see who gets _stung!_ I guess ten minutes' start ain't good -enough; but if some one's chasing the Scorpion, he won't have so much -time to chase me. Yes, I guess this is where I fade away--with the -goods. By the time there's been anything straightened out, and even -if he squeals if he's caught, I guess I'll be far enough away to -worry--not!” - -Dave Henderson's face had grown as white and set as chiselled marble; -but he did not move. - -The man leaned abruptly forward over the desk, picked up the telephone, -chuckled again, and then snatched the receiver from the hook. And the -next instant, his voice full of well-simulated terror, he was calling -wildly, frantically, into the transmitter: - -“Central!... Central!... For God's sake!... Quick!... Help!... I'm -Dago George.... The Iron Tavern.... They're murdering me.... Get the -police!... For God's sake!... Get the police.... Tell them Cunny Smeeks is murdering me.... Hurry!... Quick!... For God's----” - -The man allowed the telephone and the unhooked receiver to crash -abruptly to the floor. The cord, catching the flashlight, carried the -flashlight with it, and the light went out. - -And then Dave Henderson moved. With a spring, he was half-way across -the room--and his own flashlight stabbed a lane of light through the -blackness, and struck, as the other whirled with a startled cry, full on -the man's face. - -It was Bookie Skarvan. - - - - -VIII--BOOKIE SKARVAN PAYS HIS ACCOUNT - - -THE little red-rimmed eyes blinked into the glare--it was the only -color left in the white, flabby face--the red rims of the furtive little -eyes. Bookie Skarvan's fat hand lifted and tugged at his collar, as -though the collar choked him. He fell back a step and his heel crunched -upon the telephone transmitter, and smashed it. And then Bookie Skarvan -licked his lips--and attempted a smile. - -“I,” mumbled Bookie Skarvan, “I--I can't see your face. Who--who are -you?” The sound of his own voice, husky and shaken as it was, seemed -to bring him a certain reassurance. “What do you want? Eh--what do you -want?” he demanded. - -Dave Henderson made no reply. It seemed as though his mind and soul and -body were engulfed in some primal, savage ecstasy. Years swept their -lightning sequence through his brain; hours, with the prison walls and -iron bars around him, in which he had promised himself this moment, -seemed to live their life and existence over again. He said no word; he -made no sound--but, with the flashlight still playing without a flicker -of movement upon the other, he felt, with the back of his revolver hand, -over Bookie Skarvan's clothing, located in one of the pockets Bookie -Skarvan's revolver, and, with utter contempt for any move the man might -make through the opening thus given him, hooked the guard of his own -revolver on the little finger of the hand that held the flashlight, and -unceremoniously jerked the other's weapon out from the pocket and tossed -it to the far end of the desk. The flashlight lifted then, and circled -the walls of the room. Bookie Skarvan's complaint had not gone unheeded. -Bookie Skarvan would have ample opportunity to see whose face it was! -The flashlight found and held on the electric-light switch. It was on -the opposite wall behind Bookie Skarvan. Dave Henderson shoved the man -roughly out of the way, stepped quickly forward to the wall, switched on -the light--and swung around to face Bookie Skarvan. - -For an instant Bookie Skarvan stood there without movement, the little -eyes dilating, the white face turning ashen and gray, and then great -beads of sweat sprang out upon the forehead--and a scream of abject -terror pealed through the room. - -“Go away!” screamed Bookie Skarvan. “You're dead! Go away! Go back to -hell where you belong!” His hands clawed out in front of him. “Do you -hear? You're dead--dead! Go away! Curse you, damn you--go away!” - -Dave Henderson spoke through closed teeth: - -“You ought to be satisfied then--Bookie. You've wanted me dead for quite -a while--for _five years_, haven't you?” - -There was no answer. - -Dave Henderson's eyes automatically swept around the now lighted room. -Yes, that was Dago George there on the floor near the bed, lying on the -side of his face, with a hideous gash across his head. The man was dead, -of course; he couldn't be anything else. But anyway, Dago George was as -something apart, an extraneous thing. There was only _one_ thing in the -world, one thing that held mind and soul and body in a thrall of wild, -seething, remorseless passion--that maudlin, grovelling thing there, -whose clawing hands had found the end of the desk, and who hung there -with curious limpness, as though, because the knees sagged, the weight -of his body was supported by his arms alone--that thing whose lips, -evidently trying to form words, jerked up and down like flaps of flesh -from which all nerve control had gone. - -“Maybe you didn't know that I knew it was you who were back of that -attempt to murder me that night--five years ago.” Dave Henderson thrust -the flashlight into his pocket, and took a step forward. “Well, you know -it now!” - -A sweat bead trickled down the fat, working face--and lost itself in a -fold of flabby flesh. - -“No!” Bookie Skarvan found his tongue. “No! Honest to God, Dave!” he -whined. “It was Baldy.” - -“Don't lie! I _know!_” There was a cold deadliness in Dave Henderson's -tones. “Stand away from the desk a little, so that I can get a look at -that telephone on the floor! I don't want any witness to what's going to -happen here, and a telephone with the receiver off----” - -“My God!” Bookie Skarvan cried out wildly. “What are you going to do?” - -“Yes, I guess it's out of commission.” Dave Henderson's voice seemed -utterly detached; he seemed utterly to ignore the other for a moment, as -he looked at the broken instrument. - -Bookie Skarvan, in an access of fear, mopped at his wet face, and his -little red-rimmed eyes, like the eyes of a cornered rat, darted swift, -frantic glances in all directions around the room. - -“Dave, do you hear!” Bookie Skarvan's voice rose thin and squealing. -“Why don't you answer? Do you hear! What--what are you going to do?” - -“It's queer, kind of queer, to find you here, Bookie,” said Dave -Henderson evenly. “I guess there's a God--Bookie. How did you get -here--from San Francisco?” - -Bookie Skarvan licked at his dry lips, and cowered back from the -revolver that was suddenly outflung in Dave Henderson's hand. - -“I--I followed the girl. I thought you'd opened up to the old man, and -he'd bumped you off with that bomb to get the stuff for himself. I was -sure of it when he died, and she beat it for here.” - -“And to-night?” Dave Henderson's voice was rasping now. - -“I got the room opposite hers.” Bookie Skarvan gulped heavily; his eyes -were fixed, staring now, as though fascinated by the revolver muzzle. -“She came downstairs. I followed her, but I don't know where she went -to. I saw the package go into the safe. I could see through the fanlight -over the door. I saw him”--Bookie Skarvan's hand jerked out toward the -huddled form on the floor--“I saw him put it there.” Mechanically, Dave -Henderson's eyes followed the gesture--and narrowed for an instant in a -puzzled, startled way. Had that dead man there _moved?_ The body seemed -slightly nearer to the head of the bed!' Fancy! Imagination! He hadn't -marked the exact position of the body to begin with, and it was still -huddled, still inert, still in the same sprawled, contorted position. -His eyes reverted to Bookie Skarvan. - -“You had a man in here with you at work on that safe, a man you called -Maggot, and you sent him, with that dirty brand of trickery of yours, -to bring back some one you called Cunny the Scorpion, with the idea that -instead of finding you and the money here--they would find the police.” - There was a twisted, merciless smile on Dave Henderson's lips. “Where -did you get into touch with your _friends?