"The appointment you heard them make. I missed the rendezvous."
"Harry Arnold said Wednesday was his locky day——"
"Lucky day," corrected Shagarach.
"His lucky day," said Aronson, "and if the old lady put up he would break the bank."
"That I understand. A gambling tryst. The old lady is his mother. Put up means to pay his money. But the place—what was the name of the place?"
"When they left each other Arnold said: 'Wednesday at the Tough-Coat,' and Kennedy said: 'All right, Harry.'"
"Repeat that word."
"Tough-Coat."
"Repeat it again."
"Tough-Coat."
Still Shagarach looked nonplused. The syllables conveyed no meaning whatever. Yet Aronson felt sure of the substantial accuracy of his version.
"Very well." The lawyer dismissed the subject, sent Aronson off on irrelevant business and gave a few hours of attention to his other clients. The law's delay had not infected Shagarach. Whatever the matter he undertook, he was punctual as the clock in its performances, though not, in the ordinary sense of the word, a methodical man.
Early in the afternoon an unlooked-for visitor took his place among those waiting in the outer room. Jacob hastened to give him the chair of precedence, and announced his name to Shagarach, then in closet conference with an honest-appearing bookkeeper, whose acquittal on a charge of forgery he had just procured.
"I will see Mr. Rabofsky next," said the lawyer to Jacob.
The man so called was a short, bulky Hebrew, of 60-odd winters (one would prefer reckoning his years by the more rigorous season). His nose was like an owl's beak and his beard spread itself luxuriantly over his face, plainly undefiled of the scissors. The hair was indeterminately reddish and gray and his eyes were the color of steel. Shagarach bowed him into his private room, the caller strutting like one accustomed to homage.
Although the door was closed behind him as usual, Rabofsky glanced suspiciously around and spoke in the Hebrew jargon—that grafting of foreign idioms on a German patois which his tribe has carried all over eastern Europe, and latterly, via Hamburg, into the cities of America.
"It is a long time since we have met, kinsman Shagarach," he said.
"A long time since I have had that honor," replied the lawyer, bowing with the Hebrew's respect for age.
"Not since your respected father's funeral, I believe. He was one of my friends, whose memory always remains to uplift me—a glory to our race and religion."
"My respected father's friends are my friends to the end of my days."
Shagarach's father had been a rabbin or expounder of the sacred books. Great was the scandal when Rabbi Moses' son abandoned daily attendance at the synagogue and gave himself over to the ways, though not to the society, of the gentiles. His mother, with whom he lived, still kept up the observances of the law, baking the unleavened bread at the paschal season and purchasing the flesh only of the lawfully butchered ox. Her son neither praised nor blamed, but she knew he was no longer of Israel's sects; not even of the mystical Essenes, among whom his father might be counted, and whose study is the unpronounceable name of God. Others of his people who lacked a mother's indulgence knew this, and it was rarely that one of the orthodox children of Israel brought his worldly troubles to Shagarach.
"Your health is strong under Jehovah, I trust," continued Simon Rabofsky.
"Have you come to inquire about my health?" asked Shagarach. The old man's prelude, beginning so fitfully and far away, threatened to prolong itself interminably.
"Nay, a small affair of consultation which it shall be richly worth your while to advise upon," answered the other, craftily.
"State the facts with brevity and clearness."
"Speedily, kinsman Shagarach, speedily." Again he looked cautiously around. "You are aware that out of the savings of my days of hard labor I occasionally permit the use of small sums to my friends."
"You are a money-lender? That I know. One of my clients desires a loan of you. Which is it?"
"Not one of your clients, kinsman Shagarach."
"Who?"
"Mrs. Arnold."
Not a muscle of Shagarach's well-schooled countenance quivered, though the old Jew's eyes almost pierced him as he uttered the name. Opposite as the two men were in every trait, a substratum of affinity came out in this deadlock of their glances. On both sides the same set lip, the same immobile forehead, trained by centuries of traffic to conceal the fermentation of the powerful brain within.
"I am not acquainted with the lady," said Shagarach.
"But you are acquainted with her estate under the will of her brother-in-law."
Thoroughly aroused now to his subject, Rabofsky had abandoned his roundabout manner and pushed his words rapidly forth in an indistinct growl.
"Slightly so. State the facts."
"I will. Yesterday there came to my office a lady, all veiled, and asked me for $10,000. 'That is a large sum,' said I. 'You have it,' said she, 'and I want it. I will pay for it.' 'Yes, indeed, you shall pay for it,' I said to myself, but aloud I only asked her: 'What security could you give me if I should go about among my friends and trouble them and trouble myself for your service?' 'The security of my name,' she answered, proudly, like a queen commanding her scullion. 'I am Mrs. Arnold, widow of the banker, Henry Arnold, and a daughter of Ezra Brewster of Lynn.' 'Oh, madam,' said I, 'I am Simon Rabofsky, husband of Rebecca Rabofsky, and a son of the high priest Levi, who is twice mentioned in the talmud; but I could not borrow $10,000 without pledging something more substantial than my great ancestor's name.' Then she sneered a little under her veil, the proud unbeliever, and took out her rubies and diamonds and watch—a glittering heap. 'Keep these until I return you the money,' she said. 'This is not enough,' said I, examining the stones. 'Have you nothing more?' 'My son's interest in the estate of the late Prof. Arnold will cover your paltry loan 500 times over.' 'I will reflect upon the subject,' said I. 'Call again in two days.' So I came to consult kinsman Shagarach."
"Well?"
"Has her son any interest in Prof. Arnold's estate?"
