They were surrounded immediately by a crowd in which policemen were
a prominent feature. The chauffeur seemed dazed in the hands of the
officers.
A little, barefoot, white-faced figure huddled limply in the midst
showed Gordon what had happened: also there were menacing glances
towards himself and a show of lifted stones. He heard one boy say: “You
bet he’s in a hurry to git away. Them kind allus is. They don’t care
who they kills, they don’t!”
A great horror seized him. The cab had run over a newsboy and perhaps
killed him. Yet instantly came the remembrance of his commission:
“Don’t let anything hinder you. Make it a matter of life and death!”
Well, it looked as if this was a matter of death that hindered him now.
They bundled the moaning boy into the taxicab and as Gordon saw no
escape through the tightly packed crowd, who eyed him suspiciously, he
climbed in beside the grimy little scrap of unconscious humanity, and
they were off to the hospital to the tune of “Don’t let anything hinder
you! Don’t let anything hinder you!” until Gordon felt that if it did
not stop soon he would go crazy. He meditated opening the cab door and
making his escape in spite of the speed they were making, but a vision
of broken legs and a bed in the hospital for himself held him to his
seat. One of the policemen had climbed on in front with the chauffeur,
and now and again he glanced back as if he were conveying a couple of
prisoners to jail. It was vexatious beyond anything! And all on account
of that white dog! Could anything be more ridiculous than the whole
performance?
His annoyance and irritation almost made him forget that it was his
progress through the streets that had silenced this mite beside him.
But just as he looked at his watch for the fifth time the boy opened
his eyes and moaned, and there was in those eyes a striking resemblance
to the look in the eyes of the dog of whose presence he had but just
rid himself.
Gordon started. In spite of himself it seemed as if the dog were
reproaching him through the eyes of the child. Then suddenly the boy
spoke.
“Will yous stay by me till I’m mended?” whispered the weak little voice.
Gordon’s heart leaped in horror again, and it came to him that he
was being tried out this day to see if he had the right stuff in him
for hard tasks. The appeal in the little street-boy’s eyes reached
him as no request had ever yet done, and yet he might not answer it.
Duty,--life and death duty,--called him elsewhere, and he must leave
the little fellow whom he had been the involuntary cause of injuring,
to suffer and perhaps to die. It cut him to the quick not to respond to
that urgent appeal.
Was it because he was weary that he was visited just then by a vision
of Julia Bentley with her handsome lips curled scornfully? Julia
Bentley would not have approved of his stopping to carry a boy to the
hospital, any more than to care for a dog’s comfort.
“Look here, kiddie,” he said gently, leaning over the child, “I’d stay
by you if I could, but I’ve already made myself late for an appointment
by coming so far with you. Do you know what Duty is?”
The child nodded sorrowfully.
“Don’t yous mind me,” he murmured weakly. “Just yous go. I’m game all
right.” Then the voice trailed off into silence again, and the eyelids
fluttered down upon the little, grimy, unconscious face.
Gordon went into the hospital for a brief moment to leave some money in
the hands of the authorities for the benefit of the boy, and a message
that he would return in a week or two if possible; then hurried away.
Back in the cab once more, he felt as if he had killed a man and left
him lying by the roadside while he continued his unswerving march
toward the hideous duty which was growing momently more portentous, and
to be relieved of which he would gladly have surrendered further hope
of his chief’s favor. He closed his eyes and tried to think, but all
the time the little white face of the child came before his vision,
and the mocking eyes of Julia Bentley tantalized him, as if she were
telling him that he had spoiled all his chances--and hers--by his
foolish soft-heartedness. Though, what else could he have done than he
had done, he asked himself fiercely.
He looked at his watch. It was at least ten minutes’ ride to the
hotel, the best time they could make. Thanks to his man the process of
dressing for evening would not take long, for he knew that everything
would be in place and he would not be hindered. He would make short
work of his toilet. But there was his suit-case. It would not do to
leave it at the hotel, neither must he take it with him to the house
where he was to be a guest. There was nothing for it but to go around
by the way of the station where it would have to be checked. That meant
a longer ride and more delay, but it must be done.
