Walter Riley, Thomas J. Fenton and Arthur Watts had a separate trial from the other members of the "club," which resorted to Lanty Lonergan's back kitchen. There was only one charge against them—to wit, the larceny of three bicycles and their sale to one Timothy Bagley, aforesaid, dealer in junk.
The government had little difficulty in proving its case. First, one of the owners of the bicycles testified to having recognized his wheel, cunningly repainted, in a stranger's possession, to following up its rider and tracing it finally to an auction sale at which he had purchased it cheap. From the auctioneer to Bagley, from Bagley to the "club," was easy work for the officer detailed to investigate the theft. Walter's unsold wheel was confiscated, together with all the other stolen property on the premises, and no fewer than seven of the boys placed under arrest. But the only charge against Riley, Fenton and Watts was the theft of the bicycles.
Bagley, the junkman, who was involved in the affair, had made a singular confession, candid enough in most particulars but with great hiatuses here and there concerning the disposal of certain articles, principally articles of value—a watch, a meerschaum pipe and the third of the bicycles. No threats or promises in private had been able to wring from him a confession concerning these points. But at the mention of a pipe Shagarach had raised his head and, crossing over to the prosecuting attorney, secured a description of the missing object.
"You admit, then, that you offered Riley $10 for the bicycle which he had ridden?" asked Shagarach of Bagley on cross-examination.
"Yes, sir."
"How often did you repeat this offer?"
"Several times—about four or five times."
"And the boy each time refused?"
"Yes, sir."
"What language did he use?"
"He said the wheel wasn't his."
"Which you knew very well, didn't you, without being told?"
"Yes, sir."
"And when you proposed that Fenton should ride the bicycle over to your shop, what was Riley's conduct then?"
"I don't know of my own knowledge. But they told me that he wouldn't have it."
"He threatened them, then?"
"Yes, sir, you might call it threatening."
"Then Riley would appear to have put forward some claim upon the bicycle, although he denied that it was his. Would you not say that he seemed to regard himself as its custodian rather than its proprietor? That he was storing it in Lonergan's kitchen until the occasion should arise when it might be returned to its owner?"
"Well, the boys said he was sorry for taking the wheel and that he never meant to steal it."
"That is all—all on that point, I mean." Bagley had started to leave the stand. "There is another matter, however, with regard to the third bicycle—the one which has not been recovered"—Bagley shifted uneasily to the opposite foot. "How does it happen that you, the sole repository of the secrets of these young law-breakers, can tell us nothing of that?"
"I know nothing about it."
"And about the gold watch stolen from Mr. Merchant's window?"
"I don't know, sir."
"And the meerschaum pipe—of rare coloring, according to the connoisseur who testified in the previous trial?"
"I know nothing about the watch and the pipe, sir. They are not in my line. I couldn't dispose of such articles."
"Ah! But you might be acquainted with somebody who could, might you not?"
"I suppose I might——"
"Some second-hand dealer, let us say?"
Bagley's eye dropped and he looked pale.
"Have you been visited, Bagley, by any one, since you were let out on bail?"
"Only by my bondsman."
"What is your bondsman's name?"
Bagley hesitated so long that the judge finally had to order him to answer.
"Mr. Rabofsky," he stammered.
"Kindly subpoena Mr. Simon Rabofsky," said Shagarach to Aronson. "It is that gentleman just starting to leave the room. He will remain for a few moments."
The writ was made out and handed by the awe-stricken Aronson to the money-lender, who glared at him furiously. But he could not escape.
"Mr. Rabofsky is a second-hand dealer, I believe?" continued Shagarach.
"I think so."
"Of a higher class than yourself?"
"Oh, yes sir. Mr. Rabofsky's reputation is first class."
"How much money did Simon Rabofsky offer you to keep him out of this scrape?" was the next question. The witness looked over at the money-lender in terror; then back at Shagarach, and his terror was intensified.
"No money," he finally gasped.
"Would you be willing to swear that if Mr. Henderson, the owner of that pipe, should call to-day at 84 Salem street and request Mrs. Rebecca Rabofsky to sell him the colored meerschaum which her husband was showing to a customer yesterday, when Mr. Shagarach called, he would be told that no such article was in the store?"
Either the length of the question or its import confused the witness.
"No, sir," he answered.
"You would not be willing——"
"Yes, sir, I mean—that is—how do I know?"
"Mr. Henderson," said Shagarach, turning to a gentleman present, "will doubtless be interested enough to try. He could be back in half an hour. That will do, Bagley."
During the half-hour Shagarach put on, as witnesses for the defense, Walter's schoolmaster, who told an anecdote of his truthfulness and another of his generosity, which were better than the warmest words of general commendation; and Emily Barlow, whose story of the theft accorded exactly with Walter's own, which was honestly told, with a correctness of language that his former master did not fail to notice.
"Only I never meant to steal it," he said finally. "We all clung together and I was sorry before I got home. I read the papers to see if the owners' names were given, but they lived too far out of town. If I knew whose it was I would have ridden it out to him again."
To all this the judge listened coldly. He was a new appointee, fearful lest the balance of Libra on his unpracticed fingertip should incline too much one way or the other. Just as Walter concluded, Mr. Henderson returned and Simon Rabofsky was summoned to the stand. He muttered in his beard and flashed a glance of hatred at Shagarach.
