good. He made me what I was, he would have prostituted you. I was just
bad enough to fall, you were too good to even stumble. Then he landed
me in the pen. Maybe you won't believe it, Mary, but I'd stopped
drinking and was earning fair wages--well, I was tending bar in
Chicago. Barkeepers _have_ to be sober men, you see. I had not touched
a drop for nearly three months. The temptation was too strong there, so
I got out of it. Then I looked up Barnum to get a job as ringmaster. I
was going under the name of Bradford. Somehow nobody would trust me.
They knew me. Joey Noakes came through the West with a pantomime show
about that time. He told me you were in Europe. First thing I'd heard
of you, that was, Mary. Then he told me you'd got your money out of
Grand, legitimately, he swore. I didn't believe him. I thought there
had been some shinanigan. I stood it as long as I could, and then I
broke for New York. You see, girlie--I mean Mary, I'd done for you in a
nasty way. I practically handed you to him. You--well, we won't go into
that."
"No," she said, very pale, "we must not go into that, Tom. You sold me
with the show. I--I can never forgive you for that."
"I'm not asking forgiveness, am I?" he cried harshly. "I'm just tellin'
you, that's all. Well, I came down here to kill him three years ago. I
knew you hated him. If you gave in it wasn't because you wanted to, but
because I'd fixed it so's you couldn't very well get out of it. There
was only one way for you to be rid of Bob Grand after that--and only
one man to do it for you. So I came down here to do it. Ernie Cronk ran
across me on the street one night. He began filling me up with stories
of how Grand had also tried to hurt Christine, and all about how you
were living like a princess abroad. I waited until Grand came back from
England, a couple of weeks later. Ernie had got me clear off my head by
that time, nagging me day and night. He tried to get me to drink, but I
was too wise for that. Well, I found Bob Grand and, like a fool,
started in to tell him what I was going to do to him instead of doing
it first. All of a sudden he pulled a gun. I had no chance, so I
bolted. He fired twice and yelled for the police. They--they caught me
in an alley--and I had a gun in my clothes, too. The next morning he
came to see me in the station-house--to identify me, he said. Then he
told me he was going to send me up for highway robbery--but he was
willing, for your sake and Christine's, to say nothing about the
past--or anything. He did swear me into the pen, and I kept my mouth
closed. But, Mary, I am not a thief at heart, I never was one. Whatever
I did that was crooked in the old days was due to whiskey. It's a habit
men have, I know, blaming everything on to whiskey, but--but, oh, say,
Mary, you _know_ I wasn't that sort of a man when I married you. I was
straight, wasn't I? I never had done a crooked thing in my life. I
don't think I'd ever told a lie. I had a good mother, just as Christine
has. But what the devil am I doing--talking like this!" The eager,
rather appealing note went out of his voice; he almost snarled the
bitter sentence. "I didn't come to explain, or to beg, or to excuse
myself. I won't keep you any longer. Remember, I'm not asking anything
of you, Mary,--not a thing. I'm not that low."
He was out of breath. No doubt, it was the longest speech he had made
in years. Perhaps his own voice sounded strange to him.
"You are not to leave this house, Tom, until you have promised," she
said firmly. All the time he was speaking, she had stood like a statue
before him, never taking her eyes from his distorted face.
"Oh, I'm not, eh? We'll see!"
"What are you going to do to Colonel Grand?"
"I'm going to--" he checked himself. "I'm going to beat him to a jelly!"
"You mean, you are going to murder him?" She shuddered as she said it.
"No," he said, with grim humor; "I'm only going to help him to die. You
see, Mary, Bob Grand committed suicide the day he sent me up. The final
death struggle has been a long time coming, but it's almost here. He
took a very slow, but a sure poison."
The time had come for the strong appeal. She laid her hands on his
shoulders.
"Tom, have you thought of what it will mean, not to me, but to
Christine?"
"She knows, by this time, that I'm an ex-convict. It won't hurt her to
know I'm even worse."
"She does not believe you were guilty. She always has said you could
have been a good man if you had let whiskey alone. You see, Tom, she
understood--she understands. Isn't it worth your while to think of her?
You are not drinking now. Can't you think of something good--something
kind to do? Must you go to your grave--and such a grave!--knowing that
you never did a really big thing for her in all your life? Have you no
desire to make her think of you as something except the unnatural beast
you were when she knew you best of all? I see the change in you. Don't
you want her to see it? What do you gain by killing Colonel Grand? He
has wronged you, but do you help yourself by making matters infinitely
worse now, so many years afterward? Do--"
"He told me, over there in the police station, three years ago, that he
had won your love, that you lived for him alone. He lied. I could kill
him once for that lie. He told me, in the next breath, that you and he
were going to sell Christine to a certain French nobleman, who already
had a wife and family. He lied again. I could kill him once more for
that lie. He told me--"
"Don't! Don't! For God's sake, don't tell me any more," she groaned,
horror-stricken.