The question had come point-blank at last and Shagarach found himself less prepared to answer it than he could have wished.
The Arnolds were financially embarrassed, possibly ruined, by Harry's infatuation for the gaming-table. This was to be inferred from the conversation with Kennedy over-heard by Aronson. Their real estate must be mortgaged to the limit, perhaps beyond its shrunken value, or Mrs. Arnold would not be begging a loan at a money-lender's shop. Family jewels were invariably the last resort of declining fortunes unwilling to abandon cherished appearances. Should he advise the loan and let Harry cast it away, as he seemed likely to do, in his ambition to "break the bank?" Such a step might place the young man in his power.
For the standing of the will was still uncertain. Evidence might be in existence sufficient to uphold the destroyed document. In that event Mrs. Arnold's promissory note to Rabofsky would be worth no more than the value of the securities he held. Robert's statement was positive that Harry was disinherited. This opened up a new view to Shagarach.
It would be fatal to the interests of Floyd if the will should be ignored and half the estate allowed him as heir-at-law. Such a parade of the profits of the incendiary's crime could not fail to rearouse a burst of public indignation which would work its way into the jury-box. Shagarach determined then and there to strive for the upholding of the will, though it should mean the ruin of the Arnold fortune and the loss to Robert Floyd of $5,000,000.
"I do not know," he answered. Something was due to Rabofsky.
"You have waited a long time. You have been thinking. What do you think?"
"It is a difficult part of a difficult problem. My advice——"
"You will not charge your respected father's friend unreasonably?" put in the Jew.
Shagarach knew that Rabofsky was a pharisee of the strictest sect and had not been his father's friend. He knew also that reasonableness of charge was not one of his own eccentricities, and probably would not be exemplified in the loan to Mrs. Arnold. But he replied:
"Certainly not. I shall consider that when the work is done."
"Now, kinsman Shagarach."
"Not now. I cannot foresee the amount of labor, the number of consultations, involved," said Shagarach, resolutely. "Do you wish my advice?"
"I shall not pay the charge if it is unreasonable," growled Rabofsky.
"For the present I advise you to lend only what you can with safety on the pledges. I will see Mrs. Arnold about the estate and confer with you further after our interview."
At that moment Aronson opened the door, his eyes dancing with excitement. He panted, as if he had just run upstairs.
"Meester Shagarach," he broke in, but stood awed in the presence of Rabofsky, who was a potent man in the Ghetto.
"Escort Mr. Rabofsky to the stairs," said Shagarach, approaching Aronson, so that the latter might have an opportunity to whisper his message. He was none too soon, for a young man had already entered the door of the outer room.
"Kennedy," whispered Aronson.
It was Harry Arnold's friend.
"Will you take in my card? I'm in a deuce of a rush," said Kennedy to Aronson when the latter had dismissed Simon Rabofsky. Shagarach read his name, daintily engraved in the form to which the weather-vane of fashion had at that moment veered and was imperatively pointing. It introduced "Mr. Arthur K. Foxhall."
"I will see the gentleman in a few minutes," said he. Shagarach must have transacted an almost incredible amount of business in the interim, for his waiting-room was cleared of clients when "Mr. Arthur K. Foxhall" was at length admitted.
"I received this communication from you. My lawyer informs me that it contains matter defamatory per se." He tossed a letter down on the table at which Shagarach was sitting, with his arms folded as usual. "But before taking action on the matter I thought I would give you an opportunity to explain."
"The note is in English, is it not?" said Shagarach.
"It might pass for such," replied young man supercilious.
"Then it needs no further explanation. The sooner you and your lawyer begin your action the better pleased I shall be." Shagarach began writing a letter coolly, as if the matter were at an end, but his visitor, either in nervousness or anger, tapped the polished tip of his shoe with his cane. It was certainly a most aggressive-looking weapon, with its knob carved into a scowling bulldog's head.
"Gentlemen"—he emphasized the word—"men of honor," he paused again, "do not use language of others which they cannot defend, either before the courts of law or by giving personal satisfaction."
"Gentlemen and men of honor do not fabricate lies after taking a solemn oath to tell nothing but the truth," answered Shagarach, without glancing up from the note he was scribbling.
"The third person protects you. You use the coward's refuge, innuendo, because you dare not address the charge to me directly."
Shagarach picked up his letter, which the visitor had thrown down.
"I have taken particular pains to be direct as well as explicit over my own signature. I find that I have accused you, Arthur Kennedy Foxhall," he emphasized the middle name, though it was only initialed in the address, "of deliberate perjury in the case of Commonwealth vs. Bail. My letters do not as a rule require marginal annotations or parol addition to make their meaning clear, and I am credited with sufficient prudence to foresee their consequences before writing them."
Shagarach folded his arms again and his great eyes pierced Foxhall—or Kennedy as he was generally called. It was the family name of a rich relative who had adopted and supported him.
"No," he added, slowly, "this is hardly a case for prosecution or for personal satisfaction. The duello is out of date."
"My valet might object to the opponent I assigned him," said the self-styled gentleman and man of honor. Shagarach's retort was swift, yet uttered without the twitch of an eyelash, as though he were simply recalling his visitor to the original business.
"His master lied in order to prove an alibi for Charles Munroe——"
Kennedy's chalky face flushed faintly.
"If the sword is out of fashion the cane is not," he cried, lifting his formidable bulldog.
"The principal witness against my client in the Bail case," continued Shagarach, raising his voice and controlling Kennedy with his eyes, "and himself the beneficiary of the check which my client was accused of forging."
"You got him off. That was enough. Are you trying to blackmail us for a heavier fee?"