"What do you know of this case?" asked the lawyer.
"Nothing."
He looked furtively at Mr. Henderson.
"That will do for the present. Mr. Henderson, will you kindly testify as to the result of your search?"
Mr. Henderson's testimony was brief and pointed. He had visited 84 Salem street, stating that he came from Mr. Rabofsky and desired to see a colored meerschaum pipe. The lady had shown him his own pipe. He had priced it. Twenty-five dollars. She had procured it, she said——
"One moment," interrupted Shagarach. "Will you kindly remain awhile, Mr. Henderson? Mr. Rabofsky again."
Rabofsky returned.
"You have heard Mr. Henderson's testimony?"
"I have heard it. If you had sense enough to ask me, I could have told you that without sending him off on a wild-goose chase."
Shagarach knew that Rabofsky was excited, because his accent came out so strongly.
"Go on," he said, giving him the rope to hang himself by.
"I know nothing about this case. That pipe I took from a woman who wanted money. I lent her $25 and she never came back. All I ask is what I paid for it, no more, no less, and so I wash my hands of all of you."
"Not yet," said Shagarach. "You are required by law to record the names of persons who pawn articles. If we should send an officer down to your shop would he find the woman's name in your book?"
"She would not give me her name."
"But you loaned her the money?"
"She cried and was so poor I took pity——"
"Enough," said Shagarach in temper. "Mr. Henderson!"
Mr. Henderson replaced Rabofsky a second time.
"You were about to say that you inquired of Mrs. Rabofsky where her husband obtained the pipe, were you not?"
"Yes, sir, I asked her that."
"What was her answer?"
"That it was his own pipe he had smoked for eleven years."
This statement produced a visible effect on the spectators. It concluded the defense for Walter Riley. After the prosecuting attorneys had pleaded for sentence, Shagarach briefly addressed the judge.
"The real criminals in this case, your honor, are the last two witnesses—adults of responsible years, and one of them, at least, enjoying a reputable position. They were the receivers of the stolen goods and the encouragers of the crimes. Were I prosecuting attorney, I should suspend the cases against the young defendants until justice had been done to both of these maturer thieves.
"I cannot look upon the deed committed on the lonely roadside at Hillsborough as a serious offense, for which our code provides a penalty. It was a prank, played in the ebullient spirit of mischief, but given an ambiguous color by Miss Barlow's well-meant outcry of warning. Evil resides in the intentions of the mind. Not until Fenton and Watts disposed of the property which was not theirs was their misdemeanor consummated and an unhappy practical jest warped into a legal theft.
"Even then, I might recommend clemency to all three offenders, on account of their youth and the restitution of the property. For I have no doubt that the missing bicycle will be found installed beside the meerschaum pipe in Simon Rabofsky's back room. But, considering the evil associations which these boys have formed, and their unfortunate homes, Fenton having no mother and Watts an intemperate one, I believe that a short period of retirement, under the regular discipline of the reformatory, would be of advantage to them.
"But the case of Riley is different. His character is better than that of the others. He is fortunate in possessing an excellent mother, who depends upon him in part for support. Moreover, the refusal on his part to dispose of the bicycle, against a pressure few boys of his age could resist, shows a moral courage which is exceedingly rare in my experience, and which only needs fostering to develop its possessor into an admirable man. I, therefore, respectfully suggest that Riley be placed on probation."
If the judge were not so new to the bench he would have known that Shagarach's addresses were always brief. But, knowing the great lawyer only by reputation, he judged that the brevity of his plea denoted a perfunctory interest in the case. The sentencing was deferred until 4 o'clock, when a whole batch of prisoners filed into the "cage," one after another, to receive their punishments.
"Ochone!" cried a maundering old woman after every sentence, and even the court officers whispered to each other:
"Perkins is having a picnic to-day."
But there was little severity in the sentence accorded to the white-faced youth who came just before the three gamins. Emily recognized in amazement Mr. Arthur Kennedy Foxhall.
"In consideration of your social standing," said the judge, "of your promise to reform and of the fact that your weakness is one which injures only yourself, I will mitigate the penalty."
Then the clerk read out a fine of $20 and costs. The opium parlors of Hi Wong King had recently been raided. That is to say, four tall, youngish men had entered one evening and called for dinner. For Hi Wong King's restaurant was open to all. Chicken wings had been served them and an aromatic salad. Jelly pats had been dropped over their heads into dainty plates, on which droll baboons scratched their heads and tigers grimaced fiercely. Such is the art of the orient. Tea leaves newly steeped in a bowl had taught them their first lesson in the needlessness of sugar and milk; and they had practiced with the merry chopsticks, a pair in each hand. Then, by way of diversion, they broke through the painted screens into Hi Wong King's rear parlors and arrested eight opium smokers, Mongol and Caucasian, of both sexes; among these one who was dreaming over a peculiarly elegant pipe proved to be Emily's admirer.
"Riley, Fenton and Watts, stand up," said the clerk. Walter's cheeks were burning red, as he stood between his companions. They seemed to feel the disgrace less keenly and looked at the clerk with sheepish and cunning glances.
"Fenton and Watts, you are sentenced to the reform school during your minority, and Riley for the space of one year!"