He went on. "He taunted me, he laughed at me. I was up there for three
years. In all that time his damned sneers and laughter were never out
of my mind. He laughed at me because the drunken bargain I had made
with him had turned out to his credit, after all."
"The sale?"
"Yes."
He looked away. The expression in her eyes cut him like a knife.
"I ought to have been shot for that, Mary," he said.
"Yes," she agreed mechanically.
His hand went to his mouth suddenly, as if to steady the lips.
"I'm not asking you to overlook it. Maybe you'll spare Christine the
knowledge of it--not for my sake, but for hers."
"Tom, don't you feel that you owe _me_ something?" she asked steadily.
"Everything. I'm going to pay, too. I took you from a home like this
and--Oh, well, it won't do any good to bring it all up again. Let's--"
"You owe me a little happiness and peace, Tom, after all these years."
"Oh, I'll go away all right. This is the last time you'll ever see me."
"It isn't that that I ask. There was a time when we were happy, you and
I. I do not forget the old days, before you--I mean, when we were
working together, you and I, to get control of the circus. Not that I
liked the life--God knows I did not! but that we were striving for big,
good things. I--"
"You got your money back," he broke in weakly. "That's more than I did."
"What had I ever done to you, Tom, that you should sell me as if I were
a concubine to--"
"Didn't I tell you it was whiskey--and cards?" he cried fiercely.
"True. You _did_ tell me that," she admitted, closing her eyes. He
looked at the lowered lids for a moment and then swore softly to
himself--not an oath of anger but of despair. She opened her eyes and
caught the fleeting look of shame and remorse. "Ah," she cried, "you
_have_ a heart, after all. I saw it then. Tom, you _did_ love me, years
ago--you were fine and strong and true. You were yourself. You have
changed, but I can still see something of the strong, manly Tom
Braddock _I_ loved in those wonderful days."
He was scowling again, but she had seen through the mask. She went on
eagerly: "You are obsessed by this idea of vengeance. What can it mean
to you, after all is said and done? You say you are going to end your
own life, as well. You will escape the consequences, as any coward
would, and you are _not_ a coward. Who stays behind to suffer all the
pain and anguish? Not you! Oh, no! I am the one--as if you had not
already done enough. Christine and I! We--"
"I won't listen to you!" he cried, his breast heaving.
"You are listening! You can't help it. Come! You must sit down here
beside me. This is the one, great, solitary hour in your life."
[Illustration: "This is the one, great, solitary hour in your life"]
He drew back and permitted an irrelevant question to break from his
lips: "Why didn't you divorce me?"
"Because I married you, Tom, that is why! I'll always be your wife.
I--I can't live with you--but I--"
"Mary, you are the grandest woman in all this world," he cried,
amazement in his eyes. "And to think of it! I am the one to have
married you,--a thing like me!"
She was trembling all over. "Will you do this for me, Tom?"
"Do what?"
"You know what, Tom."
"You mean, give up the one thing I've lived for all these awful years?"
"Yes."
"I--I can't do it, Mary. It's got to be, sooner or later. That man and
I can't live on the earth at the same time."
"Oh! Won't you give me something to thank you for after all I've--"
"Wait a minute! Let me think!" He began pacing the floor again. She
watched him with bated breath, a half-hope in her heart. He stopped
before her once more. His eyes were bright with a new, strange light.
"I'll tell you what I'll do, Mary,--for you and Christine. I'll put an
end to myself. That's the best way out of it. I can't live if he does.
Wait a minute! It's the simplest, surest way. Don't breathe a word of
this to any one. I'll go down to the river to-night. That will be the
end of it all. I swear to you, I won't hunt up Grand,--on my word of
honor, if you will believe that I have any honor. There is some sort of
integrity in a man who can fight the battle I have--and without
wavering or whimpering. I'll do that for you, Mary. It's the safest
way."
She had heard him at first with a sickening horror in her soul. It was
a frightful compromise that he proposed. She knew he meant it, that he
would keep his word. She understood how great the sacrifice would be on
his part, how bitter the defeat; and she realized that he was doing it
to justify himself in her eyes. As he got deeper into his amazing
proposition, her clearing brain began to discern the rift in his armor.
Not that she saw a sign of weakness beyond, but that the humanness of
his strength was being revealed to her. There was an authority in his
offer that dispelled all doubt as to the cloudiness of his mental
vision. He was seeing things clearly. His sacrifice lay in the
willingness to forego the joy of killing another man before he carried
out his original design to make way with himself. She studied his face
for a moment before speaking. There was something like gladness
there--a truly bright glow that told of the relief he had found in at
last doing something to please her!
"Is there no other way, Tom?" she asked, so quietly that his eyes
narrowed with a curious intentness.
"It's the only one," he said grimly.
She walked over to the window and looked down into the area-way. Her
heart was throbbing loudly.
"To-night?" she asked in muffled tones.
"If I don't do it to-night I'll do something worse to-morrow," he said.
"You promise me,--on your word of honor?"
He started. "Certainly. I'll do it."
She turned to face him, her back to the light. He could not see the
expression in her eyes.
"You will do this for me, Tom?"