Arrived at the hotel at last and in the act of signing the unaccustomed
“John Burnham” in the hotel registry, there came a call to the
telephone.
With a hand that trembled from excitement he took the receiver. His
breath went from him as though he had just run up five flights of
stairs. “Yes? Hello! Oh, Mrs. Holman. Yes! Burnham. I’ve but just
arrived. I was delayed. A wreck ahead of the train. Very kind of you to
invite me, I’m sure. Yes, I’ll be there in a few moments, as soon as I
can get rid of the dust of travel. Thank you. Good-by.”
It all sounded very commonplace to the clerk, who was making out bills
and fretting because he could not get off to take his girl to the
theatre that night, but as Gordon hung up the receiver he looked around
furtively as if expecting to see a dozen detectives ready to seize upon
him. It was the first time he had ever undertaken a commission under an
assumed name and he felt as if he were shouting his commission through
the streets of New York.
The young man made short work of his toilet. Just as he was leaving the
hotel a telegram was handed him. It was from his chief, and so worded
that to the operator who had copied it down it read like a hasty call
to Boston; but to his code-enlightened eyes it was merely a blind to
cover his exit from the hotel and from New York, and set any possible
hunters on a wrong scent. He marvelled at the wonderful mind of his
chief, who thought out every detail of an important campaign, and
forgot not one little possible point where difficulty might arise.
Gordon had a nervous feeling as he again stepped into a taxicab and
gave his order. He wondered how many stray dogs, and newsboys with
broken legs, would attach themselves to him on the way to dinner.
Whenever the speed slowed down, or they were halted by cars and autos,
his heart pounded painfully, lest something new had happened, but he
arrived safely and swiftly at the station, checked his suit-case,
and took another cab to the residence of Mr. Holman, without further
incident.
The company were waiting for him, and after the introductions they went
immediately to the dining-room. Gordon took his seat with the feeling
that he had bungled everything hopelessly, and had arrived so late
that there was no possible hope of his doing what he had been sent
to do. For the first few minutes his thoughts were a jumble, and his
eyes dazed with the brilliant lights of the room. He could not single
out the faces of the people present and differentiate them one from
another. His heart beat painfully against the stiff expanse of evening
linen. It almost seemed as if those near him could hear it. He found
himself starting and stammering when he was addressed as “Mr. Burnham.”
His thoughts were mingled with white dogs, newsboys, and ladies with
scornful smiles.
He was seated on the right of his hostess, and gradually her gentle
manners gave him quietness. He began to gain control of himself, and
now he seemed to see afar the keen eye of his chief watching the
testing of his new commissioner. His heart swelled to meet the demand
made upon him. A strong purpose came to him to rise above all obstacles
and conquer in spite of circumstances. He must forget everything else
and rise to the occasion.
From that moment the dancing lights that multiplied themselves in the
glittering silver and cut glass of the table began to settle into
order; and slowly, one by one, the conglomeration of faces around the
board resolved itself into individuals.
There was the pretty, pale hostess, whose gentle ways seemed
hardly to fit with her large, boisterous, though polished husband.
Unscrupulousness was written all over his ruddy features, also a
certain unhidden craftiness which passed for geniality among his kind.
There were two others with faces full of cunning, both men of wealth
and culture. One did not think of the word “refinement” in connection
with them; still, that might be conceded also; but it was all
dominated by the cunning that on this occasion, at least, was allowed
to sit unmasked upon their countenances. They had outwitted an enemy,
and they were openly exultant.
Of the other guests, one was very young and sleek, with eyes that had
early learned to evade; one was old and weary-looking, with a hunted
expression; one was thick-set, with little eyes set close in a fat,
selfish face. Gordon began to understand that these three but did the
bidding of the others. They listened to the conversation merely from a
business standpoint and not with any personal interest. They were there
because they were needed, and not because they were desired.
There was one bond which they seemed to hold in common: an alert
readiness to combine for their mutual safety. This did not manifest
itself in anything tangible, but the guest felt that it was there and
ready to spring upon him at any instant.