"Ochone!" broke out the maundering old woman and a chill fell on Emily's heart. Then the voice of Shagarach was heard in wrath. The building seemed to quake with its power. It was such a voice as that Roman tribune may have owned who could make himself heard from end to end of the forum.
"Sir, you have just imposed a nominal fine on a mature man, who has not only, as you speciously alleged, ruined himself by a degrading vice, but done what example could to spread its contagion. Immediately after you sentence three poor children to long terms of imprisonment. Are you ignorant that four in seven of all who enter those institutions return to them sooner or later? Do you see no possible spark of reform in the natures of these boys, no means of tiding over the danger period of youth, the formative years, the sowing season? Or do you think to scatter seeds inside a jail and reap some other crop than crime? Sir, it is not my sense of justice that social standing should condone offenses and social obscurity magnify them."
The ticking of the clock could be heard when Shagarach paused. Officer looked at officer, as if they expected immediately to be called upon to execute a sentence of contempt on the audacious lawyer. But Shagarach's reputation was great, and Judge Perkins could not afford to inaugurate his session in the Criminal Court by a conflict with such a man. He only stroked his chin nervously and pulled at his severe legal whiskers.
"I do not know which is the more deserving of censure," continued Shagarach, "the dangerous laxity of the one judgment, which virtually acquits a convicted lawbreaker, or the atrocious severity of the other, which condemns to a year's whole punishment the innocent act, already more than atoned for, of a boy for whose uprightness I would pledge my personal word."
"Oh, if you are willing to vouch for the boy's good behavior," said the judge, "I will put him on probation and reconsider the other sentences."
"I will accept the charge," said Shagarach.
Emily's heart leaped for joy, and Mrs. Riley could not be restrained from rushing forward and embracing Walter in rapture. But the most touching moment came when Walter walked over to Shagarach and, with tears in his eyes, but a stanch voice, said: "I want to show you I am grateful."
"Here is the substitute I promised you, Rosalie. Miss March—Count L'Alienado."
There was a vacant seat in the barouche that stood before the Marches' villa. It had been destined for Tristram, but even behind the black glasses he wore the August sunshine dazzled his eyes, so he was compelled at the last moment to excuse himself.
"Mme. Violet—his lordship, the Earl of Marmouth."
Count L'Alienado was thus informally presented to his other two riding companions. There was just a suggestion of Spanish reserve in his obeisance, and he bowed a graceful adieu to Tristram before mounting to his seat.
It was curious that Tristram should have been the first to break the count's incognito. He had arrived at Lenox a few days before, attended by a single valet, and registered at the hotel as M. L. L'Alienado, Valencia. Though not imposing in stature, he exhibited a head of rare distinction—the black beard trimmed to an exquisite point at the chin and the curled mustaches setting off a pair of glowing eyes which riveted the beholder from the moment he met their gaze.
As the artist spoke Spanish, they had become friends in an afternoon.
"We have flattered ourselves that the coaching party is something purely American," said Rosalie, who sat beside him, to the stranger.
"I am glad of it for the color. That is an element I have observed to be generally a little lacking in your life."
"Color and lordliness," sighed Mme. Violet. "Ah, there are no troubadours, no spurred cavaliers, no mailed knights in this busy America—not even scarlet soldiers parading. You men are so dingy, dingy in your black propriety. Why be so funereal? My heart goes out sometimes to a very mountebank, all spangled and jingling like a tambourine when he moves. Color! Give me color. Ah, it is not we who have taste, it is the canaille! It is Victorine, my lady's maid, with her bonnet-ribbons flaunting all the colors of the rainbow."
A silk banner lay outspread in Rosalie's lap, throwing warm blushes against her throat. It was the prize for the gentlemen's steeplechase, which was to close the programme of the afternoon.
"Scarlet, sea-blue and gold," she cried, stroking the tasseled fringe which justified the last addition. "Are not these the primary hues, the major chord of color, and the white their perfect blending?"
The Violet laughed. When addressing her directly or referring to her in her own presence, people carefully called her Mme. Violet. But to the world, out of earshot, she was simply the Violet, just as Cleopatra is Cleopatra. It was taken for granted that her blood was French, but Count L'Alienado, noting her fawn-brown eyes and the strong black hair, which made Rosalie's fluff appear like carded golden silk—thought he detected the marks of the Romany. Yet the full mouth hinted at a Spanish cross. She was not very young, or, at first sight, very beautiful, but she possessed a diablerie stronger than girlhood or beauty, and gossip said the Earl of Marmouth was succumbing to its spell.
"The signal!" cried Rosalie, as the notes of a hunting-horn pealed, faint and mellow, from a distant quarter. "It is time to start."
For several minutes the occupants of the barouche lay back, reveling in the luxury of the cushions and in the changing view which the drive afforded. Other equipages swept into the main road here and there, from cottage and mansion and by-path, each freighted with its cargo of flower-raimented beauty. Marshals in velvet hunting garb galloped up and down, with low salutes to the passengers and brusque orders to the coachmen. On the top of a little hill there came a pause while the procession was arranging itself, and the conversation rippled out again.
"The color is overdone," said the Earl of Marmouth. "It smacks of Latin degeneracy."