He nodded his head, that was all.
"Take your own life?"
"I was going to do it anyway. Before they could hang me."
Both were silent for a long time. Neither had changed position.
"You won't tell Christine that I did it, will you? Just say that I went
away--to South America, I guess."
"I will not tell her, Tom."
"Is she going to marry David Jenison?"
"I hope so."
"Well, she'll feel easier in her mind if she knows I'm gone for good,
then. Maybe you'd better tell her I'm dead."
He said it as calmly as if he were announcing the time of day, but he
was none the less earnest.
"There is one alternative, Tom," she said, at last coming to the plan
she had had in mind from the beginning.
"You're not thinking of--of taking me back," he said, aghast at the
very thought of it.
"No. I'm going to make an offer that will give you greater satisfaction
than that. Will you go away from New York forever, if I pay over to you
every cent that I received for my share in Van Slye's--"
"No!" he almost shouted. "You can't _buy_ me off. I was willing to do
the right thing a minute ago. Now, you've gone and spoiled it all." He
clapped his hands to his eyes; his big frame shook with rage.
She went quickly to him.
"Now, I _know_ you are a man--a big man, Tom. I am prouder of you now
than I ever was in all my life."
He looked bewildered. "You mean, you did that to _try_ me?"
"To try myself," was her enigmatic response,
"Well?"
She stood back and looked at him intently.
"I still have your promise. You _will_ do it to-night?"
He stared at her as if he could not believe his ears, but he said
resolutely:
"Of course, I will."
CHAPTER VIII
COLONEL GRAND AND THE CRONKS
She walked away from him and sat down in one of the big chairs, as if
her limbs suddenly had lost the power to support her. He pulled his
crumpled hat from his pocket and fumbled it for a few moments. She sat
there, looking at him, her lips parted.
"Well," he began, "I guess I'd better be going."
"Going? Where are you going?" she demanded, suddenly alert.
"Oh, out somewhere. I've got ten or twelve hours to kill."
She struggled to her feet.
"Tom, you are not going to leave this house until to-night."
He drew back, amazed.
"What?"
"I am going down to the river with you."
Comprehension was slow in filtering into his brain. A ghastly pallor
spread over his face.
"What did you say?"
"I am going to the river with you. But you must stay here until
to-night. You are not to go out into the streets. Do you understand?"
"You can't mean that--Why, you must be crazy. You? Why--why, I'm doing
it so that you can _live_. You can't mean what you're thinking of--" He
could not complete the sentence. A heavy sweat broke out on his
forehead.
She forced a miserable smile to her lips. "You do not understand me,
Tom. I am going down to the river with you, but I am coming back alone."
He slowly grasped the meaning of it.
"You--you're going down to see that I do make an end of it?" he cried.
"I want to be sure, for Christine's sake," she said, quite steadily.
He was glaring at her now. "Oh, I see. You don't trust me," he
exclaimed bitterly. He put out his hand to steady himself against the
library table. "I can't say that I blame you, either. But I won't stay
here. I would, if it would do any good, but how can it? The police are
likely to pile in here any minute with a warrant for me. That would be
fine, wouldn't it?" He strode to the window and tried to look through
the passage into the street. "I don't want to be pinched now. Go and
look out of the front windows--go on! See if there's any one out there."
She did not move.
"Ain't you going to look?" he demanded.
"The police?" dropped from her lips dully. She had overlooked the
danger from that direction, although her mind had been so full of it a
little while before. "He won't send them here, Tom--"
"Of course, he will," he broke in irascibly. "He's crazy mad, and he'll
act quickly to head off Jenison's warrant. I can't stay here--not
another minute. Can't I get out the back way? They may be laying for me
in front. Don't look like that, Mary! I can give 'em the slip. It won't
do to have them nab me here. Just think of the newspapers! Wake up!
Don't you see? And listen: I'll do what I said I would--to-night. I
swear it. You can trust me, Mary. Now, quick, show me the way out--and
don't let me bump into Christine. I--I couldn't stand that. I don't
want to lose my nerve."
She left him and ran into the next room to look out into the avenue. He
followed rapidly.
"There are two men standing at the corner," she whispered in alarm. He
would have looked out if she had not dragged him away.
"It would be terrible if they were to come in here," she was saying
distractedly. "Yes, you must go." She grasped his arm. "Tom, you may go
if you'll promise to come back tonight."
"What's that for?"
"Because I insist. At ten o'clock--or any time you may choose. Only you
_must_ come back."
He studied her face curiously. Something stirred in his heart, but it
had been so long since anything had touched that organ that he failed
to credit himself with an emotion. Whatever it was, it impelled him to
submit to her demand.
"I'll come," he said uneasily. "I don't see any use in it, though. We
can say goodby now."
"No!" she exclaimed. "It must be to-night."
"All right, then. I'll come at ten,--_the back way_."
Without another word she hurried him through the intervening rooms to
the servants' entrance. They passed Brooks in the rear hall. He bowed
stiffly to Braddock. Brooks had been listening at a keyhole.