"The case was a conspiracy instigated by Charles Munroe and abetted by his friends, among whom Arthur Kennedy Foxhall was the most conspicuous for his zeal."
"You scum of a shyster! Do you think you can jew me into a dicker?"
Shagarach arose and walked to the window. He was not an equestrian, but natural perception taught him the useful rule to turn his horse's head when he starts to run away. Facing suddenly about, he said:
"I am a Jew, true. Perhaps that is why I do not poison myself with opium."
The young man's cheek grew pale again. The cane dropped and he sunk in his chair.
"Am I to be prosecuted for that also?" The anger in his tones had flickered away to a feeble peevishness. "How do you know?"
"Because you are wearing a light overcoat with the mercury at 80," answered Shagarach, who had glanced at the thermometer in his window. "Because you have the glazed eye of a man in fever, and because you lie like an oriental!"
This time Kennedy made no protest against the insult. He was succumbing to the strain placed upon his shattered nerves by the remorseless man across the table.
"There is your cause of action," said Shagarach, tossing back his letter. Again he dipped his pen in the ink preparing to write.
"What do you want of me?" asked Kennedy.
"Nothing," Shagarach had half-filled the sheet. He was stamping the envelope when the next question slowly came.
"Why do you follow up the matter? Your client is safe?"
"But the community is no longer safe when perjurers strut about, masquerading as the sole guardians of honor."
He folded his arms once more and looked straight at his man. In another the gesture might seen theatrical, but it was Shagarach's natural attitude in thought, like the bowed head and lowered eyes of the philosopher burrowing into the depths of things, or the uplifted gaze of the poet leaving earth for the stars and sunset. The lawyer's interests lay in the horizontal plane, and the faces of fellow-men were his study.
"Yes, I am reputed inexorable to perjurers. It is true. They rarely escape me unpunished. As a consequence, witnesses prefer to tell me the truth, which is an advantage to my clients, of whose interests I am the devoted servitor."
"And you will ruin me to gratify this—this——"
"I will procure your indictment for perjury and conspiracy in the case of Commonwealth vs. Bail."
Kennedy trembled like one with an ague. But stronger men than he had yielded as abjectly to Shagarach. He was a blood of high standing, with a fortune as well as a reputation to lose. The chances of a felon's succeeding to the property of old Angus Kennedy, the millionaire, who had adopted him, were relatively slight.
"What is the penalty for perjury?" he asked, in a random way, as if at a loss what to say or do.
"Imprisonment at hard labor."
"It is not punishable by fine?"
"Never."
There was a pause, broken only by the rustling of Aronson's papers in the outer room. Then Shagarach spoke.
"You have an appointment with Harry Arnold for next Wednesday evening."
Kennedy started up. His smooth face grew cadaverous and the helpless look of a kneeling suppliant came into his eyes, which were riveted on the great, wide orbs of his tormentor.
"At a gambling resort," continued Shagarach.
"I am not a gambler," Kennedy's voice was hollow, his expression piteous. Shagarach studied him a moment. Probably he was speaking the truth. The evil passions are jealous and absolute monarchs. Seldom does more than one of them reign at a time.
"But Harry Arnold is."
"Harry is plunging heavily."
Shagarach was satisfied at last. An adequate motive for Harry's deed was clearly in view. It was not the most heinous crime which had been committed to gratify the gamester's passion.
"I wish to be with you on that occasion."
"It will be hard," answered Kennedy, his face clouded with consternation and a torrid flush of something like shame sweeping over it. "The Dove-Cote is too well guarded."
"The Dove-Cote!" Shagarach was betrayed into an ejaculation of surprise. This was the "Tough-Coat" which Aronson's imperfect articulation had disguised.
"It may be hard, but it is not impossible."
"Not impossible, no."
"Well-known men are seen there at times?"
"Oh, yes."
Kennedy smiles.
"And your escape from prison depends upon my obtaining entrance."
The smile had faded away.
"Why do you wish to be there?"
"My reasons are my own. However, I will make a limited confidant of you. I am at work upon a cause which logical study does not perfectly elucidate. That frequently happens. I must see my man off his guard, when he is most himself. My visit to the Dove-Cote will be a psychological study."
"They will compel me to vouch for your good faith."
"You may do so. Nothing seen or heard by me there will ever be revealed. I go, as I have told you, to study a soul, not to gather facts. The facts are already mine."
"Where shall I call for you?"
"Here."
"At 8 o'clock?"
"Very well. There is one condition attached to our bargain. You shall not reveal this appointment to Harry Arnold."
"He will be there——"
"But he does not know me. We probably shall not meet. Other—gentlemen, as you call them—will be there."
"Miss Barlow," said Aronson, at this moment opening the door.
Kennedy had arisen to go, but turned curiously when he heard the sweet voice from without.
"Only a moment, Mr. Shagarach."
The lawyer stepped out and conferred with her. She had run down in her lunch hour, full of a new project which she burned to carry out, but like everything else, she had thought it best first to submit it to Shagarach. His approval was given coolly, she thought.
"Some one of the park policemen may have seen him."
"Possibly."
"If not, how can you explain those four hours of forgetfulness—I mean, of course, to the satisfaction of a jury?"
"It is not unprecedented. I have an explanation, or the germ of one. However, pursue your inquiries. They may prove of value. And, when you visit Floyd, occasionally wear a water lily."
"Why?"
"It was the flower he brought you that evening."
Emily caught the impertinent stare of the manikin within just as she was turning to leave.
"Understand, Kennedy," said Shagarach, "if Arnold is informed of this agreement, directly or indirectly, our contract is broken and I will spare no pains to lodge you where you belong."