"Such as appears in the canvases of Titian?" asked Count L'Alienado quietly.
The Violet, sitting opposite him, caressed her bronze-eyed spaniel to her cheek, so that she might survey the newcomer more closely. His lordship, at her side, alone of the party had sat upright during the ride.
"You are Spanish, not Italian, I am told," he said, much in the tone of a hotel clerk demanding the settlement of an overdue bill. The Violet's eyes met the count's interrogatively.
"Question me in Castilian," he smiled.
"Where are your estates?"
"In Valencia."
"I was there last autumn. I seem to have overlooked the L'Alienados."
"Our estates are in dispute with another branch of the family."
Marmouth grunted.
"The title is very old?" asked Rosalie, to blunt the edge of his impertinence.
"Not very old," answered Count L'Alienado, gently, but looking full at Marmouth. "Before Columbus set out from Palos my ancestor was knighted by Ferdinand the Great—for honorable services."
"We are moving at last," growled the earl, as if personally grieved at the delay. His own title was less than 200 years old and the services for which it was granted, by the second Charles, though historic, could not possibly be called honorable.
"Ah, this is joyous!" cried the Violet, as the sensuous pleasure of the ride stole over her. A quick-step, taken from the start, gave the party a gentle jolting, just sufficiently softened by the padded carriage upholstery. Up hill and down dale, through the riches of midsummer, the route chosen wound. Forest and meadow sailed leisurely by them. Handkerchiefs waved from piazza and window wherever they passed a dwelling house, and at every cross-road stood a group of the fresh-faced country-folk to give them greeting. At the end of an hour the road recurved on itself along a hillside overlooking the valley of the racing park and the pageant bent its length into the form of a letter S, so that without the delay of a formal review each carriage was permitted to inspect the others.
Count L'Alienado saw barges filled with maidens, like living flowers, four-in-hand tally-hos, crowded with sportive collegians, odd jaunting-cars and donkey-carts got up by the wags, staid family coaches with footmen faced rearward to enjoy the retrospect, and open drags like his own without number, all brilliant with lovely womanhood.
The Violet stood apart from the others, sensuous and exotic—like an orange lily in a garden of snowdrops. But, supreme over all, like a bright light, enhanced by reflectors, shone the loveliness of Rosalie March—pure, placid and faultlessly costumed as ever. The jockeys whispered to one another when her vehicle entered the racing park. An eager look at that moment chased away the slight hauteur of her expression—not unbecoming in one so clearly removed from the common order, and far from approaching disdain. She turned her head toward the stables expectantly.
"Paradise," said the Violet, when they had entered and the carriages circled around the great oval.
"This is something like England," said the earl.
"None the worse for that," smiled Rosalie.
"No. Most of the good things I have seen here are derived from the mother country."
"Do you agree, Count L'Alienado?" asked Rosalie, appealing to the stranger.
"Candor is too sharp a sword to carry about unsheathed," answered Count L'Alienado.
Mme. Violet smiled archly, bringing her Gainsborough brim close to the earl's great face and caressing her spaniel with provoking abandon.
Rosalie's little abstraction since they passed through the gate might easily be understood, for Harry Arnold was entered in the steeplechase for gentlemen riders.
"There they come!" she cried, but it was only a group of motley jockeys for the ring race. This passed off quietly enough.
"Now for the steeplechase," cried Rosalie. "There's Harry!" She instinctively plucked the Violet's hand. Then, remembering they were not alone, she colored. Harry led the group of riders who came from the stables, mounted on strong-limbed steeplechasers. His uniform was of the bulrush brown velvet he liked, and his horse a bright chestnut, which pranced as if proud to carry such a master. Even at a distance his splendid seat gave presage of victory.
"Mr. Arnold is the favorite," said Count L'Alienado.
"Although he gives away forty pounds to Leroy," added Rosalie, the technical terms of the track coming strangely from her lips. It was fortunate for her peace of mind Tristram was not there to hear them.
"Now they start!" she cried, alive with interest; but it was only Harry Arnold who spurted his curvetting chestnut across the turf, then reined him up on his haunches with a sudden jerk, as you may have seen an old cavalry sergeant perform the trick. But Leroy, who, as Rosalie said, weighed nearly half a hundred less, wisely reserved his white horse's strength.
"Now!" repeated Rosalie, unconsciously clasping the flag, as if eager to bestow it. The horses, six in number, had started in a bunch and kept together easily till the pistol flash. Then each bounded as if cut with a whip, and rider and horse bent forward.
"Hurrah!" shouted the ring of onlookers about the inclosure, as all six took the first low wall together. The course led straightway across the oval, up a hill at one end, then out of sight for a circuit of a mile, and back by another route, over ditch and mound. Harry Arnold's chestnut and Leroy's white could be seen a length in the lead of the others and neck and neck, as they struggled up the hill and sunk to view on the other side.
"How glorious! How delightful!" cried the Violet, in the interim of suspense. "It is better than the wild Indians that rode in the coliseum last year. Your full-blooded racers, they are too lean, like grasshoppers. Oh, the steeplechase is better. I believe, after all, you owe something to old England, which bequeathed you this legacy."
"You remember the horse-race in 'Anna Karenina?'" asked his lordship, much mollified. "One of the most ethical of books, in the broader sense of the word."