She opened the door and pointed the way with a trembling hand.
"There is the alley, Tom,--through the little gate. Be very careful."
He did not respond. Turning his face away resolutely, he stalked down
the narrow steps, and, without so much as a glance behind, hurried off
toward the alley-gate. She watched him pass through it, a strange cramp
of disappointment in her heart because he had resisted the temptation
to look back at his judge. How long she stood there stark and silent
she did not know.
Brooks, the footman, was speaking to her.
"Miss Christine is ill, ma'am," he said, from somewhere behind her.
"The housekeeper thinks she has fainted, ma'am."
Colonel Grand was in a quandary. He was not afraid of the Braddocks,
but he was distinctly alarmed over the intervention and attitude of
David Jenison. That aggressive, determined young man had made a threat
which struck something like terror to his heart. The more he thought of
it, the more insistent became the conviction that Jenison held the whip
hand over him. It was not altogether incomprehensible, this amazing
turn of affairs. He _had_ drawn a revolver, and he had put himself in a
decidedly uncomfortable position, with at least four witnesses against
him, three of whom he could not hope to buy off in case of an inquiry.
His first thought on driving away from the Portman house was to rush
over to the nearest police station and set the officers of the law on
the track of the man he feared and hated, in the hope that he might
forestall any action on Jenison's part. On second thoughts, he decided
that it would be wiser to make haste slowly. He was in the unhappy
position of having to consider his own daughter as one of the
witnesses. His brain was working rapidly despite the fact that his
daughter was doing all in her power to distract it by an unrestrained
flow of invective against--not the Braddocks, but David Jenison!
To her surprise and subsequent rage he suddenly broke in with the
announcement that she was to take the first afternoon train out of the
city. He had some difficulty in making it plain that her speedy
departure was necessary to her own as well as to his personal comfort.
While she was still arguing and pleading to be allowed to stay and
fight it out with him he stuck his head through the window and
instructed the driver to take them to his hotel instead of to the
police station, as first directed.
With characteristic decisiveness he directed Roberta to begin her
packing as soon as she reached her room. She entreated him to come away
with her before Jenison could carry out his threat, but he sharply
refused, already having in mind a plan of action, desperate but
effective. His first step, however, met with an unexpected rebuke. On
the arrival at the hotel he took the cabman aside and deliberately
offered him a large sum of money on condition that he would swear that
Braddock drew or attempted to draw a revolver. The cabman thought it
over. Then he refused.
"Money won't tempt me," he said doggedly, "although God knows I need
it. You pulled a gun on him, and he didn't have any that I could see.
That young feller took my name and number. He'd catch me in the lie,
sure as shootin'. And, say, they sent a couple of guys up for perjury
just last week, pals of mine, they were. Not for me, guv'nor. I'll
stick to the truth, just to see how it feels."
"But the man has sworn to kill me!"
"You pulled a gun on him," retorted the driver surlily. "I don't like
that kind of business. And I guess, if they happen to ask me, I'll just
mention that you tried to buy me off, too. Ta-ta! Maybe I'll see you
later." And away he went, less virtuous than nature intended him to be,
but wholly satisfied that he possessed a conscience, after all.
The Colonel, grim and furtive, accompanied Roberta to the station and
saw her safely off. By three or four o'clock in the afternoon he began
to feel reasonably certain that Jenison had failed in his attempt to
secure a warrant, or had been turned from his purpose by that
cool-headed, far-seeing woman, Mary Braddock. He remained in his rooms,
disdaining flight or subterfuge. All through the long, hot afternoon,
he paced the floor or sat in the windows, nervously awaiting the
descent of the officers. They did not come. His spirits took wing again
as the close of the day drew down upon him. He had waited, with all the
stoicism of the born gambler, for the crash and it had not come; he had
taken the chance; to use his own expression, he "stood pat."
At six o'clock he threw away his half-smoked cigar and sauntered forth
from the hotel. The Colonel was very punctilious in that respect: he
made it a point not to smoke in the street.
Although he was now quite comfortably sure that there was no immediate
danger of arrest, he still was confronted by the ugly certainty that
Tom Braddock was hard upon his heels and that no amount of persuasion
could have turned him from his purpose. His blood went cold from time
to time when he permitted himself to recall the set, implacable
expression in the man's face, and the tigerish strength that marked
every repressed movement of his body. Robert Grand knew that Braddock's
sole object in life now was to kill him. He knew that the meeting could
not long be deferred; and when it came, he would not have one chance in
a thousand against this wily, determined giant. Braddock would
accomplish his end, of that he was as sure as he was certain that the
sun would rise in the morning. It was in the cards. He knew. He was a
true-born gambler, with all the instincts, all the wiles, all the
insight of one who courts Chance and fights it at the same time. Such
men as Robert Grand go on defying Fate to the bitter end, but they know
that there will be an end, and in the end they are bound to lose.