_” - -Bookie Skarvan's eyes were roving again, seeking some avenue of escape, -it seemed. Dave Henderson laughed shortly, unpleasantly, as he watched -the other. There was only the door and the window. But he, Dave -Henderson, blocked the way to the door; and the window, as he knew -through the not-too-cursory examination he had made of it when he had -come down the fire escape with the valises, was equally impassable. It -had been in his mind then that perhaps he, himself, might gain entrance -to Dago George's room through the window--only the old-fashioned iron -shutters, carefully closed and fastened, had barred the way. - -“Well?” He flung the word sharply at Bookie Skarvan. - -“I--Baldy knew the Scorpion.” Bookie Skarvan's fingers wriggled between -his collar and his fat neck. “Baldy gave me a letter to him, and the -Scorpion put one over on--on that fellow on the floor, and got me a room -here upstairs. And when I saw the money going into the safe I beat it -for the Scorpion, and got him to give me a box-worker, so he got Maggot -for me, and----” - -“You hadn't the nerve, of course, when you saw Dago George putting the -money in the safe, to tackle the job alone before the safe was locked!” - There was grim, contemptuous irony in Dave Henderson's voice. “You're -the same old Bookie, aren't you--yellow as the sulphur pit of hell!” His -face hardened. “Ten minutes, you said it would take them to get back. -It's not very long, Bookie. And say two or three minutes longer, or -perhaps a little more, for the police, allowing for the time it would -take central to get her breath after that nerve racking cry for help you -sent her. Or maybe the police would even get here first--depending on -how far away the station is. I'm a stranger here, and I don't know. In -that case, there wouldn't be even ten minutes--and part of that is gone -now. There isn't much time, Bookie. But there's time enough for you and -me to settle our little account. I used to think of what I'd do to you -when I got out on the other side of those iron bars. I used to think of -it when I couldn't sleep at night in my cell. I kept thinking of it for -_five years_, Bookie--and here we are to-night at last, the two of us, -you and me, Bookie. I overheard Runty Mott explain the whole plant you -had put up to murder me, so there's no use of you lying, there's no use -of you starting that--that's _one_ thing you haven't got time to do. -You'd better clean house, Bookie, for there isn't room enough in this -world for the two of us--one of us has got to go.” - -Bookie Skarvan had crouched against the end of the desk again. He -cringed now, one arm upraised as though to ward off a blow. - -“What--what are you going to do?” The words came thick and miserably. -Their repetition seemed all that his tongue was capable of. “What--what -are you going to do?” - -“I can't _murder_ you!” Dave Henderson's face had grown set and -colorless--as colorless as his tone. “I wish to God I could! It's coming -to you! But I can't! There's your revolver on the end of the desk. Take -it!” - -Again and again, Bookie Skarvan's tongue licked at his lips. - -“What do you mean?” he whispered. - -“You know what I mean!” Dave Henderson answered levelly. “Take it!” - -“My God!” screamed Bookie Skarvan. “No! My God--no! Not that!” - -“Yes--_that!_ You're getting what I swore I'd never give you--a chance. -Either you or I are going out. Take that revolver, and for the first -time in your life try and be a man; or else I'll fix you, and I'll fix -it so that you won't move from here until your friend the Scorpion gets -his chance at you for the pleasant little surprise you had arranged for -him with your telephone trick, or until the police carry you out with -a through ticket to the electric chair for what looks like murder over -there on the floor. You understand--Bookie? I'll make you fight, you -cur! It's the only chance you've got for your life. Now--take it!” - -Bookie Skarvan wrung his hands together. A queer crooning sound came -from his lips. He was trembling violently. - -“There aren't very many of those ten minutes left, Bookie,” said Dave -Henderson coldly. “But if you got in a lucky shot--Bookie--you'd still -have time to get away, from here. And there's the money there, too--you -could take that with you.” - -The man seemed near collapse. Great beads from his forehead ran down and -over the sagging jowls. He moaned a little, and stared at the revolver -that lay upon the desk, and reached out his hand toward the weapon, and -drew his hand back again. He looked again at Dave Henderson, and at the -muzzle of the revolver that covered him. He seemed to read something -irrevocable and remorseless in both. Slowly, his mouth working, his face -muscles twitching, he reached again to the desk, and pulled the revolver -to him; and then, his arm falling nervelessly, he held the weapon -dangling at his side. - -Dave Henderson's revolver was lowered until it pointed to the floor. - -“When you lift your hand, Bookie, it's the signal,” he said in a -monotone. - -Bookie Skarvan's knees seemed to bend and sag a little more--there was -no other movement. - -“I'm waiting,” said Dave Henderson--and pulled the trigger of his -revolver to put a shot into the floor. - -There was the click of the falling hammer--no more. A grim smile played -across Dave Henderson's lips. It was as well, perhaps, that he had tried -in that way to startle, to _frighten_, this terrified, spineless cur who -stood there into action! The cartridge that he had depended upon for his -life had missed fire! He pulled the trigger again. The hammer clicked. -He pulled again--his eyes never leaving Bookie Skarvan's face. The -hammer clicked. - -For the fraction of a second the room seemed blurred to Dave Henderson. -_The chambers of his revolver were empty!_ His brain seemed to sicken, -and then to recover itself, and leap into fierce, virile activity. He -was at the mercy of that cringing hound there--if the other but knew -it. It seemed as though all the devils of hell shrieked at him in unholy -mirth. If he moved a step forward to rush, to close with the other, the -very paroxysm of fear that possessed Bookie Skarvan would instinctively -incite the man to fire. There was one way, only one way--the electric -light switch behind him. If he could reach that without Bookie Skarvan -realizing the truth, there would be the darkness--and his bare hands. -Well, he asked no more than that--only that Bookie Skarvan did not get -away. His bare hands were enough. - -He moved back a single step, as though shifting his position, his face -impassive, watching the dangling weapon in the other's shaky hand, -watching the other's working lips. The chamber of his revolver was -empty! How? When? It had been fully loaded when he lay down on the bed. -Yes! He remembered! It was queer that it had twisted like that in his -sleep. Dago George! It came in a lightning flash of intuition. Dago -George, cautious to excite no suspicion, had been equally cautious to -draw, his, Dave Henderson's, teeth! - -He edged back another step--and stopped, as though rooted to the spot. -Bookie Skarvan, that dangling revolver in the other's hand, his own -peril, all, everything that but an instant before had obsessed his mind, -was blotted out from his consciousness as though it had never existed. -That huddled form, that murdered man on the floor behind Bookie Skarvan, -that he could see over Bookie Skarvan's shoulder, had raised his hand -in a swift, sudden movement, and had thrust it under the mattress at the -head of the bed, and had snatched out a revolver. - -It was quick, quick as thought, quick as the winking of an eye. A shout -of warning rose to Dave Henderson's lips--and was drowned in the report -of the revolver shot, deafening, racketing, in the confined space. And, -as though thrown into relief by the flash and the tongue flame of the -revolver, a picture seemed to sear itself into Dave Henderson's brain: -The up-flung arms of Bookie Skarvan, the ghastly surprise on the -sweat-beaded face, the fat body spinning grotesquely like a run-down -top--and pitching forward to the floor. And through the lifting smoke, -another face--Dago George's face, working, livid, blood-smirched, full -of demoniacal triumph. And then a gurgling peal of laughter. - -“Yes, and you, too! _Con Amore!