His question seemed addressed to Count L'Alienado.
"I have not read the Russians," he answered.
"You are behind the world, senor. And where may your diversions lie?"
"My favorites," he answered, "are the Persian poets."
Rosalie desisted for a moment from scanning the black crest of the distant hill with her great eyes full of eagerness. Then she recovered herself suddenly, and cried out, in a piercing voice:
"They are coming!"
"Who is ahead?"
"The chestnut and the white are even," said the count.
"Oh, I hope he will win!" prayed Rosalie, clutching the prizes she was to award. Down the slope they strained, heading toward the goal. Only a close side view could have disclosed the advantage in favor of either.
"Harry Arnold will win," said Count L'Alienado. "Leroy is whipping his horse."
The count's judgment proved correct. Almost immediately the chestnut began drawing away from the white. A nose, a neck, half a length, and the clear ground intervened. Harry did not touch whip or spur to the sides of his mount, until the last leap, when a high wall and a long ditch had to be taken together. On the very rise of the jump he switched his chestnut's flanks, and just as the conductor's baton seems a wand visibly producing the swell of the orchestra, so this light motion seemed to give the impulse to the horse's spring. The clatter of his feet on the hard turf beyond announced him the winner amid cheers. Leroy's white took the ditch gallantly, too, but the blood showed red in its nostrils.
Instead of reining up at the goal, Harry executed a characteristic caprice. The fence surrounding the race-track was nearly five feet high. Careering on at full gallop, the victor urged his animal toward this obstacle. A great shout greeted him as he cleared it, the chestnut's hind hoofs grazing the boards. Then, swiftly turning to the right, he cantered up to Rosalie's carriage, gracefully backed his horse and saluted. Leroy joined him through the gate, and stood at his side, while the losers straggled in, haphazard and blown.
"That was for you, Rosalie," said Harry in her ear as she laid the flagstaff in his hand. It was meant for a whisper, but others heard it, and on the morrow the news had spread all over Lenox that Harry Arnold and the beautiful Rosalie March were definitely betrothed. When it reached Mrs. Arnold in Hillsborough, as though by special messenger, she retired at once to her room.
The coaching party paraded out and dispersed amid merrymakings freer than before. Mme. Violet was bewitching during the journey home, making up by a double stream of effortless prattle for Rosalie's unwonted silence.
"But Poe," protested the girl, as if waking suddenly, when the earl, who had got back to book talk again, inveighed against the poverty of our literature.
"Ting-a-ling," said his noble lordship. The carriage had just stopped to leave Count L'Alienado at his hotel.
"The Earl of Marmouth sends his regards. He will be unable to join us." Tristram March held a coroneted note in his hands while he made this announcement to the company. There was a faint salvo of regrets, meant for the Violet's ears. Only Miss Milly Mills was heard remarking, sotto voce:
"I'm glad the old bear is chained for once."
"But the grizzly is grand in its den, dear," chided Dorothea Goodbody, a little louder.
"True. We do not fit everywhere," said the Violet, who had overheard them. "Imagine Thoreau in a salon."
"Or Talleyrand in the Walden woods," added Count L'Alienado.
More than one of the company had noted this as the third occasion on which his noble lordship avoided a meeting with the count. Was it that in the reserved Spaniard he had encountered a force which he could not overbear? Or was he jealous of the count's attention to the Violet? Twice at the Ryecroft's hop she had inadvertently answered the slender foreigner and turned her smooth, brown shoulder to the Englishman.
"Well," said Tristram, "the menagerie must perform without its lion."
"How flattering, brother!" cried Rosalie. Harry Arnold was leaning over her chair. "You compare us to wolves and panthers."
"Not unhappily," said the Violet. "Mine host is clever. He will put us all in an apologue like Aesop's. I am curious to see how I shall be transformed."
"The mood is wanting," cried Tristram, while the young ladies seconded the suggestion. "I am savage. I should affront you all with some furious satire."
"Imagine Tristram furious," said Harry.
"A smothered volcano. I have committed to-day the sin against the Holy Ghost. Guess what that is?"
"Success," said the Violet.
"Candor," the count.
"Bachelorhood," Miss Milly Mills.
"Punning," his sister Rosalie.
But Tristram shook his head drearily at each response.
"Well, then, tell us," cried a chorus of impatient voices.
"I have prostituted art to lucre—having disposed of my great design of Ajax's shield—for what purpose, do you think?"
All the guesses were wild again.
"For a bed-spread," said Tristram, and there was a chorus of laughter, amid which the circle broke up into little moving knots, all electrically united, however, so that the talk flew from one part of the room to another.
It was one of Tristram's soirees, which were the events of the season in Lenox. The flavor of art was substituted for that of artificiality, and usually some souvenir, bearing the touch of the host's own fanciful hand, was carried away by each of the guests. The coveted invitation for this night's affair announced "a purple tea," and the furnishings verified the description. Rich muslin shades over the chandeliers (Rosalie's work) purpled all the atmosphere of the parlors. Purple hangings here and there carried out the suggestion, but not too obtrusively, and each of the guests appeared with some purple garment.