This man, a lifelong tempter of Fate, had learned early in the game
that the gravest errors in the category of crime came under that
lachrymose heading, "wasted energy." Men of his stamp make it a point
never to do anything that may be safely left undone, nor are they
guilty of overlooking the act that should be performed. They think
quickly and soundly, and they act at the proper time: never too soon,
never too late.
He had an object in remaining in his rooms during the afternoon, just
as he had a purpose in venturing forth at six. That was the hour when
the streets were crowded to their capacity by restless homeward-bound
pedestrians, and the saloons, by those who paused in their haste. His
tall, slightly stooped figure moved through the hurrying throng until
he came to one of the most famous of the sporting bars. He entered,
and, without looking to right or left, made his way to the small cafe
in the rear. A man seated at one of the little tables looked up and
nodded. Grand took the chair opposite to this person and, after an
exchange of greetings for the benefit of the waiter, ordered oysters
and a pint of musty ale. The Colonel had his principal meal at midnight.
"Do you know where Braddock is?" he demanded as soon as the waiter had
left the table.
"Sure," said the man opposite. "He's laying low in that dive over on--"
"Nothing of the kind," interrupted Grand sharply. Fixing him with his
cold, steady eyes, he went on: "You are a wonderful spotter, you are.
So you've been watching that place over there all day, have you? And
you are sure he's there, eh? Well, let me tell you how damned worthless
you are. I expected you'd have him behind the bars before ten o'clock,
but--"
"Say, Colonel, on the square, the police here are the slowest bunch
of--"
"Never mind," snapped the Colonel. "He's still at large, and he's not
over there at Dick Cronk's. So much for your fine detective work."
The man was an operative for one of the biggest private detective
agencies in New York. It was his duty, and had been for years, to
_watch the police_ in order that Colonel Grand's _sub rosa_ interests
might be preserved from the fatal inconstancies of a greedy department.
Just now he was devoting his time to Tom Braddock, laying the trap for
the one man his employer feared more than he feared all the laws of the
land and all the authorities behind them.
The Colonel related his experiences of the morning. The private
detective perspired freely. He realized how near his employer had been
to death, and all through him. All efforts to explain his unhappy
mistake met with curt interruptions from the Colonel.
"Now," said that worthy, in conclusion, "I want you to find out if
Braddock has returned to Cronk's place. Naturally the police could not
find him this afternoon. He wasn't there. But he may go back to-night.
His wife won't be able to hold him under her thumb. Find this Cronk
fellow--the deformed one, I mean--and tell him I want to see him. Tell
him it is worth just one thousand dollars to him, and possibly five
times that amount. Send him up the rear stairway at Broadso's. I'll be
in room five until twelve o'clock to-night. Any time after eight he
will find me there--alone. You know where he lives; go and find him.
Then make sure that Braddock is at Dick Cronk's room. That's all."
At half-past eight o'clock that evening Ernie Cronk stole up the
stairway in the rear of Broads's saloon. He slunk down the narrow,
dimly-lighted hallway until he came to a door which bore the numeral
five. For a full minute he stood there irresolute, held inactive by the
two mental elements that bear such close kinship to each
other--apprehension and greed. At last, with a stealthy glance at the
lighted transoms down the hall, he tapped on the panel of the door.
Colonel Grand himself opened the door and held it ajar that he might
enter.
The hunchback glanced quickly around the room. He had never been there
before, but he knew in an instant where he was and what manner of
traffic was carried on in this small, close room with the green-covered
table in the center, over which was suspended a fully lighted
chandelier. The door closed gently behind him and a key was turned in
the lock. Like a trapped rat, he whirled at this ominous sound.
Colonel Grand, smiling suavely, stood between him and the door.
"Don't be alarmed, Ernie," said he in his oiliest tones. "Sit down, my
lad. We're quite alone and we won't be disturbed. I am master of the
hall, as they would say in England."
He motioned to a chair beyond the table, and, bowing politely, settled
himself in one nearer the door.
"What's the game?" demanded Ernie Cronk, his long, bony fingers
fumbling his flat derby hat. "Brown said you wanted to see me."
"Where's your brother Dick?" asked the Colonel irrelevantly, leaning
forward a trifle.
"Dick? Why, he's--he's--I don't know where he is. He's got a place of
his own somewheres. I don't see much of him these days. I can't afford
it, to be honest, Colonel."
"His reputation, eh? Well, I don't blame you. He didn't come over here
with you, did he?"
Ernie started. His gaze wavered ever so slightly, but the Colonel noted
the change.
"I haven't seen him in a week," said the hunchback steadily.
"You are lying, Ernie. He's across the street now, waiting for you."
"So help me God, Colonel--" began Ernie, but the Colonel checked the
denial without ceremony.
"I am just as sure that he came over here with you to-night as I am
sure that you are sitting there. I thought you'd bring him. That's why
I sent for you. I knew it was the easiest way to get him here. He
wouldn't come if I sent for him, but he'd go anywhere on earth if you
asked him to. We'll wait a quarter of an hour, Ernie, before we proceed
to business. At the end of that period I'll open the door suddenly and
we'll find Artful Dick Cronk standing in the hall. To make it all the
more interesting I'll present you with ten dollars if he isn't there."