_” gurgled Dago George. “You, too!” - -The man was on his knees now, lurching there, the revolver swaying -weakly, trying to draw its bead now on him, Dave Henderson. He moved -with a spring to one side toward the door. The revolver, as though -jerked desperately in the weak hand, followed him. He flung himself to -the floor. A shot rang out. And then, as though through the flash again, -another picture lived: The revolver dropping from a hand that could no -longer hold it, a graying face that swayed on shoulders which in turn -rocked to and fro--and then a lurch--a thud--and, the face was hidden -between out-sprawled arms--and Dago George did not move any more. - - - - -IX--THE ENDING OF THE NIGHT - - -MECHANICALLY, Dave Henderson rose to his feet, and for an instant stood -as though, his mental faculties numbed, he were striving to grasp as a -concrete thing some stark and horribly naked tragedy that his eyes told -him was real, but which his brain denied and refused to accept. Thin -layers of smoke, suspended, sinuous, floated in hideous little gray -clouds about the room--like palls that sought to hide what lay upon the -floor from sight, and, failing in their object, but added another grim -and significant detail to the scene. - -And then his brain cleared, and he jumped forward to bend first over -Bookie Skarvan and then over Dago George; and, where his mind had been -unreceptive and numbed but an instant before, it was keen, swift and -incisive now--the police who had been summoned--the Scorpion and his -parasite yegg who were on the way back--there was no time to lose! There -was no one in the house to have heard the shots--Bookie Skarvan had -settled that point--no one except Teresa upstairs. But the shots might -have been heard _outside_. - -His ears throbbed with strange noises; those shots seemed still to be -reverberating and beating at his eardrums. Yes, the shots might have -been heard outside on the street, or by some one in the next house. Was -that some one at the front door now? He held his breath, as he rose from -Dago George's side. No, just the ringing in his ears; there wasn't any -other, sound. But there wasn't an instant to lose; both Bookie Skarvan -and Dago George were dead. There wasn't an instant to lose--only the -instant he _must_ take to make sure he made no false move here before he -snatched up that package on the desk there, and ran upstairs, and, with -Teresa, made his way out by the fire escape. - -He stooped, and stretched out his hand to exchange his own empty -revolver for the one that lay on the floor where it had fallen from -Dago George's lifeless fingers--and, instead, drew his hand sharply back -again. Fool! The police would investigate this, wouldn't they? Bookie -Skarvan couldn't have been shot by an _empty_ revolver! Well--he was -moving toward the desk and back toward where Bookie Skarvan lay--suppose -he took Bookie's revolver then? He shook his head. He did not need one -bad enough for that. It was better to let things remain as they were and -let the police draw their own conclusions, conclusions which, if nothing -was interfered with, and he got away with the package of banknotes, -would point no inference that, by hook or crook, would afford a clew -which might lead to him. Was he so sure of that? Suppose the Scorpion -had been let into Bookie's confidence, and that the Scorpion when he -got here should happen to be caught by the police--and _talked_ to save -himself? - -A grim smile settled on Dave Henderson's lips, as he thrust his useless -revolver into his pocket, and, reaching out to the desk, picked up -the package of banknotes. Well, if anything came of the Scorpion, it -couldn't be helped! And, after all, did it matter very much? It wasn't -only Dago George and Bookie Skarvan who were dead--Dave Henderson was -dead, too! - -It had been scarcely a minute since he had first risen: to his feet; it -was his mind, sifting, weighing, arguing with itself, that had seemed to -use up priceless time, whereas, in reality, in its swift working, it -had kept pace with, and had even prodded him into speed in his physical -movements. He was running now, the package of banknotes in his hand, for -the door. Dago George was dead. Bookie Skarvan was dead. And if---- - -He staggered suddenly back, and reeled from the impact, as a man from -just outside in the hallway launched himself ferociously forward across -the threshold. The package spun from his hand to the floor. Half flung -to his knees, Dave Henderson's arms shot out instinctively and wrapped -themselves around his assailant's body. - -Came a snarl and an oath, and Dave Henderson's head rocked back on his -shoulders from a vicious short-arm jab that caught him on the point of -the jaw. It dazed him; he was conscious only that he had not let go his -hold, that his hands, like feeling tentacles, were creeping further -up the man's body toward throat and shoulders, drawing his own body up -after them into a more upright position. His head sang with the blow. A -voice seemed to float from somewhere out of the air: - -“That's the stuff, Maggot! Soak him!” - -Dave Henderson's arms had locked now like steel bands around his -assailant and were tightening, as the other's were tightening around -him in turn. The dizziness was leaving him. They swung, rocking, to the -strain. The man was strong! A face, a repellent, unshaven face, leered -into his. Twice they swirled around, and then seemed to hang for an -instant motionless, as though the strength of one exerted to its utmost -was exactly counterbalanced by the strength of the other; and over the -other's shoulder Dave Henderson could see another man, a man who laughed -with ugly coolness, and who had flaming red hair, and eyes of a blue so -faded that they looked repulsive because they looked as though they were -white. - -Maggott and Cunny the Scorpion! There _had_ been some one there in the -front of the house--it had been Maggot and Cunny the Scorpion. And at -any moment now there would be some one else--the police! - -That nicety of balance was gone. They were struggling, lurching, -staggering in each other's embrace again--he, and this Maggot, who -snarled and cursed with panting breath. Their heads were almost on each -other's shoulders. He could see the straining muscles in the other's -neck standing out like great, purple, swollen cords. And as he whirled -now this way and that, he caught glimpses of the red-headed man. The -red-headed man seemed to be quite unconcerned for the moment with his -companion's struggle. He picked up the package of banknotes from the -floor, examined it, dropped it again, and ran to Bookie Skarvan's side. - -A queer, hard smile came to Dave Henderson's lips. This panting thing -with arms locked like a gorilla's around him seemed to be weakening a -little--or was it a trick? He tightened his own hold, and edged his own -hands a little higher up--and still a little higher. If he could only -tear himself loose for the fraction of a second, and get his fingers on -that panting throat! No, the man wasn't weakening so much after all! -The man seemed to sense his intention; and with a sudden twist, each -endeavoring to out-maneuver the other, they spun in a wider circle, like -drunken dancers in some mad revel, and crashed against the wall, and -rebounded from it, and hung again, swaying like crazy pendulums, in the -middle of the floor. - -The red-headed man's voice came suddenly from across the room: - -“Soak him, Maggot!” - -That was the Scorpion. The Scorpion seemed to be taking some