All this came gradually to the young man as the meal with its pleasant
formalities began. As yet nothing had been said about the reason for
his being there.
“Did you tell me you were in a wreck?” suddenly asked the hostess
sweetly, turning to him, and the table talk hushed instantly while the
host asked: “A wreck! Was it serious?”
Gordon perceived his mistake at once. With instant caution, he replied
smilingly, “Oh, nothing serious, a little break-down on a freight
ahead, which required time to patch up. It reminded me----” and then he
launched boldly into one of the bright dinner stories for which he was
noted among his companions at home. His heart was beating wildly, but
he succeeded in turning the attention of the table to his joke, instead
of to asking from where he had come and on what road. Questions about
himself were dangerous he plainly saw, if he would get possession of
the valued paper and get away without leaving a trail behind him. He
succeeded in one thing more, which, though he did not know it, was the
very thing his chief had hoped he would do when he chose him instead
of a man who had wider experience; he made every man at the table feel
that he was delightful, a man to be thoroughly trusted and enjoyed; who
would never suspect them of having any ulterior motives in anything
they were doing.
The conversation for a little time rippled with bright stories and
repartee, and Gordon began to feel almost as if he were merely enjoying
a social dinner at home, with Julia Bentley down the table listening
and haughtily smiling her approval. For the time the incidents of
the dog and the newsboy were forgotten, and the young man felt his
self-respect rising. His heart was beginning to get into normal action
again and he could control his thoughts. Then suddenly, the crisis
arrived.
The soup and fish courses had been disposed of, and the table was being
prepared for the entrée. The host leaned back genially in his chair
and said, “By the way, Mr. Burnham, did you know I had an axe to grind
in asking you here this evening? That sounds inhospitable, doesn’t
it? But I’m sure we’re all grateful to the axe that has given us the
opportunity of meeting you. We are delighted at having discovered you.”
Gordon bowed, smiling at the compliment, and the murmurs of hearty
assent around the table showed him that he had begun well. If only he
could keep it up! But how, _how_, was he to get possession of that
magic bit of paper and take it away with him?
“Mr. Burnham, I was delighted to learn through a friend that you are an
expert in code-reading. I wonder, did the message that my friend Mr.
Burns sent you this morning give you any intimation that I wanted you
to do me a favor?”
Gordon bowed again. “Yes: it was intimated to me that you had some
message you would like deciphered, and I have also a letter of
introduction from Mr. Burns.”
Here Gordon took the letter of introduction from his pocket and handed
it across the table to his host, who opened it genially, as if it were
hardly necessary to read what was written within since they already
knew so delightfully the man whom it introduced. The duplicate cipher
writing in Gordon’s pocket crackled knowingly when he settled his coat
about him again, as if it would say, “My time is coming! It is almost
here now.”
The young man wondered how he was to get it out without being seen, in
case he should want to use it, but he smiled pleasantly at his host
with no sign of the perturbation he was feeling.
“You see,” went on Mr. Holman, “we have an important message which we
cannot read, and our expert who understands all these matters is out of
town and cannot return for some time. It is necessary that we know as
soon as possible the import of this writing.”
While he was speaking Mr. Holman drew from his pocket a long, soft
leather wallet and took therefrom a folded paper which Gordon at once
recognized as the duplicate of the one he carried in his pocket.
His head seemed to reel, and all the lights go dark before him as
he reached a cold hand out for the paper. He saw in it his own
advancement coming to his eager grasp, yet when he got it would he be
able to hold it? Something of the coolness of a man facing a terrible
danger came to him now. By sheer force of will he held his trembling
fingers steady as he took the bit of paper and opened it carelessly, as
if he had never heard of it before, saying as he did so:
“I will do my best.”
There was a sudden silence as every eye was fixed upon him while he
unfolded the paper. He gave one swift glance about the table before he
dropped his eyes to the task. Every face held the intensity of almost
terrible eagerness, and on every one but that of the gentle hostess sat
cunning--craft that would stop at nothing to serve its own ends. It was
a moment of almost awful import.