His tone made the weakling shudder.
"Why do you desire to conceal it from Harry?" he asked, obstinately.
"Draw what inference you choose."
Shagarach returned to his desk and Emily was uneasily aware that the youth whom she had seen in his office passed her twice in the crowd while she was making her way back to the studio. But Arthur Kennedy Foxhall was too perturbed that day to practice with success even the easy arts of the professional lady-killer. His pursuit of Emily only registered on his memory a face which was to haunt him in his drug-fed dreams.
"Hello, Bobbs," called the solitary cracksman. "Put your hear to the chink and let's 'ave a palaver."
The "chink" was that hollow spot in the rear of the cell, where by pressing his ear against the wall Floyd could hear communications from Dobbs, inaudible to the rest of the prisoners.
Robert wondered not a little at the persistent friendliness of the fellow. He felt conscious of lacking the touch of comradeship. He might even be called ascetic, were not the stigma precluded by his passion for music and his love of landscape. Long botanical tramps with his uncle had given him an acute feeling for the moods of nature, and in his violin playing a deep sensibility found outlet through the practiced and sensitive fingertips. But in general he had little palate for the bouquet and effervescence of life, and was credited, therefore, with less readiness of sympathy than his cousin, who responded quickly to all fleeting impressions of pleasure.
While Harry, as adjutant of his crack cadets, was seen prancing on parade in all the bravery of gold lace, his sword hilt resting on his saddle, his mustaches twisted to the curl of an ostrich feather, a masterpiece of poise and splendor, Robert would be found in dun civilian's garb, shoulder to shoulder with the multitude on the sidewalk, studying the significance of the pageant. This strenuousness acted as a bar to popularity. Harry could count twenty friends to Robert's one. People called him by his given name at the second or third meeting. Women, in particular, circled about him like moths about a taper. But Floyd, who shunned no man's eye, sought no woman's. This may have been why the one girl to whom he had given his heart believed his nature to be of sterling gold.
There was much in the prison life to quicken the thoughts of so serious an observer, but all his attempts to record the impressions had ended in failure. He soon realized that no man can at once live and write. Our deeper experiences need to be mellowed by distance, just as we must back away to a certain focus before we can feel the sentiment of a painting. There was nothing left but to bide his time as patiently as possible, occasionally beguiling the long hours by conversation with Dobbs.
This scoundrel had an unctuous manner which was hard to resist. His quaint, infectious chuckle and preeminence in crime made him a favorite among the inmates of the ward—a popularity which he generously used to secure for Robert a certain immunity from insult. The young man could not help feeling grateful for this. Besides, the man's incurable asthma, which he attributed himself to "hexposure to cold night blarsts in the performance of perfessional duties," entitled him to sympathy. Indeed, he was often removed to the hospital for days at a time. During these intervals Robert remarked the cessation of a curious grating noise which seemed to come from his neighbor's cell.
"Blood's thicker than water, Bobbs. You and Hi are Henglish, you know. These 'ere bloomin' coves get red-'eaded over nothing. Don't catch me mutineerin' and violatin' the rules. Ho, no."
This was true. So far as outward behavior went, Dobbs was an exemplary prisoner.
"By the way, Dobbs, my name is Floyd," said Robert.
"Ho, you don't mind bein' called Bobbs, chummy. That's cute for Robert. Hi found out your name. We hall know wot you're jugged for. It's harson, eh?"
"Yes."
"'Ow did you set it?"
"I am as innocent of the charge as you are." Robert's tone was curt. He felt vexed to be the subject of discussion among this crew.
"That's just wot I told the judge, chummy, w'en ee politely hasked me if Hi 'ad anything to say. But it didn't work, chummy. Hi'm a-winkin' at you, Bobbs."
The invisible wink probably expressed incredulity, but Robert did not care to debate his own case with his neighbor.
"Hi knows it's a delicate matter, and some folks Hi wouldn't trust, neither. But Dobbs is your friend, Bobbs, and ready to prove ee's true blue. Do you know I like the sound o' them two names. Dobbs and Bobbs. Suppose we go into business together.
"DOBBS AND BOBBS
"ROBS FOBS.
"'Ow's that for a partnership sign?"
Dobbs exploded in a paroxysm of laughter and coughing over his own cleverness as a rhymester. The fit was continued so long that his neighbors began to protest in their ungentle fashion.
"Say, Dobbs, get into your coffin, quick," cried one. The same whose voice sounded familiar to Robert though he was unable to place it. It was a thick, uncouth utterance, as though the speaker's natural brogue were assisted by the presence of a ball of yarn.
"'Old your bloomin' breath for Longlegs," answered Dobbs.
The passage of the hated turnkey caused a diversion in his favor. Longlegs was a tall man of remarkably bony strength. The convicts were only collectively brave against him. When not gathered in packs they avoided his stern visage as a lone wolf slinks away from the hunter. His right name was Hawkins, but almost nobody within these precincts escaped a sobriquet. Warden Tapp was "the Pelican," Turnkey Gradger was "Gimp" and a particularly vile denizen went under the name of "Parson." Dobbs explained his own escape quaintly.
"You see, chummy, Dobbs his a nickname halready. You can't forshorten it no more."
The visitor who accompanied Hawkins shared the unpopularity of his escort.
"Whoop, da, da, da!"
"He's a yellow aster."
"Lend me your monocle, Cholly, and don't be wude."
But the tall, blond-bearded man with the monocle sauntered leisurely along, looking into every cell until he reached the end of the corridor. Then he turned back and stopped before Dobbs, while Hawkins clanked his keys beside him.