interest at -last in something besides Bookie Skarvan and the package of money. - -A grunted oath from Dave Henderson's antagonist answered. - -“Damn it, I can't! Curse youse, why don't youse lend a hand!” - -With a quick, sudden wrench, Dave Henderson tried to free himself. It -resulted only in a wild swirl in a half circle that almost pitched him, -and with him the other, to the floor. But he saw the Scorpion now. -The Scorpion had risen to his feet from Bookie Skarvan's side, and was -balancing a revolver in his hand; and now the Scorpion's voice seemed to -hold a sort of purring note, velvet in its softness. - -“All right, then, Maggot! We might as well have a clean-up here, since -he's started it. I guess we came just about in time, or he'd have had -the money as well as our fat friend there--that he _got_. It looks -as though we ought to even up the score.” The revolver lifted in the -Scorpion's hand. “Jump away, Maggot--I'm going to lead the ace of -trumps!” - -The eyes were white--not blue; there was no blue in them; they were -white--two little white spots across the room. They held a devil's -menace in them--like the voice--like the purring voice that was hideous -because it was so soft. God, could he hold this Maggot now--not wrench -himself free, but hold the man here in his arms--keep Maggot between him -and those white eyes, that looked like wicked little plague spots which -had eaten into that grotesquely red-thatched face. - -Maggot was fighting like a demon now to tear himself free. A sweat bead -spurted out on Dave Henderson's forehead and rolled down his face. The -white eyes came dancing nearer--nearer. They circled and circled, as -he circled--Maggot was the shield. He whirled this way and that. The -muscles of his arms cracked, as they swung and whipped Maggot around in -furious gyrations. - -A shot rang out. Something sang with an angry hum and hot breath past -Dave Henderson's cheek. The velvet voice laughed. Maggot screamed in a -mixture of rage and fear. - -“Curse youse, youse fool! Youse'll hit me!” - -“I'll get him next time, Maggot,” purred the velvet voice. - -The white eyes kept too far away--that was what was the matter--too far -away. If they would only come near--near enough so that of a sudden he -could let go his grip and launch this squirming human shield full, like -a battering ram, into those white eyes. That was the only chance there -was. Only the Scorpion was too cunning for that--he kept too far away. - -Dave Henderson swung madly around again, interposing Maggot's body as -the Scorpion darted to one side; and then suddenly, and for the first -time, there came a sound from Dave Henderson's lips--a low cry of pain. -_Teresa!_ - -It was only a glimpse he got--perhaps it wasn't real! Just a glimpse -into the hallway where the light from the room streamed out--just a -glimpse of a figure on the stairs who leaned out over the banister, and -whose face was white as death itself, and whose hands seemed to grip and -cling to the banister rail as though they were welded there. - -Teresa! He grew sick at heart as he struggled now. Teresa! If he could -only have kept her out of this; if only, at least, she were not there to -_see!_ It couldn't last much longer! True, Maggot, beyond doubt, beyond -shadow of trickery now, had had his fill of fighting, and there was fear -upon the man, the fear of an unlucky shot from the Scorpion, and he -was whimpering now, and he struggled only apathetically, but it took -strength to drag even a dead weight around and around and that strength -would not last forever. Teresa! She had heard those shots from up -above--she had _seen_ the Scorpion fire once, and miss, and she---- - -The Scorpion laughed out. It looked like a sure shot now! Dave Henderson -jerked Maggot in front of him, but his swirling, mad gyrations had -brought him into the angle that the desk made with the wall, and, turn -as he would now, the Scorpion could reach in around the end of the desk, -and almost touch him with the revolver muzzle itself. - -“I got him, Maggot!” purred the Scorpion. “I got him now, the----” - -The man's voice ended in a startled cry. The sweat was running into -Dave Henderson's eyes, he could scarcely see--just a blurred vision over -Maggot's shoulder, a blurred vision of a slim figure running like the -wind into the room, and stooping to the floor where the package of -banknotes lay, and snatching it up, and starting for the door again. - -And then the Scorpion fired--but the revolver was pointed now across -the room, and the slight, fleeing figure swayed, and staggered, and -recovered herself, and went on, and over her shoulder her voice, though -it faltered, rang bravely through the room: - -“I--I thought he'd rather have this than you, Dave. It was the only -chance. Don't mind me, Dave. He won't get me.” - -The whimpering thing in Dave Henderson's arms was flung from him, and it -crashed to the floor. It wasn't his own strength, it was the strength -of one demented, and of a maddened brain, that possessed Dave Henderson -now. And he leaped forward, running like a hare. Teresa had already -gained the stairs--the Scorpion in pursuit was half-way along the -hall. And now he saw nothing else--just that red-haired figure running, -running, running. There was neither house, nor hall, nor stairs, nor any -other thing--only that red-haired figure that the soul of him craved, -for whom there was no mercy, that with his hands he would tear to pieces -in insensate fury. - -A flash came, blinding his eyes; a report roared in his ears--and then -his hands snatched at and caught a wriggling thing. And for the first -time he realized that he had reached the head of the stairs, realized it -because, pitched forward over the landing, lay a woman's form that was -still and motionless. And he laughed like the maniac he was now, and the -wriggling thing screamed in his grasp, screamed as it went up above his -head--and then Dave Henderson hurled it from him to the bottom of the -stairs. - -He turned, and flung himself on his knees beside Teresa. He called her -name again and again--and there was no answer. She lay there, half -on her face on the floor, her arms wound around a torn package of -banknotes. He rose, and rocked on his feet, and his knotted fists went -up above his head. And then he laughed again, as though his reason -were gone--laughed as his eyes fixed on a red-headed thing that made -an unshapely heap at the foot of the stairs; and laughed at a slinking -shadow that went along the hall, and scurried out through the front -door. That was Maggot--like a rat leaving a sinking ship--Maggot who---- - -Then reason came again. The police! At any moment now--the police. In an -instant he had caught Teresa up in his arms. She wasn't dead--he could -hear her breathing--only it was weak--pitifully weak. There should be an -exit to the fire escape from this floor--but it was dark and he had no -time to search--it was quicker to go up the stairs--where he knew the -way--and out through his own room. - -Stumbling, staggering in the darkness, holding Teresa in his arms, he -made his way upstairs. The police--his mind centered on that again. If -she and he were caught here, his identification as Dave Henderson, -which would ultimately ensue, would damn her; this money, wrapped so -tenaciously in her arms, would damn her; and, on top of that old score -of the police in San Francisco, there had been ugly work here in this -house to-night. If it were not for the money, the criminal hoax played -upon the police in the disappearance of Dave Henderson would not be so -serious--but the money was here, and in that hoax she had had a part, -and the shadow of Nicolo Capriano still lay across her shoulders. - -The night air came gratefully cool upon his face. He drew it in in -great, gasping breaths, greedily, hungrily. He had gained the fire -escape through the window now, and now he paused for the first time to -listen. There