The next instant Gordon’s glance went down to the paper in his hand,
and his brain and heart were seized in the grip of fright. There was no
other word to describe his feeling. The message before him was clearly
written in the code of the home office, and the words stared at him
plainly without the necessity of study. The import of them was the
revelation of one of the most momentous questions that had to do with
the Secret Service work, a question the answer to which had puzzled the
entire department for weeks. That answer he now held in his hand, and
he knew that if it should come to the knowledge of those outside before
it had done its work through the department it would result in dire
calamity to the cause of righteousness in the country, and incidentally
crush the inefficient messenger who allowed it to become known. For the
instant Gordon felt unequal to the task before him. How could he keep
these bloodhounds at bay--for such they were, he perceived from the
import of the message, bloodhounds who were getting ill-gotten gains
from innocent and unsuspecting victims--some of them little children.
But the old chief had picked his man well. Only for an instant the
glittering lights darkened before his eyes and the cold perspiration
started. Then he rallied his forces and looked up. The welfare of a
nation’s honor was in his hands, and he would be true. It was a matter
of life and death, and he would save it or lose his own life if need be.
He summoned his ready smile.
“I shall be glad to serve you if I can,” he said. “Of course I’d like
to look this over a few minutes before attempting to read it. Codes are
different, you know, from one another, but there is a key to them all
if one can just find it out. This looks as if it might be very simple.”
The spell of breathlessness was broken. The guests relaxed and went on
with their dinner.
Gordon, meanwhile, tried coolly to keep up a pretense of eating, the
paper held in one hand while he seemed to be studying it. Once he
turned it over and looked on the back. There was a large cross-mark
in red ink at the upper end. He looked at it curiously and then
instinctively at his host.
“That is my own mark,” said Mr. Holman. “I put it there to distinguish
it from other papers.” He was smiling politely, but he might as well
have said, “I put it there to identify it in case of theft;” for every
one at the table, unless it might be his wife, understood that that was
what he meant. Gordon felt it and was conscious of the other paper in
his vest-pocket. The way was going to be most difficult.
Among the articles in the envelope which the chief had given him before
his departure from Washington were a pair of shell-rimmed eye-glasses,
a false mustache, a goatee, and a pair of eyebrows. He had laughed
at the suggestion of high-tragedy contained in the disguise, but had
brought them with him for a possible emergency. The eye-glasses were
tucked into the vest-pocket beside the duplicate paper. He bethought
himself of them now. Could he, under cover of taking them out, manage
to exchange the papers? And if he should, how about that red-ink
mark across the back? Would anyone notice its absence? It was well to
exchange the papers as soon as possible before the writing had been
studied by those at the table, for he knew that the other message,
though resembling this one in general words, differed enough to attract
the attention of a close observer. Dared he risk their noticing the
absence of the red cross on the back?
Slowly, cautiously, under cover of the conversation, he managed to get
that duplicate paper out of his pocket and under the napkin in his lap.
This he did with one hand, all the time ostentatiously holding the code
message in the other hand, with its back to the people at the table.
This hand meanwhile also held his coat lapel out that he might the more
easily search his vest-pockets for the glasses. It all looked natural.
The hostess was engaged in a whispered conversation with the maid at
the moment. The host and other guests were finishing the exceedingly
delicious patties on their plates, and the precious code message
was safely in evidence, red cross and all. They saw no reason to be
suspicious about the stranger’s hunt for his glasses.
“Oh, here they are!” he said, quite unconcernedly, and put on the
glasses to look more closely at the paper, spreading it smoothly on the
table cloth before him, and wondering how he should get it into his
lap in place of the one that now lay quietly under his napkin.
The host and the guests politely refrained from talking to Gordon and
told each other incidents of the day in low tones that indicated the
non-importance of what they were saying; while they waited for the real
business of the hour.
Then the butler removed the plates, pausing beside Gordon waiting
punctiliously with his silver tray to brush away the crumbs.
This was just what Gordon waited for. It had come to him as the only
way. Courteously he drew aside, lifting the paper from the table and
putting it in his lap, for just the instant while the butler did his
work; but in that instant the paper with the red cross was slipped
under the napkin, and the other paper took its place upon the table,
back down so that its lack of a red cross could not be noted.