Among the ladies these generally verged toward the wine-colored shades, for they were all too young to carry well the full warmth of the Tyrian. Thus the Violet's mantilla, Rosalie's cloud, Harry Arnold's sash, were all steeped to the same dye, now the crimson, now the blue element prevailing in the mixture. Count L'Alienado alone appeared to have evaded the rule until, raising his right hand to smell a rose, he scattered a pencil of purple light from an opalescent stone which none present were learned enough in lapidary science to name.
"Let's have tableau charades!" cried Miss Milly Mills, who flitted from person to person, from subject to subject, like a butterfly, and was accused of a partiality for spruce gum. The suggestion was taken up with approval, and nearly every one present acted out the first word that came to him on the spur of the moment.
Tristram gave what he called a definition of himself in lengthy pantomime which no one could fathom. So he was obliged to explain that meed—eye—ochre—tea, summed up "mediocrity," at which one and all protested. Most of the other attempts were quite as laborious. But when the Violet stepped forward and trilled an upper C, then buzzed like an insect and put her right foot forward, there was a unanimous cry of "Trilby!" and the flatness began to be taken out of the game.
Then the pleasures grew more miscellaneous and Count L'Alienado found himself for a time alone on the outer balcony with Mme. Violet. The sky was starlit above, the shadows lay deep in the garden bushes below, and the diamonds burned amid her braids. They talked of the Persian poets till the light voice of Tristram within interrupted them and a ripple of laughter from the purple interior reached their ears.
"Ah, this is not fair; that our wisest and wittiest should impoverish the company by their absence. Your places are waiting and the bell is tired of tinkling to you."
"We were lost among the stars," replied Count L'Alienado.
Opposite the count sat Harry Arnold; opposite the Violet, Rosalie. Waiters were serving refreshments, and a purple tea was poured into the wine-colored cups. On each table lay a souvenir containing verse or prose by Tristram March, with fantastic decorations in the border. Harry Arnold was just passing the souvenir of their table to Rosalie. It contained a caricature in profile of Tristram himself, and a brief "Autobiography," which Harry read aloud:
"Oh, I hate sarcasm," burst out Rosalie. "Why won't you be literal, commonplace, something positive, if it's only a woman-hater?"
"An abominable fault, brother Tristram," said Harry, sternly.
"Hideous!" cried the others, drowning poor Rosalie's homily in a flood of irony more heartless than Tristram's own.
Then Rosalie gave him up as incorrigible.
"I wonder if Count L'Alienado's jewel has not a legend attached to it?" said some one.
"It is an alamandine ruby from Siam," began the count.
"Oh, do go on," cried Miss Milly Mills from the rear, who had been listening over her shoulder. "Tell us the story. I'm sure it will be better than Cleverly's last book."
"Oh, if it isn't better than that——"
"But the setting was fresh," said Tristram, who was Cleverly's friend. "He rehangs his gallery well, even if the portraits are familiar."
"This talisman of mine has indeed a story attached to it," said Count L'Alienado at last, "but you may read hundreds better in any book of oriental tales. Its quality, however, is curious. You know that mesmerism has long been known in the east, and that many of the occult feats of the Hindoo magicians are ascribed to that power. It was an Arab caliph who first attributed to this stone the quality of securing immunity to its possessor from the magic trance. As a matter of fact, I have never been hypnotized while I wore it."
"A challenge, Harry," said Tristram.
"You possess the power?" asked the count.
"So I am told," laughed Harry.
"People go to sleep at his bidding," said Tristram. "He is the surest recipe I have seen for insomnia."
"Except the Rev. Dr. Fourthly," whispered Miss Milly Mills, but at this Dorothea Goodbody looked shocked.
"Shall I hypnotize you, Rosalie?" smiled Harry to his sweetheart.
But Rosalie shook her head with a little shudder.
"The count," said the Violet.
"The count! Hypnotize the count!" a chorus echoed.
"Very well," said the Spaniard; "a moment till I invoke the genii of the carbuncle. Now."
"Are you ready?" said Harry, laughing a little awkwardly. He made one or two cabalistic passes with his hands, looking straight into the eyes of the count. They were large burning eyes, the like of which Harry had never met before. Gazing into their depths, he seemed to feel a new spell. They were drawing him, drawing his soul away. Other objects disappeared. Rosalie, Tristram, the Violet—he clutched at them, but they were gone. The count himself grew shadowy. Only his eyes—fixed, haunting, luminous—remained, centering a vast drab vault, which was all that was left of the populous world and its occupants. What could Harry do but surrender his faculties and be absorbed like the rest?
"It is Harry who is hypnotized," cried Tristram. Rosalie fixed her gaze on her lover's face.
"Raise your right hand," said the count. Harry obeyed. His stare was glassy, his lower lip stupidly dropped.
"Do you know this glove?" asked the count, raising a lemon-colored kid.
"I do," came the answer, mechanical, monotonous.
"Try it on."
Harry drew the glove on his right hand, his eyes never leaving those of the count.
"Button it tightly," said the Spaniard. "Do you remember where you wore this glove last?"
"I do."
"Can you see the side door opening from the passageway?"
"I can."
"Do you recognize the youth who is entering?"
"I do."
"Is it Harry Arnold?"
"It is Harry Arnold."
"Does he listen cautiously?"
"He listens cautiously."