Ernie's ferret-like eyes blinked in sheer amazement. Down in his mean
little heart there always had been a dark fear of this rather imposing
man; in his mind there was a no uncertain estimate of the Colonel's
almost supernatural power to read the thoughts of others.
"If he's outside there I don't know it," he said doggedly.
"You told him I had sent for you, Ernie. Don't lie. I know you did.
It's all right. So, you see, my little strategy worked out beautifully.
I want to see Dick quite as much as I do you. We'll wait until he comes
up to see what's happened to you."
Ernie hesitated, then broke out with an uneasy note in his voice. "You
said it would be worth a thousand and maybe more to me. Well, I'm
square with Dick. He divides with me. I want to let him in on anything
good that comes my way."
"I see. You are willing to divide with him, so you are going to let him
in on condition that he will do _all_ the dirty work while you sit back
and boss the job. I see. You are a great financier, Ernie."
"You ought to see my new flat over in Eighth Street," said Ernie
proudly, quite taken in by the Colonel's none too gentle sarcasm.
"You don't share that with Dick, I imagine."
"Well, hardly!" ejaculated Dick's brother. Suddenly his uneasiness
developed into a sort of whining protest. "Say, if you got anything to
say to me, say it. I got to be moving along. If I can make a thousand
honestly, I'm on the job. What's--"
"We'll wait for Dick," observed the Colonel coolly. He took his time to
light a long cigar, the hunchback looking on with curiosity and doubt
in his shifty eyes. Then he handed a cigar to his guest. "Have a cigar.
I'd offer you a drink, only I don't believe in drinking between
friends. Only enemies drink to each other, Ernie. Bear that in mind.
Unconscious enemies."
"I don't drink," was the surly rejoinder.
Precisely ten minutes later Colonel Grand got up from his chair. In
three strides he was at the door; he turned the key and--
There was Dick Cronk leaning against the wall on the opposite side of
the hallway, his hands in his pockets, his long legs crossed, his
"dicer" on the back of his head. There was no evidence of surprise or
confusion in his face; he was as composed, as serene, as if the
expected had occurred. A bland smile greeted the triumphant Colonel.
"Evening, Colonel. Have you seen anything of a lost boy around here?"
The other stood aside, giving him a fair view of the room. "Come in,
Dick. I've been expecting you," he said quietly.
Dick stared for a second or two longer than he might have done under
less trying conditions.
"No, thanks. I'll wait out here," he said dryly. He did not change his
attitude in the least.
"We've been waiting for you," said the Colonel. "We can't proceed
without you. Do me the honor to step into my parlor." He bowed very
deeply.
"'Said the spider to the fly,'" quoth Dick, shifting his foot.
Ernie appeared behind Colonel Grand. He indicated by a significant
motion of his head that Dick was to enter, and without delay. Slowly
the long pickpocket unwound his legs. He then removed his hands from
his pockets, after which he coolly strode into the room. The door was
closed quickly after him. There was an inscrutable smile on his face,
even before the sharp exclamation of concern fell from the lips of
Colonel Grand.
"I've got the key here in my hand, Colonel," he observed, with his
gentlest smile. The older man glared for a moment and then broke into a
short, even admiring laugh.
"You are a wonder, Dick. You must have wished it out of the door. I'll
swear my hand hasn't been off the knob since I opened it a minute ago.
How do you do it?"
"Simple twist of the wrist--_presto visto_, as the feller'd say. Don't
worry. I'll leave it in the door when I depart. And say, while we're
exchanging compliments, allow me to hand you one. You're something of a
wizard, too. I don't wonder you always win at poker if you can see
through an oak door as easy as all that."
"We'd better lock the door," urged the other, paying no heed to the
remark.
"All right. But, if you don't mind, I'll keep the key." He locked the
door and then turned toward Ernie, sudden comprehension in his face.
"Oh, you told him I came over with you. That explains it." Ernie
protested. He would have repeated the entire conversation that had
taken place if the Colonel had not stopped him with considerable
acerbity.
"You can talk that over afterwards," he said sharply. Ernie winced.
Grand did not observe the ugly gleam that flickered for an instant in
Dick Cronk's eyes. "I've got a proposition to make to you fellows."
"What has it got to do with Tom Braddock?" demanded Dick bluntly. He
sat on the edge of the table, one foot touching the floor.
The Colonel came to the point without delay.
"There's no sense in beating about the bush with you, I see," he
remarked. "I want to get this man Braddock out of the way for good and
all. He's a menace to me and I'm willing to pay to have him completely
blotted out. You fellows are out for the coin of the realm. You, Dick,
get it in dribs by plundering the unwary. It's slow work and dangerous.
Ernie lives off of you with something of the voracity of a leech--no
offense intended, Ernie. Now, why not turn your hand to something big
and definite and safe?" He paused to let the idea sink into Ernie's
avaricious soul.
Dick drew a long breath. "Why don't you kill him yourself?" he asked,
shooting a quick, apprehensive look at his brother's face. Ernie's eyes
were glistening.