was no sound. Back there inside the house it was as still -as death. Death! Well, why shouldn't it be, there _was_ death there, -and---- - -His arms tightened suddenly in a great, overwhelming paroxysm of fear -around Teresa, and he bent his head, bent it lower, lower still, until -his face was close to that white face he held, and through the darkness -his eyes searched it in an agony of apprehension. - -And then he started forward again, and began to descend the fire escape; -and now he groped uneasily for foothold as he went. It seemed rickety -and unstable, this spidery thing that sprawled against the side of the -wall, and it was dark, and without care the foot would slip through the -openings between the treads. It had not seemed that way when he had gone -up and down when disposing of the valises. Only now it was a priceless -burden that he carried--this form that lay close-pressed against his -breast, whose touch, alternately now, brought him a sickening sense of -dread, and a surging hope that sent the blood leaping like a mill-race -through his veins. - -He went down, step after step, his mind and brain shrieking at him to -hurry because there was not a single second to lose--but it was slow, -maddeningly slow. He could not see the treads, not only because it was -dark, but because Teresa's form was in his arms. He could only feel with -his feet--and now and then his body swayed to preserve his balance. - -Was there no end to the thing! It seemed like some bottomless pit of -blackness into which he was descending. And it seemed as though this -pit held an abominable signification in its blackness and its depth, as -though it beckoned him on to engulf them; it seemed--it seemed---- God, -if she would only move, if she would not lie so still, so terribly still -in his arms! - -Another step--another--and then his foot, searching out, found only -space beneath it. He must free one arm now, so that he could cling to -the bottom tread and lower himself to the ground. It was only a short -drop, he knew, for the lower section of the fire escape was one of those -that swung on hinges, and when, previously, coming up, Teresa had held -it down for him, he had been able to reach it readily with a spring -from the ground. But he dared not jump even that short distance now with -Teresa, wounded, in his arms. - -He changed her position now to throw her weight into the hollow of his -left arm, lifting her head so that it lay high upon his shoulder--and -with the movement her hair brushed his lips. It brought a sudden, -choking sob from Dave Henderson, and in a great, yearning impulse he -let his head sink down until his cheek for an instant was laid against -hers--and then, the muscles of his right arm straining until they -cracked, he lowered himself down and dropped to the ground. - -He ran now, lurching, across the yard, and out into the lane, and here -he paused again to listen. But he heard nothing. He was clear of that -cursed trap-house now--if he could only keep clear. He ran on again, -stumbling again, with his burden. And now, though he did not pause to -listen any more, it seemed as though his throbbing eardrums caught the -sounds at last that they had been straining to hear. Wasn't that the -police behind there now--on the street in front of The Iron Tavern? It -sounded like it--like the arrival of a police patrol. - -He reached the shed where he had hidden the valises, entered, and laid -Teresa tenderly on the floor. He used his flashlight then--and a low -moan came from his lips. The bullet had cut across the side of her neck -just above the shoulder; the wound was bleeding profusely, and over the -package of banknotes, around which her arms were still tightly clasped, -there had spread a crimson stain. He drew her arms gently apart, laid -the package on the floor, and then, wrenching one of the valises open, -snatched at the first article of linen that came to hand. - -His lips trembled, as he did his best to staunch the flow of blood and -bind the wound. - -“Teresa! Teresa!” Dave Henderson whispered. - -Her eyes opened--and smiled. - -She made an effort to speak. He bent his head to catch the words. - -“Dave--where--where are we? Still in the house?” - -“No!” he told her feverishly. “No! We're clear of that. We're in the -shed here in the lane where I took the valises.” - -She made a slight affirmative movement of her head. - -“Then go--go at once--Dave--for help--I----” - -Her eyes had closed again. - -“Yes!” he said. His voice was choking. He called her name. “Teresa!” - There was no answer. She had lapsed back into unconsciousness. And -then the soul of him spoke its agony. “Oh, my God, Teresa!” he cried -brokenly, and swayed to his feet. - -An instant he stood there, then stooped, picked up the package of -banknotes, thrust it into the open valise, closed the valise, carried it -into a darker corner of the shed, and went to the door. - -He looked out. There was no one in sight in the darkness. But then, what -interest would the police have in this section of the lane? There was -nothing to connect it with The Iron Tavern! He stepped outside, and -broke into a run down the lane, heading for the intersecting street in -the opposite direction from The Iron Tavern. He must get help! A queer, -mirthless laugh was on his lips. A wounded woman in the lane was _the_ -connecting link with The Iron Tavern. And yet he must get help. -Well, there was only one source from which he dared ask help--only -one--Millman. - -He ran on. Millman! Something within him rebelled at that. But Teresa -was perhaps--was---- No, he would not let his mind even frame the word. -Only one thing was paramount now--she must have help at once. Well, God -knew, he could _trust_ Millman! Only there seemed some strange irony -here that chastened him. And yet---- Yes, this was strange, too! -Suddenly he became strangely content that it should be Millman. - -He reached the street, and looked up and down. It was four o'clock in -the morning, and the street was dark and deserted except for a single -lighted window that shone out half-way down the block. He ran toward it. -It proved to be an all-night restaurant, and he entered it, and asked -for the telephone, and shut himself up in the booth. - -A moment more and he had the St. Lucian Hotel on the wire. - -“Give me Mr. Millman--Mr. Charles Millman,” he requested hurriedly. - -The hotel operator answered him. It was impossible. A guest could not be -disturbed at that hour. It was against the rules, and Dave Henderson was -pleading hoarsely into the phone. - -“Give me Millman! Let me speak to him! It's life and death!” - -“I--I can't.” The operator's voice, a girl's, was hesitant, less -assured. - -“For God's sake, give me Millman--there's a life at stake!” Dave -Henderson cried frantically. “Quick! For God's sake, quick!” - -“Wait!” she said. - -It seemed a time interminable, and then a drowsy voice called: - -“Hello! What's wanted?” - -“Is that you, Millman?” Dave Henderson asked wildly. “Millman, is that -you?” - -“Yes,” the voice answered. - -“It's Dave speaking. Dave--do you understand? I--there's some one badly -hurt. I can't tell you any more over the phone; but, in Heaven's name, -get a doctor that you can trust, and come!” - -“I'll come, Dave,” said Millman quietly. “Where?” - -Dave Henderson turned from the telephone, and thrust his head out of the -booth. He had no idea where he was in New York, save that he was near -The Iron Tavern. He dared not mention that. Before many hours the papers -would be full of The Iron Tavern--and the telephone operator might hear. - -“What's this address?” he called out to a man behind the counter. - -The man told him. - -Dave Henderson repeated the address into the phone. - -“All right, Dave,” Millman's voice came quickly; “I'll be there as soon -as I can get my car, and pick up the doctor.” - -Dave Henderson stepped out into the night, and pulled off his hat. His -forehead was