"If God writes a legible hand, that man's a villain," he quoted from the old-time actor; "what name do you go by?"
"Bill Dobbs."
"Hand me out that pen and ink and I'll draw your picture."
"W'ere?"
"On your thumb nail. The right one. That's it."
It seemed scarcely half a minute before Hawkins was heard exclaiming:
"That's a stunning likeness."
"Take away this 'ere lookin'-glass o' mine, Longlegs, and bestow it on the poor. Wot use 'ave Hi for it w'en Hi carry my hown himage on the hend of my bloomin' thumb?"
"You've a face of great power and cunning," said the artist, "but there's one thing you lack."
"Wot's that?"
"Reverence. Some day I'll use you for a mask of Iago that I've had in mind."
"Thanks. Wot's your name, stranger?"
"Tristram March." It was our artist friend, rummaging for types in this out-of-the-way corner.
"You've a sort of a soft lip about you and a delicate horgan of hodor. But there's one thing you lack?"
"What?"
"Starch. Hi'm a-thinkin' Hi'll copy my make-up after you next time Hi play 'Amlet to the queen's Ophelia."
Tristram's good-natured laugh was the last thing Robert heard as he sauntered away.
A sculptor, friends called him if pressed for a definition. Yet in truth he had never yet executed a figure of life size, being a modern instance of talent without ambition, dispersing and dividing its strength. He modeled, painted, rhymed, composed—a many-faceted reflector of impressions; but everything he did was done by halves and the most finished of his products were only brilliant sketches. His sister Rosalie's single gift, besides her beauty (which, to be sure, entered into it as a primary element), came to her less by nature than by ardent aspiration. But critics had compared her Rosalind to a perfect rose, blown into a bulb of glass; and she was still a patient learner, standing tiptoe on the vestibule of her art, with an untold future before her.
"'Ow did Hi begin?" said the cracksman, when the confusion had subsided.
Robert was again at the chink, like some penitent whispering through a grating to his father confessor. "Hi never began. Hi was born wicked. Wicked Willie they called me w'en Hi wasn't old enough to toddle halone. And 'ere's 'ow Hi earned it, Bobbs."
"How?"
"You see, my mother, who was a hinnocent woman and a Christian, took me out on 'er harms to see the lord mayor's procession, the lord mayor o' Lunnon wot 'as all the wittles to eat, you know. And w'ile they was all preoccupied admirin' 'is lordship's gold buttons, wot was Wicked Willie a-doin' of but leanin' forward in 'is mamma's harms and pluckin' a hear-ring w'ich ee liked, hout of a grand lady's hear. 'Ow!' says the lady, w'en it 'urt; and Wicked Willie 'ad 'is 'ands slapped, w'ich Hi say ee richly deserved, seein' as 'ow ee bungled the bloomin' job."
"From the cradle up you were a thief," said Robert, sadly.
"Ho, them bantam games don't count."
"When did you first begin professionally?"
"Do you count a gunniff a perfessional in this 'ere country?"
"A gunniff? What's that?"
"Don't you know wot a gunniff is, Bobbs? W'y. Hi'm amazed. Hi'll 'ave to present chummy with a Century dictionary in sixteen volumes w'ich we'll be hable to do w'en we get out of 'ere, w'ich won't be long. Hi'm a-winkin.'"
All the time that he spoke Robert heard a low scraping noise, softer than the rasping he had noticed in the evenings. Apparently it was close to his ear.
"A gunniff is a juvenile institution peculiar to our bloomin' hold Hengland."
"Leave out some of your bloomings, won't you, especially about England."
"W'y not, chummy? Ain't it in the dic? Is it a wulgar word?"
Robert did not reply, but he thought how many words as sacred and beautiful as this have been profaned to foul uses or cheapened to the vapidity of a Frenchman's "Mon Dieu."
"Hi beg your bloomin' pardon, Bobbs. If it's wulgar, Hi drop it, and with your leave Hi'll resume my hinterrupted hautobiography."
"You call yourself a gunniff?"
"Gunniff in general, but more particularly Hi was a snatcher, w'ich takes precedence of the mob by reason of the difficulty of 'is duties, of the taker as well as of the blokie and the moke."
"What's the English for blokie and moke?"
"The Henglish? W'y, Hi'm amazed. Don't tell me you bilked 'em all so 'andily on settin' that 'ouse afire. Hi won't believe it of a chummy as hasks me wot a blokie and a moke is."
"I never heard the words before."
"W'y, the mokes do the scrappin' wen the gent 'as been relieved of 'is pocketbook, w'ich is too heavy for 'im to carry, by the willin' and accommodatin' little snatcher, w'ich was me."
"You began as a pickpocket?"
"Pickpocket? Wot does that mean? Hi never 'eard that word. We were hexpress boys. Is pickpocket the bloomin' Americanese for that? Hi'm a-winkin' at you, Bobbs."
This conclusion was invariably the prelude to a burst of laughter, which was so droll and self-satisfied that it put Robert in good humor in spite of everything.
"Four of us, Bobbs, and that makes a mob. First we picked out our gent, always a hold gent or a bloomin' swell, a-standin' in the crowd. Four of us playin', rompin', friskin', about 'im, as hinnocent little fellows will, bless 'em all, w'en, hall of a sudden, one bumps up against the bloomin' gent's pocket not with 'is 'ands, you know? The bloomin' gent might fancy ee was a hobject of hinterest to us if ee used 'is 'ands, w'ich ee hisn't, ho, no! That's the blokie wot does the bumpin'. Ee wears a thin shirt and a huncommonly hintelligent spine w'ich can feel a 'ard lump in a gent's pocket surprisin'."