"I didn't mention a killing, did I?" retorted Grand, momentarily
disturbed. "If I had that in mind, Dick, I daresay I could accomplish
it without calling on you for aid. What I want is to see him landed in
Sing Sing for a long term of years--the limit, you might say."
"See here, Grand, you've called in the wrong stoolpigeon this time. I'm
not in that kind of business. Never in all my life have I put up a job
on a pal, never have I done a trick as dirt-mean as that. I guess
you'll have to count me and Ernie out."
"Don't go off half-cocked, Dick," admonished the Colonel easily.
"You're no fool, nor is Ernie. It's worth just ten thousand between you
if Tom Braddock is landed to-night, with the goods on him, so to speak.
Two thousand down, the balance--"
"You infernal beast!" snarled Dick, standing squarely in front of him
and glaring into his eyes with a scorn so shriveling that the other
drew back with an oath. "So that's what you wanted with Ernie, is it?
Through him you hoped to get me to do the trick, eh? Well, you've
slipped up good and hard on _me_. I--"
Ernie, his lips twitching, his fingers working, seized his brother's
arm and pulled him back.
"Wait a minute, Dick,--listen to me," he fairly croaked in his
excitement. "Let's hear what his plan is. Maybe we can see a way to
help him. Le' me talk, Dick. Leave it to me. I'm smart and sensible.
You're off your nut to-night. Just le' me do the talking."
"That's right," cried the Colonel quickly. He recognized an asset in
Ernie's despicable greed.
Dick shook off his brother's hand. "No! This is no business of yours,
Ernie. I'm the one he wants to dicker with. You can't put up a job on
Brad and he knows it. He's just using you to land me. Not for ten
million, Grand. Do you get that?"
"Don't shout so that they can hear you in the street," cried Grand,
scowling deeply. "Let me have a few words with Ernie."
"Yes, Dick, you'd better shut up," added Ernie eagerly. "I'll just talk
it over with the Colonel. If we find we can't do it, why, we'll tell
him so, that's all. I tell you ten thousand's a lot of money. We could
open the nicest kind of a cigar stand with that, and live like honest,
respectable men ever afterward."
Dick sank back against the table and studied his brother's livid face
with the darkest despair in his eyes. His shoulders drooped suddenly.
"Honest and respectable?" he said, passing his hand over his eyes. "You
mean, _you_ could be all of that, but where would I come in? Would you
let me stand behind the showcase in your fine store? Would I ever get
so much as a pipeful of tobacco out of it? No! Don't try to argue with
me, Ernie; my mind's made up. I came here to-night just to save you
from a game like this. I knowed you'd be for it strong, and I'd just
have to do it if I wasn't here in the beginning to cork it. Look here,
Grand, I don't know just what your plan is, but I'll tell you this:
I'll blow on you as sure as I'm alive if you try to carry it out. Tom
Braddock is an honest man these days. He's not a whiskey-soaked bum any
longer. He cracked me over the head this morning--you can see the
plaster there--but I don't hold it up against him. He considers me his
friend because I swore I'd stand by him if he'd hold back on getting
you right away. He trusts me and he thinks you're all right, too,
Ernie. Now, once and for all, I'm not in on this dirty work. _And
neither is Ernie!"_
Colonel Grand sat motionless before the angry young man, quietly
tapping on the table with his long, white fingers, a faint smile on his
half-crescent mouth.
"We'll see," he said deliberately. "Perhaps you'd better let Ernie do
the talking. I don't believe you are as wise and discreet as you might
be, Dick."
Dick whirled upon Ernie, who stood behind him. The hunchback was
staring at him with a strange, unfamiliar expression in his face. It
was a look of combined wonder and awe.
"Come on, Ernie. Let's get out of here."
"Just a moment, Ernie," interposed the Colonel. "Sit down and listen to
what I have to say."
But, for the first time since it entered his body, Ernie's soul arose
above the sordid flesh. It came as from a great distance and slowly,
but it came to take its frightened, subdued stand beside its kin.
"I guess I'll be going," he said, and even as he uttered the words he
wondered why he did so. "Ten thousand's a lot of money, but if Dick
thinks it's too dirty for us to touch, why, I'm with him. You can count
me out." He put on his hat and started toward the door.
Dick could hardly believe his ears. "Great Scott, Ernie,
you--you--Well, you're just great, kid!"
"Just a minute," said Grand, arising slowly, an ominous glitter in his
eyes. He towered above the hunchback, who was near the door. "I don't
intend to let you go until you've heard _all_ I have to say."
"Get out of the way, Grand," said the pickpocket, his fingers clenched
so tightly that the backs of his hands were white.
"There's only one way to handle swine of your breed," sneered Grand;
"and that is with a club. You are a fine, virtuous pair, you are. I've
got a job for you to do to-night, and I have the means of compelling
you to do it. You must not get it into your heads that I did not
prepare myself for either view you might take of the matter. I'm not
such an idiot as all that. Now we'll indulge in a little plain talk.