dripping wet. He walked back to the lane, listened, heard -nothing, and stole along it, and entered the shed again, and knelt by -Teresa's side. She was unconscious. - -He bent over her with the flashlight. His bandage was crude and clumsy; -but it brought him a little measure of relief to see that at least it -had been effective in the sense that the bleeding had been arrested. -And then his eyes went to the white face again. It seemed as though his -mental faculties were blunted, that they were sensible only of a gnawing -at his brain that was almost physical in its acute pain. Instinctively, -from time to time, he looked at his watch. - -At last he got up, and went out into the lane again, and from there to -the street. It was too soon. He could only pace up and down. It was -too soon, but he could not have afforded to keep the doctor waiting if -Millman arrived, and he, Dave Henderson, was not there--otherwise he -would have stayed longer in the shed. It would be daylight before they -came, wouldn't it? It was an hour now, a thousand years, wasn't it, -since he had telephoned? - -A big touring car rolled down the street. He ran toward it. -Millman--yes, it was Millman! The car stopped. - -“Quick!” he urged, and sprang on the footboard. “Go to the corner of the -lane there!” - -And then, as the car stopped again, and Millman, from the wheel, and a -man with a little black bag in his hand, sprang out, Dave Henderson led -the way down the lane, running, without a word, and pushed open the door -of the shed. He held the flashlight steadily for the doctor, though he -turned now to Millman. - -“You've got a right to know,” he said in an undertone, as the -doctor bent, absorbed, over Teresa. “Hell's broken loose to-night, -Millman--there's been murder further up the lane there in a place they -call The Iron Tavern. Do you understand? That's why I didn't dare go -anywhere for help. Listen! I'll tell you.” And, speaking rapidly, he -sketched the details of the night for Millman. “Do you understand, -Millman?” he said at the end. “Do you understand why I didn't dare go -anywhere for help?” - -Millman did not answer. He was looking questioningly at the doctor, as -the latter suddenly rose. - -“We must get her to the hospital at once,” said the doctor crisply. - -“The hospital!” Dave Henderson echoed the word. It seemed to jeer at -him. He could have summoned an ambulance himself! As well throw the -cards upon the table! His eyes involuntarily sought that darker corner -of the shed where the package of banknotes, bloodstained now, was hidden -in the valise. The hospital, or the police station--in that respect, for -Teresa as well as himself, it was all the same! - -It was Millman who spoke. - -“Wait!” he said, and touched Dave Henderson's arm; then turned to the -doctor. “Can we move her in my car?” he asked. - -“Yes; I guess we can manage it,” the doctor answered. - -Millman drew the doctor a little to one side. He whispered earnestly. -Dave Henderson caught a phrase about “getting a nurse”--and then he felt -Millman's hand press his arm again. - -“It's all right, Dave. I guess I'll open that town house after all -this summer--to a select few,” said Millman quietly. His hand tightened -eloquently in its pressure. “We'll take her there, Dave.” - - - - -X--GOD'S CHANCE - - -IT was a big house--like some vast, cavernous, deserted place. -Footsteps, when there were footsteps, and voices, when there were -voices, seemed to echo with strange loneliness through the great halls, -and up and down the wide staircase. And in the dawn, as the light came -gray, the pieces of furniture, swathed in their summer coverings of -sheets, had seemed like weird and ghostlike specters inhabiting the -place. - -But the dawn had come hours ago. - -Dave Henderson raised his head from his cupped hands. Was that the nurse -now, or the doctor--that footstep up above? He listened a moment, and -then his chin dropped back into his hands. - -Black hours they had been--black hours for his soul, and hours full of -the torment and agony of fear for Teresa. - -From somewhere, almost coincident with their arrival at the house, a -nurse had come. From some restaurant, a man had brought breakfast -for the doctor, for the nurse, for Millman--and for him. He had -eaten something--what, he did not know. The doctor had gone, and come -again--the doctor was upstairs there now. Perhaps, when the doctor came -down again, the doctor would allow him to see Teresa. Half an hour ago -they had told him that she would get well. There was strange chaos in -his mind. That agony of fear for her, that cold, icy thing that had held -a clutch upon his heart, was gone; but in its place had come another -agony--an agony of yearning--and now he was afraid--for himself. - -Millman had tried to make him go to bed and sleep. Sleep! He could not -have slept! He could not even have remained still for five minutes at a -stretch! He had been half mad with his anxiety for Teresa. He had wanted -to be somewhere where his restless movements would not reach Teresa in -her room, and yet somewhere where he could intercept every coming and -going of the doctor. And so for hours he had alternately paced up and -down this lower hall here, and thrown himself upon this great, wide, -sheet-covered divan where he sat now. And in those hours his mind, it -seemed, had run the gamut of every emotion a human soul could know. It -ached now--physically. His temples throbbed and hurt. - -His eyes strayed around the hall, and held on a large sheet-draped piece -of furniture over beyond the foot of the staircase. They had served -other purposes, these coverings, than to make spectral illusions in the -gray of dawn! Beneath that sheet lay the package of banknotes. It made a -good hiding place. He had extracted the package from the valise, and had -secreted it there during the confusion as they had entered the house. -But it seemed to take form through that sheet now, as it had done a -score of times since he had put it there, and always it seemed as though -a crimson stain that was on the wrapper would spread and spread until it -covered the entire package. - -That package--and the crimson stain! It seemed to make of itself a -curiously appropriate foreground for a picture that spread away into a -vista of limitless years: An orphan school, with its cracked walls, and -the painted mottoes whose scrolls gaped where the cracks were; a swirl -of horses reaching madly down the stretch, a roar of hoarse, delirious -shouts, elated oaths around the bookmaker's paying-stand, pinched faces -on the outer fringes of this ring; a thirst intolerable, stark pain, -the brutal jolting of a boxcar through the nights, hours upon hours of a -horror that ended only with the loss of consciousness; walls that reared -themselves so high that they seemed to stand sentinels against the -invasion of even a ray of sunlight, steel bars, and doors, and bolts -that clanged, and clanged, until the sound ate like some cancerous thing -into the soul itself; and then wolves, human wolves, ravenous wolves, -between two packs of them, the police on the one hand, the underworld -on the other, that snarled and tore at him, while he fought them for his -life. - -All that! That was the price he had paid for that package there--that, -and that crimson stain. - -He swept his hand across his eyes. His face grew set, and his jaws -locked hard together. No, he wasn't sure yet that even that was -all--that the package there was even yet finally and irrevocably -_his_--to do with as he liked. There was last night--The Iron -Tavern--the police again. _Was_ there a connecting link trailing behind -him? What had become of the Scorpion? What story had the man perhaps -told? Were the police looking for an unknown man--who was Dave -Henderson; and looking for an unknown woman--who was Teresa? - -Well, before long now, surely, he would know--when Millman got back. -Millman, who had intimated that he had an