"The blokie ascertains where his purse is located?"
"And the snatcher, w'ich was Wicked Willie, relieves 'im of it gently."
"How?"
"'Ow? By makin' a hopportunity. There's nothin' in this world like makin' a hopportunity for yourself, Bobbs. And if two little fellers get a-scrappin' and jostle a hold gent hover, and a crowd comes and the hold gent gets hinterested in separatin' the little fellers, and givin' them a moral lecture, 'ow's ee a-goin' to know w'ere 'is valuables went, unless ee reaches to present 'em with a 'alf-crown apiece, w'ich he don't."
"Is that common in London?"
"Run into the ground, Bobbs, completely wulgarized. No self-respectin' gent would bring up 'is bantams in that line nowadays. But hafterward, w'en Hi was alightin' my 'Avana cigars with the old lady's ten-pun notes, Hi always looked back on my rompin's with the mob as the beginnin's, 'umble but 'onorable, of a great and useful career."
During the talk it had seemed to Robert that the cracksman's voice was coming nearer.
"What's making that noise, Dobbs?"
"Wot noise, chummy?"
"That little scraping."
"You can 'ear it?"
"It's close to the chink."
"That's a rat's tooth gnawin'. Hi'm a-winkin' at you, Bobbs."
"Are you cutting into the wall?"
"Look 'ere, chummy. Dobbs 'as given hall the confidence so far, and Bobbs 'as given none. 'Ow is Dobbs to know Bobbs is true blue?"
This was a puzzler. Robert did not feel prepared to abet prison-breach yet, if that was the cracksman's aim, though his own feeling toward the authorities was anything but submissive.
"Hi'm 'urt, Bobbs. Hi've a sensitive nature and a large bump of curiosity, both of w'ich is offended by my chummy's lack of confidence in me. But Hi'll prove Hi'm true blue, wotever Bobbs says. Chummies is chummies and bobbies is bobbies, there's the distinction Hi draw. Do you 'ear the tooth?"
The gnawing sound became louder at Robert's ear.
"That's a hinstrument Hi hown w'ich Hi wouldn't show to the Pelican 'imself, but Bobbs shall see it and feel it if he likes."
"Is it a file?"
"A wery little file."
"How did you smuggle it in?"
"Just in a little plug o' smoke, Bobbs, w'ich a friend sent me for my 'ealth, w'ich is poor, as my bloomin' associates around me 'ere frequently observe. Nobody'd look for a little rat's tooth laid crossways in a little plug o' smoke, with the 'andle alongside of it, would they, Bobbs?"
"Are you sawing the bars?"
"Ham I? It's all done."
"You've sawed them through?"
"And poor little hinnocent Bobbs never 'eard me."
Dobbs went off in a peal of laughter.
"But how do you hide the cuts in the bars when any one comes?"
"Wot'll stop a leak in a gas-pipe? Soap. Wot'll 'ide a slice in a sawed bar? Gum."
"Gum?"
"You see, chummy, the wentilation is poor in 'ere. There's a green mildew on my floor and the bloomin' spiders is too silent to be sociable company. But you never 'eard me 'ollerin', Bobbs."
Indeed, he always lay low during the outbreaks. His methods were more secretive. He was the villain by trade.
"But my sympathy is with the bloomin' mutineers hall the time. So I pick away with my rat's tooth w'en the others is 'ollerin' and even green little hinnocent Bobbs cawn't 'ear me."
The rasping sound illustrated his meaning.
"Ee won't trust me, but Hi trust 'im. We'll see who can keep a secret, and who leaks."
There was a sound as if something had been slid out of the wall on the other side and of a sudden Dobbs' whisper became startlingly distinct.
"Honly a few minutes, Bobbs. Hi 'old the plaster in my pockets, and the rat's tooth in my fingers w'ile Hi gnaw and gnaw." The tool began working rapidly and dexterously. In a short time Dobbs spoke again:
"Tap 'em till you feel it 'ollow, and shove on the 'ollow spot."
Robert tapped the wall.
"Shove 'arder."
Robert gave a stiff push with his elbow. The brick was loosened and gave way.
"Now, catch it, chummy."
Slowly the Englishman shoved the brick toward Robert, till it protruded from his side of the cell. It would have fallen on the bed if Robert had not caught it. After the brick came a hand and the striped sleeve of a convict's arm. It was a characteristic hand, broad, with spatulate fingernails and a black star on the fleshy ball between forefinger and thumb. But the cracksman must have fallen out with his own likeness as Iago, for his thumb-nail was clean as a whistle. Between the fingers lay a tiny file of rarest workmanship. Its teeth were set almost as sharply as those of a saw, and the steel was tempered to the hardness of adamant.
"'Ow's that for a tooth, Bobbs?"
Floyd took it for a moment, but a step was heard coming along the corridor. It was Longlegs.
"Quick, Bobbs, put back the brick."
Dobbs' voice grew hoarse with excitement. Robert replaced the block on his side, and heard the convict doing the same on the other. As Longlegs passed, Dobbs fell into a tremendous spasm of coughing. The turnkey hastened to the end of the corridor, jangling his keys as if deriding the derision with which he was greeted all the way. He had run his gantlet too often to heed the jeers and grimaces he met. There was a sound as if he were unlocking the farther door and then relocking it from the outside.
"That's a very useful cough," whispered Dobbs to Floyd. It had ceased all of a sudden. "It drives undesirable acquaintances about their business and it procures me admission to the 'ospital, w'ich is a sociable and communicative quarter. Hi'm a-winkin'."