So far, so good, but how long could this be kept up? And the paper
under the napkin--how was it to be got into his pocket? His hands were
like ice now, and his brain seemed to be at boiling heat as he sat back
and realized that the deed was done, and could not be undone. If anyone
should pick up that paper from the table and discover the lack of the
red mark, it would be all up with him. He looked up for an instant
to meet the gaze of the six men upon him. They had nothing better to
do now than to look at him until the next course arrived. He realized
that not one of them would have mercy upon him if they knew what he had
done, not one unless it might be the tired, old-looking one, and he
would not dare interfere.
Still Gordon was enabled to smile, and to say some pleasant nothings
to his hostess when she passed him the salted almonds. His hand lay
carelessly guarding the secret of the paper on the table, innocently,
as though it just _happened_ that he laid it on the paper.
Sitting thus with the real paper in his lap under his large damask
napkin, the false paper under his hand on the table where he from
time to time perused it, and his eye-glasses which made him look most
distinguished still on his nose, he heard the distant telephone bell
ring.
He remembered the words of his chief and sat rigid. From his position
he could see the tall clock in the hall, and its gilded hands pointed
to ten minutes before seven. It was about the time his chief had said
he would be called on the telephone. What should he do with the two
papers?
He had but an instant to think until the well-trained butler returned
and announced that some one wished to speak with Mr. Burnham on the
telephone. His resolve was taken. He would have to leave the substitute
paper on the table. To carry it away with him might arouse suspicion,
and, moreover, he could not easily manage both without being noticed.
The real paper must be put safely away at all hazards, and he must take
the chance that the absence of the red mark would remain unnoticed
until his return.
Deliberately he laid a heavy silver spoon across one edge of the paper
on the table, and an icecream fork across the other, as if to hold it
in place until his return. Then, rising with apologies, he gathered
his napkin, paper, and all in his hand, holding it against his coat
most naturally, as if he had forgotten that he had it, and made his
way into the front hall, where in an alcove was the telephone. As he
passed the hat-rack he swept his coat and hat off with his free hand,
and bore them with him, devoutly hoping that he was not being watched
from the dining-room. Could he possibly get from the telephone out the
front door without being seen? Hastily he hid the cipher message in an
inner pocket. The napkin he dropped on the little telephone table, and
taking up the receiver he spoke: “Hello! Yes! Oh, good evening! You
don’t say so! How did that happen?” He made his voice purposely clear,
that it might be heard in the dining-room if anyone was listening. Then
glancing in that direction he saw, to his horror, his host lean over
and lift the cipher paper he had left on the table and hand it to the
guest on his right.
The messenger at the other end had given his sentence agreed upon
and he had replied according to the sentences laid down by the chief
in his instructions; the other end had said good-by and hung up, but
Gordon’s voice spoke, cool and clear in the little alcove, despite
his excitement. “All right. Certainly, I can take time to write it
down. Wait until I get my pencil. Now, I’m ready. Have you it there?
I’ll wait a minute until you get it.” His heart beat wildly. The blood
surged through his ears like rushing waters. Would they look for the
little red mark? The soft clink of spoons and dishes and the murmur of
conversation was still going on, but there was no doubt but that it
was a matter of a few seconds before his theft would be discovered. He
must make an instant dash for liberty while he yet could. Cautiously,
stealthily, like a shadow from the alcove, one eye on the dining-room,
he stole to the door and turned the knob. Yet even as he did so he saw
his recent host rise excitedly from his seat and fairly snatch the
paper from the man who held it. His last glimpse of the room where he
had but three minutes before been enjoying the hospitality of the house
was a vision of the entire company starting up and pointing to himself
even as he slid from sight. There was no longer need for silence. He
had been discovered and must fight for his life. He shut the door
quickly, his nerves so tense that it seemed as if something must break
soon; opened and slammed the outer door, and was out in the great
whirling city under the flare of electric lamps with only the chance of
a second of time before his pursuers would be upon him.
He came down the steps with the air of one who could scarcely take time
to touch his feet to the ground, but must fly.