inside pull somewhere that -would get the straight police version of the affair, had gone out -immediately after breakfast for that purpose. - -That was what counted, the only thing that counted--to know where the -police stood. Millman ought to be back now. He had been gone for hours. -It was taking him an unaccountably long time! - -Millman! He had called Millman a straight crook. He had tried to call -Millman something else this morning--for what Millman had done for -Teresa and himself last night. Only he wasn't any good at words. But -Millman had seemed to understand, though Millman had not said much, -either--just a smile in the gray eyes, and a long, steady clasp of both -hands on his, Dave Henderson's, shoulders. - -There was a footstep on the stairs now. He looked up. It was the doctor -coming down. He jumped to his feet, and went eagerly to the foot of the -stairs. - -“Better!” said the doctor cheerily. - -“I--I want to see her,” said Dave Henderson. - -The doctor smiled, as he moved across the hall toward the front door. - -“In a few minutes,” he said. “I've told the nurse to let you know when -she's ready.” - -The doctor went out. - -He heard the doctor begin to descend the outer steps, and then pause, -and then another footstep ascending; and then he caught the sound of -voices. And then, after a little while, the front door opened, and -Millman came into the reception hall. - -Dave Henderson's lips tightened, as he stepped toward the other. - -“What”--he found his voice strangely hoarse, and he cleared his -throat--“what did you find out?” - -Millman motioned toward the divan. - -“Everything, I guess, Dave,” he answered, as he sat down. - -“And----?” Dave Henderson flung himself down beside the other. - -Millman shook his head. - -“Better hear the whole story, Dave. You can size it up then for -yourself.” - -Dave Henderson nodded. - -“Go on, then!” he said. - -“I told you,” said Millman, “that I thought I could get inside -information--the way the police looked at it. Well, I have. And I have -got it from a source that is absolutely dependable. Understand, Dave?” - -Dave Henderson nodded again. - -“The police start with that telephone message,” said Millman. “They -believe that it was authentic, and that it was Dago George who sent it. -In fact, without it they wouldn't have known where to turn; while with -it the whole affair appears to be simplicity itself.” He smiled a -little whimsically. “They used it as the key to unlock the door. It's no -discredit to their astuteness. With nothing to refute it, it is not only -the obvious, but the logical solution. Bookie budded a great deal better -than he knew--for Dave Henderson--when he used that telephone for his -own dirty ends. It wouldn't have been so easy for the police to account -for the death of three men in The Iron----” - -“_Three!_” Dave Henderson strained suddenly forward. Three! There -were--two; only two--Dago George and Bookie Skarvan. Only two dead--and -a red-headed thing huddled at the foot of the stairs. Was that it? Was -that the third one--Cunny the Scorpion? Had it ended with that? Had -he _killed_ a man? Last night he would have torn the fellow limb -from limb--yes, and under the same circumstances, he would do it -again--Teresa upstairs, who had been so close to death, justified that a -thousand times over. - -But------ “You mean Cunny the Scorpion--Cunny Smeeks?” he demanded -tensely. - -“Yes,” said Millman. And then, with a quick, comprehensive glance at -Dave Henderson's face: “But you didn't do it, Dave.” - -Dave Henderson's hands were clenched between his knees. They relaxed -slowly. - -“I'm glad of that,” he said in a low tone. “Go on, Millman.” - -“The man had evidently revived just before the police got there,” - Millman explained. “He was shot and killed instantly by the police while -trying to escape. He had bruises on his head which the police attributed -to a fight with Dago George. Dago George, the police assume, woke up to -discover the men breaking into his room. They attacked him. He managed -to shoot Bookie Skarvan, and grappled with Cunny the Scorpion--the -Scorpion's clothing, somewhat torn, and the Scorpion's bruises, bear -this out. But in order to account for the time it would have taken to -crack the safe, the police believe that the Scorpion at this time only -knocked Dago George out temporarily. Then, later, while the Scorpion -worked at the safe, Dago George recovered sufficiently to rush and -snatch at the phone, and shout his appeal for help into it; and then -the Scorpion laid Dago George's head open with the blow that killed him, -using one of the burglar's tools as the weapon. And then the Scorpion, -staying to put the finishing touches on his work to get the safe open, -and over-estimating the time it would take the police to get there, was -finally unable to make his escape.” - -“My God!” muttered Dave Henderson under his breath. - -“That's not all,” said Millman, with a faint smile. “There was known -enmity between Dago George and the Scorpion. The Scorpion had come to -The Iron Tavern earlier in the evening, one of the waiters testified, -and had brought the fat man with him. The fat man was given a room by -Dago George. The waiter identified the fat man, an obvious accomplice -therefore of the Scorpion, as the man who was shot. It dovetailed -irrefutably--even the Scorpion's prior intentions of harm to Dago George -being established. There was some money in the safe, quite a little, but -the police are more inclined to attribute the motive to the settling of -a gang feud, with the breaking of the safe more or less as a blind.” - -Dave Henderson was staring across the hall. His lips were tight. - -“That waiter!” he exclaimed abruptly. “Didn't the waiter say anything -about anybody else who got rooms there last night?” - -“I am coming to that,” Millman replied. “The police questioned the man, -of course. He said that last night, at separate times, a man and a woman -came there, presumably to get rooms since they had valises with them, -and that they saw Dago George. He did not know whether Dago George had -accommodated them or not. He thought not, both because he had neither -carried nor seen the valises taken upstairs, and because Dago George -invariably refused to give any rooms to strangers. Lots of people came -there, imagining The Iron Tavern to be a hotel where they could get -cheap accommodations, and were always turned away. Dago George had gone -out of that end of the business. The waiter inclined to the belief that -the man and woman in question had met the same fate; certainly, he had -seen or heard nothing of them since.” Millman shrugged his shoulders. -“The police searched the rooms upstairs, found no trace of occupancy -except the hand-bag of the fat man, identified again by the waiter--and -agreed with the waiter.” - -“There was Maggot.” Dave Henderson seemed to be speaking almost to -himself. “But Maggot was only a tool. All Maggot knew was that he was -to get the safe open--for some money. I guess Maggot, when he finds out -that the police don't know anything about him, will think he's lucky. I -guess if there's any man in the world who'll keep his mouth shut for the -sake of his own hide, it's Maggot. Maggot isn't going to run his head -into a noose.” He turned sharply to Millman. “But there's still some one -else--the doctor.” - -“We have been friends, intimate friends, all our lives,” said Millman -simply. “I have given him my word of honor that you had no hand in the -death of any one of those three men, and that is sufficient.” - -And then Dave Henderson laughed a little, a queer, strange, mirthless -laugh, and stood up from the divan. - -“Then I'm clear--eh--Millman?” he shot out. - -“Yes,” said Millman slowly, “as far as I can see, Dave, you're clear.” - -“And free?” There was fierce assertiveness, rather than interrogation, -in Dave Henderson's voice. “It's taken five years, but I've got that -money now. I guess