Robert was beginning to understand things. The cracksman was malingering. It was through the hospital that he communicated with his friends outside.
"And Hi 'ope that Dobbs 'as given ample proof to Bobbs that ee his deservin' of 'is confidence."
Robert looked down and started at the temptation before him. The file lay in his hand.
The life of Emily Barlow during this balmy month of summer might be described as an oscillation in criss-cross between her home and the studio in one direction, and Shagarach's office and the state prison in the other. For in spite of Robert's protest she had returned several times to pour the sunlight of her sympathy into his cell, and the convicts, either because the latent manhood in them went out to a brave girl doing battle for her lover, or because Dobbs had exercised his influence in her behalf, offered no repetition of their first affront.
The point of intersection between these two much-traveled routes was a certain down-town corner, where Emily was already becoming a familiar figure to the policeman who escorted ladies over the crossing. A more disagreeable feature of her passage of this point was the frequent appearance there of Mr. Arthur Kennedy Foxhall. But Emily, like other golden-haired girls, was accustomed to rude glances from men, and had learned to tolerate them as we accept turbid weather, muddy streets and the other unavoidable miseries of life.
She had been riding in the steam car fully fifteen minutes before she could determine in what direction the hostile influence lay. It could not be the mere uncertainty of her journey. Even if Bertha were not with the Arnolds at Hillsborough, it did not follow that her sweetheart was lost. At first broadly pervasive, like an approaching fog, the malign presence had gradually begun to locate itself near her, and it was with a sudden shock, like the first splash of a long-delayed shower, that she realized she was under observation from the passenger in front.
He had never turned around since they had left the station. To all appearances he was buried in a magazine. There was not even a sidewise position to indicate that he was keeping her within the field of his vision. Yet Emily knew that every sense of the man was alert in her direction, and that by a sort of diffused palpation, like that of the blind, he was aware of her slightest gesture. She thought of moving back to escape the oppression, or forward into another car. But the station platforms on either side lay in full view of the windows, and she felt that the relief would be only temporary. He would follow her out.
Who was the stranger? She was certain she had never seen his round, shaven face before, yet she felt that it was some one whose fortunes were bound in with hers, some one whom she would recognize, when his name was uttered, as a familiar. All efforts to dispel this dim fear were fruitless. She tried to gaze out at the skimming landscape, but some subtle force gripped her muscles and turned her head to the front. She closed her eyes, but the image still floated before her and she knew it was there to thwart her purpose and work her lover harm.
Fully fifty minutes of the ride had been rendered wretched to Emily by these doubts and fears, when the conductor entered to collect the tickets for Hillsborough. The man in front seemed to jerk himself out of his fit of absorption. He fumbled for his oblong blue card, on which Emily espied the lettering "Hillsborough." But the hand which delivered it struck a numbness in her heart. It was broad and fleshy, with the fingernails which are said to betray the professional criminal, and a star worked in black ink on the protuberance between forefinger and thumb. Robert had described this peculiarity in his cell-acquaintance, Bill Dobbs. If it were he, this was a strange situation in which to find the solitary cracksman. Perhaps it was one of his "hospital days."
"Hillsborough! Hillsborough!" came the announcement from both ends of the car, followed by the usual banging of doors. Emily started for the rear exit, which was the nearer. Once alighted, she walked leisurely forward along the platform. A side glance upward revealed Bill Dobbs just leaving his seat and passing to the rear, exactly in her footsteps. When he caught her eye he smiled. It was true. He was pursuing her. Her spirits sank, and she did not quicken her pace. The engine stood champing like an impatient horse beside her, for she was almost abreast of the tender.
"All aboard!" the uniformed trainmen were crying. Emily glanced around. Bill Dobbs was just entering the station door, apparently taking no more notice of her than of the drivers soliciting his custom. But she knew that her least movement was under his cognizance. With a quick jump she placed her foot on the step, and, catching a conductor's hand, remounted the moving train. A backward glance, as she sunk into her seat, discovered Bill Dobbs sauntering up the road.
An interval of regret seized Emily when she reviewed her conduct calmly. Had she, indeed, escaped some unknown danger? Or was she the victim of a girl's foolish illusion? She was beginning to chide herself as a prey to superstition when the realities of her predicament suddenly forced themselves upon her by the reappearance of the conductor.
"What is the next station, please?"
"Elmwood."
"How far is that?"
"Two miles."
Two miles. To be carried two miles beyond Hillsborough into the neighboring township! Possibly the Arnold estate lay midway between, but it was more probable that she would be footsore and spent before she reached the house where Bertha was supposed to be living. There was an extra fare to pay, a brief whirling glimpse of woodland and meadow, and then the engine slacked up again before a cottage-like, rustic station.
A circle of 12-year-olds desisted from their romp to watch the sweet lady approaching them.
"Little boy, could you direct me to the Arnold mansion?" she said to the oldest.
"Arnold mansion? Don't know any Arnolds round here."
"They live in Hillsborough. How far is that?"
"Oh, I know," put in a tot in tires. "That's the lady that has the gardens way over on the Hillsborough line."
"'Bout five miles from here, isn't it, Chester?" said another.
"Can't I get a carriage to drive me there?" Emily felt equal to five miles or twenty, now that she was once started, but if feasible she would have preferred to let some four-footed creature do the walking.
"Well," said Chester, "you see the coach is up at the academy and I guess it won't come down till the game is over. You might get a wagon."
"Oh, well, somebody may give me a ride. Which way does Hillsborough lie?"
"Follow this road straight along, till you come to the bridge. That's the Hillsborough line and I guess anybody over there will tell you."