"Does he climb the stairs softly?"
"He climbs the stairs softly."
"Does he enter the study?"
The young man's face twitched and convulsed. His eyes started from their sockets. The foam rose to his lips as they worked.
"Harry!"
It was the agonized cry of Rosalie March, throwing herself upon her lover and turning defiantly at Count L'Alienado, whose fierce insistence had amazed the onlookers. The spell seemed to be broken, for Harry sunk from his chair, supported by Rosalie's arms.
"Some wine," cried Tristram, chafing Harry's forehead and gently striving to unclasp his sister's arms. But she clung to her sweetheart with love in her eyes.
Count L'Alienado approached the unconscious man, the crowd parting before him.
"Wake!" he said, "and forget!" Harry's eyes shut naturally and then opened. He drank the wine which Rosalie pressed to his lips. In a few minutes he was erect, eagerly questioning the company.
"Call it a faint," said Count L'Alienado, quietly. "It is better that he should not know."
"But what was it all about?" asked Miss Milly Mills, on tiptoe with curiosity.
"Only an experiment in clairvoyance," answered Count L'Alienado.
Shagarach's office was a hive of industry the next time Emily Barlow called. Walter Riley, installed in Jacob's place, looked smartly clerical, with a pen over one ear, docketing some papers, and Aronson was knitting his brows over a decision in the digest. But the lawyer himself, she thought, did not appear to have profited greatly by his fortnight's vacation. His cheek was worn and his manner betrayed an unusual aberration at times.
He had returned only the evening before. When she entered the parlor to greet him his mother found the padlock chain of the Persian poets torn through their edges, and her son face down on the carpet buried in a volume of Hafiz, with Sadi and Firdusi scattered near. She trembled, but she did not disturb him.
"Our cause progresses," he said, in answer to Emily's query. "Important links have been discovered since we last conferred."
The sweet girl lifted her eyebrows and waited.
"In the first place we shall put Harry Arnold on the stand. I have traced him to the door of the study a moment before the fire was set."
Emily bit her lip just a trifle in disappointment, for her own cherished theory would only be embarrassed by the presence of Harry Arnold there.
"The other points?" she asked.
"You remember the peddler in the green cart, alluded to in Ellen Greeley's letter, who carried messages to some person unknown?"
"Perfectly."
"Three witnesses stand ready to swear that a peddler in a green cart cried his wares through the roads of Woodlawn about the time of the fire and frequently stopped at the house of the Arnolds."
"That connects them legally," said Emily, still more discontented. "How soon do you expect a trial?"
"In less than two weeks. I am sorry you will have to shorten your vacation."
"Oh, it is better over; the suspense is agony."
"The door, Walter," said Shagarach, as she passed out. Pretty soon he went home to his own midday meal. Aronson was called away to look up a title and left the Whistler in charge.
Walter had already caught just a little of his employer's decision of manner, which sat oddly on his rosy face, but was no more, after all, than a laudable aspiration toward manfulness. The lawyer had discovered his skill with the pencil and his mechanical interests, and had set him to work evenings copying the designs in a drawing manual. Meanwhile, his gamesome impulses had quieted a good deal, and it was only when the office was empty, as now, that the old rich whistle was heard. Shagarach and Shagarach's suggestions seemed to consume that whole fund of adolescent energy which formerly had overleaped all bounds in its search for an outlet.
He was just in the middle of a skylark solo, interrupted by bites at the contents of his lunch-box, when a white-bearded old man entered. At first Walter, hearing the limp on the stairs, took it for old Diebold, the pensioner, one of Shagarach's clients. The lunch-box vanished like magic and there was a hasty brushing of crumbs and swallowing of a half-masticated mouthful before he turned the knob.
"Is Mr. Shagarach in?" asked the stranger, glancing around with a senile leer.
"Not now, sir, but I expect him soon," answered Walter. "He's gone to dinner. Won't you be seated while you wait for him?"
"How long?" said the old man, mumbling his words, as if he were toothless, and nodding at the boy over and over again.
"How long before he comes back? Oh, he never stays away long. He'll be here in five minutes, I guess."
The old man sat down feebly in the chair. Such a strange old man, thought Walter. His white beard almost covering his face and reaching down on his bosom, and long white curls coming out from under his hat. He must be almost a hundred, said the boy to himself. Yet his eyes rolled around quickly and his skin wasn't wrinkled at the corners of the eyes, nor did he have those time-scored furrows in the neck that soldiers call saber cuts.
"Buy a pencil," he said to Walter, taking out a bunch from his pocket.
Walter shook his head in some disappointment. It was only a peddler, after all.
"Two for five," persisted the visitor.
Should he show him the door? Mr. Shagarach did not like to be troubled with peddlers, but this one was so very old. Walter hesitated about dismissing him. Besides he had asked for the lawyer. Perhaps he had some business, too.
Just then Shagarach's brisk step was heard in the entry, and the little man came flying across the room to his desk in the inner office.
"That is Mr. Shagarach?" asked the gray-beard, jerking his thumb and leering again.