I've paid for it; and I guess there's no one now -to put a crimp in it any more, not even Bookie Skarvan--providing that -little proposition of yours, Millman, that month, still stands.” - -Millman's face, and Millman's eyes, sobered. - -“It stands, Dave,” he said gravely. - -“In a month,” said Dave Henderson, “even a fool could get far enough -away to cover his trail--couldn't he, Millman? Well, then, there's only -Teresa left. She's something like you, Millman. She's for sending that -money back, but she's sort of put out of the running--for about a month, -too!” - -Millman made no answer. - -“Five years,” said Dave Henderson, with a hard smile. “Well, it's _mine_ -now. Those years were a hell, Millman--a hell--do you understand? But -they would only be a little hell compared with the hell to-day if -I couldn't get away with that package now without, say, a policeman -standing there in the doorway waiting for me.” - -“Dave,” said Millman sharply, “what do you mean? What are you going to -do?” - -There was some one on the stairs again--some one all in white. Dave -Henderson stared. The figure was beckoning to him. Yes, of course, it -was the nurse. - -“Dave,” Millman repeated, “what are you going to do?” - -Dave Henderson laughed again--queerly. - -“I'm going upstairs--to see Teresa,” he said. - -“And then?” Millman asked. - -But Dave Henderson scarcely heard him. He was walking now towards the -stairs. The nurse's voice reached him. - -“Just a few minutes,” warned the nurse. “And she must not be excited.” - -He gained the landing, and looked back over the balustrade down into the -great hall below. Millman had come to the foot of the staircase, and -was leaning on the newel-post. And Dave Henderson looked, more closely. -Millman's gray eyes were blurred, and, though they smiled, the smile -came through a mist that had gathered in them. And then Millman's voice -came softly. - -“I get you, as we used to say 'out there,'” said Millman. “I get you, -Dave. Thank God! It's two straight crooks--isn't it, Dave--two of us?” - -Millman's face was blotted out--there was another face that Dave -Henderson saw now through an open doorway, a face that lay upon the -pillows, and that was very white. It must be the great, truant masses of -black hair, which crowned the face, that made it look as white as that. -And they said she was getting better! They must have lied to him--the -face was so white. - -He didn't see the face any more now, because he was kneeling down beside -the bed, and because his own face was buried in the counterpane. - -And then the great shoulders of the man shook. - -His life! That was what she had bought--and that was what she had paid -for almost with her own. That was why she lay here, and that was why her -face was so white. Teresa! This was Teresa here. - -He raised his head at last. Her dark eyes were fixed on him--and they -smiled. - -She was holding out her hand. - -“Dave,” she said brightly, “the nurse told me she was going to let -you see me for a few minutes--to cheer me up. And here I've been -waiting--oh, ever so long. And you haven't spoken a word. Haven't you -anything to say”--she was smiling teasingly with her lips now--“Dave?” - -“Yes,” he said. “Yes”--his voice choked--“more than I can ever say. Last -night, Teresa, if it had not been for you, I---” - -Her finger tips could just reach his lips, and they pressed suddenly -against them, and sealed them. - -“Don't you know that we are not to talk about that, Dave--ever,” she -said quickly. “If I did anything, then, oh, I am so glad--so glad. -You're not to say another word.” - -“But, I _must_,” he said hoarsely. “Do you think I----” - -“Dave, I'll call the nurse!” she said in a low voice. “You'll--you'll -make me cry.” - -It was true. The dark eyes were swimming, full of tears. She hid them -now suddenly with their long lashes. - -Neither spoke for a moment. - -“There's something else, then, Teresa,” he said at last. “I'm going to -give that money back.” - -There was no answer--only he felt her hand touch his head, and her -fingers play gently through his hair. - -“I knew it,” she told him. - -“But do you know why?” he asked. - -Again there was no answer. - -Dave Henderson spoke again. - -“I remember what I said last night--that I couldn't buy you that way. -And--and I'm not trying to now. It's going back because I haven't any -choice. A man can't take his life from a woman's hand, and from the hand -of a friend take the life of the woman who has saved him--and throw -them both down--and play the cur. I haven't any choice.” His voice broke -suddenly. “It's going back, Teresa, whether it means you or not. Do you -understand, Teresa? It's going back--either way.” - -Her fingers had ceased their movements, and were quiet now. - -“Yes,” she said. - -Dave Henderson raised his bowed head. The dark eyes were closed. His -shoulders squared a little. - -“That--that puts it straight, then, Teresa,” he said. “That lets me -say what I want to say now. I've done a lot of thinking in the last -few hours when I thought that perhaps you weren't--weren't going to get -better. I thought about what you said last night--about God giving one -another chance if one wanted to take it. Teresa, would you believe me if -I told you that I was going to take that chance--from now on?” - -The dark eyes opened now. - -“I don't think God ever meant that you would do anything else, Dave,” - she said. “If He had, you would never have been caught and put in -prison, and been through everything else that has happened to you, -because it's just those things, Dave, that have made you say what you -have just said. If you had succeeded in getting away with that money -five years ago, you would have been living as a thief to-day, and--and -you would have stolen more, perhaps, and--and at last you wouldn't even -have been a man.” She turned her face away on the pillow, and fumbled -for his hand. “But it isn't just you, Dave. I didn't say that last -night. I said God offered us both a chance. It's not only you, -Dave--both of us are going to take that chance.” - -He leaned forward--his face tense, white almost as the white face on the -bed. - -“Together, Teresa?” - -She did not answer--only her hand closed in a tighter clasp on his. - -“Teresa!” He was bending over her now, smoothing back the hair from -her forehead. The blood pounded in a mighty tide through his veins. -“Teresa!” - -She spoke then, as the wet lashes lifted for an instant and fell again. - -“It's wonderful,” she whispered. “God's chance, Dave--together--from now -on.” - -Into his face came a great new light. Self-questioning and self-debate -were gone. Teresa _trusted_ him. He knew himself before God and -his fellows henceforth an honest man. And he was rich--rich with a -boundless, priceless love that would endure while life endured. Teresa! -His lips pressed the white forehead, and the closed eyelids, and then -her lips were warm upon his own--and then he was kneeling again, but now -his arms were around her, folding her to him, and his head lay upon the -pillow, and his cheek touched hers. - -And presently Millman, coming up the stairs, paused abruptly on the -landing, as, through the open doorway of the room that was just in front -of him, his eyes fell upon Dave Henderson's kneeling figure. And he -stood there. And Teresa's voice, very low, and as though she were -repeating something, reached him. And creeping into Millman's gray eyes -there came a light of understanding as tender as a woman's, and for a -moment more he lingered there, and then he tiptoed softly away. And the -words that he had heard seemed to have graven themselves deep into the -great heart of the man, for, as he went slowly on down the hall, he said -them over and over again to himself: - -“From now on.... From now on....” - - -THE END - - - - - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of From Now On, by Frank L. 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