Emily thanked her guides and sped off on her long trudge. Behind her she heard the boys' shrill chirps, mingled with the light soprano of girlhood, running up and down the bright gamut of pleasure. How melodious their joyous inflections were, compared with the harsh syllables she was accustomed to hear from the children of the pavements. How much richer and deeper this country stillness than the everlasting murmur of the city, which makes silence only a figure of speech to the dwellers within its walls.
But is not all silence figurative and relative, thought Emily, a mere hint at some magnificent placid experience, only possible in its purity to the inhabitants of outer space? Even the countryside was not still. Plump sparrows, dusting themselves in the road, never ceased their brawling. The shy brown thrush swerved across her path at intervals and bubbled his song from the thickets. The meadowlark left his tussock-hidden nest to greet the world proudly from the pasture rock, and far away the phoebe's plaintive utterance of his lost love's name pierced the sibilance of the trees.
"There's a loam for you," said an old gardener, spading an oval plot on a lawn. His bulbs and potted sproutings were arranged at one side. "Feel. 'Twouldn't soil a queen's hands. Dry as meal and brown as a berry. Same for two feet down."
Emily took up a handful to please the old man. It crumbled between her fingers like the soft brown sugar which grocers display in crocks, though not, as youthful customers sometimes think, to be scooped and paddled with by idle hands.
"I can see roses in that, miss," said the gardener, turning up a deep spadeful for her inspection. But time was precious and she shortened the commonplaces, breaking away toward Hillsborough.
All that was visible of Elmwood was a cluster of cottages about the station and a few outlying farms. A brick building crowning its highest hill was probably the academy to which her guides had referred. On both sides the country opened out in great reaches of level fertility, groves of dark trees rising at intervals where the pools lay that nourished their roots. Now they sprung up by the roadside and overarched her with drooping boughs.
Looking upward, as she walked, almost alone, Emily felt herself the center of a greater mystery, embracing, as it were, that in which her sweetheart was entangled. Nights of vigil had begun to overstring her nerves. That strange doubling of impressions which attacks us in such moods, making a kind of mirage of the mind, came over her. Everything about her seemed familiar, as old as her infancy, as the world itself. Elmwood! She had babbled the name in her cradle days, her earliest rambles had been through its grassy paths. Yonder silver-birch, whose delicately scalloped foliage rose and drooped in long strings, as if the foamy spurt of a fountain should be frozen in its fall, had it not printed itself on her memory somewhere a thousand times before? The three urchins passing her from behind, surely their faces were not strange.
It may be Emily was right about the urchins and that there was no mirage in her recollection of them. She had been present on the morning when Ellen's body was found and they may have stood by her side in the crowd.
"I'm stiff, Whistler," said one of them in the broad drawl of the city gamin.
"Don't expect to be limber after ridin' twenty miles on a car truck, do yer, Turkey? What place is this, anyway?"
"I'll stump yez to come over in the swamp and get some little frogs," said urchin number three, who was no other than our crabbed young acquaintance, Toot Watts.
Emily wondered, as she saw them disappear down in the meadows, whether they had really been her fellow-passengers all the way from the city. How dingy they were! Not a point of color except the peachy cheeks of Whistler and the golden glow at the end of Turkey's cigarette.
When she reached the academy playground she thought she must have covered two miles. There was a game in progress between two baseball clubs of rival academies and the sight of sportive youths and cheering onlookers was welcome to her after so long a spell of solitude. She was unhappily ignorant of the rudiments of that most scientific of games. "Fly" and "grounder" to her were simply undistinguishable terms of a barbaric technical jargon. But the sparkle of eager eyes and the motion of active limbs, set off by graceful costumes, was, perhaps, more apparent to her than if appreciation of the spectacle had been overwhelmed by interest in the match.
What breeding in the salute, in the very tones, when one of the outfielders, chasing a hit out of bounds, begged pardon for jostling against her ever so little. For a moment, admiring the liberal swing of his arm, as he made the long throw home, though the most womanly of women, she envied men the bodily freedom which they deny to their sisters. Presumably the play was successful, for its result was greeted with plaudits, and the club afield closed in toward the plate.
Beyond the ball ground, under a clump of willows, Emily was surprised to come upon her three fellow-passengers once more. They must have cut through the meadows on the other side of the academy. The grove made a screen completely hiding them from the playground, and there was no one else about. Against a rocky wall three bicycles were resting.
"Let's take a ride, fellers," said the one who had been addressed as "Turkey."
"Cheese it. There's somebody comin'," protested the Whistler.
"Come on. I'm sick of this. Them fellers can't play a little bit."
"On'y a little ride around. They'll never know," added Toot.
Turkey boldly led the way, mounting like a veteran. Toot followed quickly, and finally the Whistler, finding himself abandoned by his comrades, swallowed his scruples and joined them. His was a girl's wheel, but he overtook his companions easily.
"Boys! Stop!" Emily found herself calling out a remonstrance. All three turned their heads at this shrill command, but it only made them speed away more rapidly. The road was downhill here, and the pedals whirled around like the crank-shaft of a flying locomotive. Should she turn back and give the alarm? It was a good stretch for limbs already weary and with an unknown number of miles before them. Besides, this was probably nothing worse than a boyish prank. If only city-street boys were like country-academy boys, she sighed. Perhaps they would be if they all had natty uniforms to wear and a bicycle apiece. No doubt the gamins would soon turn about, although they acted as though her outcry had frightened them; and the last she saw of them they were pedaling for dear life toward the city, twenty miles away.
Circumstances were to be greatly altered when Emily met these young racers again.