"Walter," said Shagarach. Walter jumped and was preceding the visitor in when a terrible snarl of rage caused him to turn. The white-bearded old man seemed to have been transformed into a beast, glaring with his wild blue eyes and gritting his great teeth at Shagarach. He raised a bottle in his hand and hurled its contents at the lawyer. But Walter had caught his arm and pulled it down with all the might in his bourgeoning muscles. The liquor hissed where it fell, and several drops spattered on his neck and bosom, causing him to shrink as if touched with a caustic. Still he tore at the old man's face, and covered the mouth of the bottle with his palm so as to intercept the hot shower.
Shagarach had been looking down at some papers when he first heard the sound of the old man's breath forced between his teeth. As quick as thought he reached for the paper-weight and hurled it with all his force. It struck the stranger full in the forehead, cutting a ragged gash with its edge. Then the lawyer sprung from his chair, following up his missile with the quickness of a cat. But just as he reached across Walter's body the boy fell back in his arms with a shriek of pain, the stranger's white beard coming away in his fingers.
"The oaf!" cried Shagarach, but the assailant was gone in a flash.
"Water! Water!" shrieked the office boy, writhing in his arms.
The lawyer glanced around. The wainscoting was charred where the liquor had fallen. The boy's jacket was eaten away in holes. It was vitriol that had been thrown.
"A quart of lime-water at the nearest apothecary's," he shouted to Aronson, who had just come back. "And the first physician you can fetch. Don't lose a second."
Aronson was off like the wind, while Shagarach unbuttoned the boy's vest and tore away the saturated portions of his undergarments that were clinging to his shriveled skin. Already great blisters rose under the action of the acid.
"Will you telephone central 431, Inspector McCausland," he said to the tenant opposite who had been attracted in by the noise. "Ask him to call at once, and state that I have been attacked again."
It was the physician who arrived first, then Aronson. Walter's burns were bathed profusely with the lime-water, and the blisters pricked open by the doctor's needle. After the first agony he bore the pain without a groan. His breast and palm would be scarred for life, but the only wound on the visible parts was a long, pear-shaped corrosion extending along the side of his neck. You may imagine how tenderly Shagarach nursed him and how excitedly Aronson ran to and fro fetching whatever was asked for.
"It is time this should be stopped," said McCausland, entering. But he was not alone. He held a great bloodhound in leash. "It was the same customer, I suppose? Can you give me any article belonging to the man? I picked up this in the doorway."
He held up a white wig.
"The false beard," cried Walter, holding it out from the stretcher on which they were bundling him.
"Better the blood drops," said Shagarach. "Search the stairs. He was wounded."
McCausland rushed out, his hound tugging strongly at the leash.
"Smell, Wolf, smell," they could hear him saying, and then a half-trip and a clatter down the stairs told that the dog had caught the scent and nearly pulled the inspector off his feet.
"I am glad it is no worse, Walter. The doctor will do all that skill can to soothe your pain. You have saved my life twice," said Shagarach, pressing the boy's hands, which were clasped over his bosom, where the lint lay on his burns. Gently the ambulance men carried him down the stairs, with never a cry from his brave lips tightened over the sound.
"I will call to-night, Walter. May you be better then," said the lawyer, giving the driver Mrs. Riley's address. The physician climbed into the spare seat and the wagon drove off with its suffering passenger.
"A cap, a coat button and a false beard," said Shagarach. "And still we grope in the dark. Yet an anatomist will reconstruct a mastodon from a fragment of his tooth!"
"Lost again," said McCausland, re-entering with his bloodhound, which nosed about in corners of the room. The inspector sat down, puffing and looked thoroughly disgusted.
"You lost the trail?"
"Never fear Wolf for that. Lie down, Wolf! No; the hound kept his track through all the cross-scents of the city—something to boast of, that—there was blood dripping here and there, that I knew by his yelping. By the way, you must have struck him hard."
"The paper-weight is heavy," said Shagarach, picking it up from under the desk where it had rolled. As he did so the hound gave a roar and a bound, and stood up to reach it with his forepaws.
"Down, Wolf! Lie down!" cried McCausland, sternly. "There is blood on the edge. That may help us another time."
"Take it," said Shagarach. "But you lost the trail, you said."
"It vanished into the air. Wolf took us to the northern station, running me off my feet all the way—through the waiting-room, up and down the platform twice, inside track gate No. 5, and then—flatted fair and square. You know the random way he runs about when he's lost the scent? Our man had taken a train."
"The western express, 12:59," said Shagarach.
"How did you know?"
"I have had occasion to take the same train at track No. 5 on a visit to Woodlawn. Had he purchased a ticket?"
"No man with a cut on his face, or of our description."
"Then he has a trip ticket and lives there."
"Where?"
"At Woodlawn," said the lawyer. "Near Harry Arnold."
McCausland smiled incredulously.
"Is Woodlawn the only station between here and Albany?" he asked. "However, I telegraphed along the route to have the runaway stopped."
"What time did you send the telegram?" asked Shagarach.
"At 1:19 by the station clock."
"Just a minute too late. The express reaches Woodlawn at 1:18. It is the first station."
"Heigho! Here's a to-do. What about Woodlawn?" asked a cheerful voice. It was Dr. Jonas Silsby, brown as a berry, with a broad-brimmed straw hat and a basketful of botanical specimens under one arm. The casual observer would have taken him for an uncommonly good-looking farmer, bringing some choice greens to market.