You are a couple of low-down sneak thieves, both of you. Of the--"
"Hold on, Grand!" snapped Dick. "None of that!"
"Of the two, Ernie is the lower. You miserable, misshapen scoundrel,
you are worse than the vilest thief that ever lived. Dick is an angel
compared--" "I'll get you for that!" quavered Dick, so shaken by rage
that he could scarcely hold himself erect.
"No, you won't," squeaked Ernie. "I'll get him! I'll cut his heart out!"
Grand reached out with his left hand and touched a button in the wall.
In the other hand gleamed a revolver.
"If I press either the button or the trigger it will mean the end of
you, you dogs. Now, listen to me. At the foot of the stairs are two
policemen and a couple of detectives. They were duped into coming here
by the word that a sucker was to be fleeced in Broadso's rooms
to-night. All I have to do is to press the button and call for help.
This hallway will swarm with waiters and men from all the rooms, and
the cops will come on the run. I have nothing to do but to turn you
over to them as a couple of thieves who came here to rob me. Trust me
to make out a case against you."
"I'm no thief!" shouted Ernie. Dick was looking about, like a rat in a
trap, his teeth showing in the desperation of alarm. "You fellows will
come to terms with me inside of two minutes or I'll land you both in
the pen so quickly you won't know it's been done. I want this man
Braddock put out of the way. I've got two men waiting to go with you,
so don't imagine that you can play me false after you leave this room.
It is all cut and dried. You are to carry out a plan I have for landing
Braddock. The police will--"
"I'll see you hanged first," grated Dick Cronk. "You are the king of
crooks, you are."
"Don't let him call the police, Dick," whined Ernie, shrinking back
against the wall. "I'm no thief. I won't go to jail! I won't!"
"Well, that's just where you'll land, my handsome bucko," said the
malevolent Colonel. "Dick won't mind it, but it will be a new
experience for you, your reverence. 'Gad, you toad!"
"Let me go!" cried Ernie. "Keep Dick here, but let me out. Dick will
help you, honest he will. I'm no thief. You wouldn't send me to jail!"
"Oh, I wouldn't, eh?" snarled the other. "You'll look fine in
stripes, you will. And nothing under the sun can save you if I push
this button. Ten years, that's what it will be. The Cronk brothers! The
_sick_ brothers! Why, a jury would give you the full limit. It will
please your brother, after all these years, to see you doing
time--Here! Drop that, curse you!"
There was a deafening report, a blinding flash and a cloud of smoke.
Then a gurgling groan, the scraping of a heavy body against the wall,
and Colonel Grand slid to the floor, his arms and legs writhing in the
last tremendous spasm of death.
Neither of the Cronks moved for a full half-minute. They gazed as if
stupefied at the bloody face of the great gambler; they saw his legs
stiffen and his chest swell widely and then collapse.
"Give me the key!" It was a whispered shriek that leaped from the lips
of the hunchback. "Good God, he's dead! They'll hang us!"
He sprang to Dick's side and snatched the door key from his stiff
fingers. As he leaped toward the door, through the powder-smoke, he
stumbled over the body of the dead man. He crashed to the floor but was
up again in a flash, gasping, groaning with terror. An instant later he
was in the hall. Like a cat he sped past the still closed doorways
beyond and reached the stairway before a human being appeared in sight.
Half-way down stairs he met men rushing upward, attracted by the pistol
shot. He actually tried to clear their heads in a frantic leap. He was
caught in the air, struggling and kicking furiously, to be borne down
and held by strong arms. Shrieking with rage and terror, he fought like
a wild cat.
"I didn't do it!" he screamed, over and over again, foaming at the
mouth. "It wasn't me! It wasn't me! Oh, God! Oh, God!"
Some one struck him a violent blow on the mouth. The foam was red from
that time on. In the hallway above there were shouts and the sounds of
rushing footsteps. Loud oaths of amazement came ringing down the
corridor. A man in his shirt sleeves appeared at the top of the stairs,
his face livid with excitement.
"Hang on to him!" he shouted. "Don't let him get away. We've got the
other one!"
"What's the matter up there?" grunted one of the two officers holding
Ernie, whose feet were now braced against the steps in the effort to
keep them from dragging him upward.
"I didn't do it!" he panted between his teeth.
"Search me! See if I have a revolver! I never carry a gun. Dick always
carries one. Let me go! Let me go! Why don't you go and get Dick?"
"Shut up, you!"
They dragged him to the door of No. 5. He caught sight of his brother
standing between two men near the body of Colonel Grand, beside which a
coatless man was kneeling. Another man was going through the pockets of
the tall, glassy-eyed prisoner.
From an inner pocket the searcher drew forth a revolver. With nervous
fingers he broke the weapon. A cry fell from his lips.
"Here's the gun. One shell empty. Barrel still hot. You low-lived
scoundrel!"
Dick's eyes never left the bloody face of the murdered man. He was
breathing heavily, as if in pain or extreme terror.
"Is he dead?" he whispered through his bloodless, motionless lips. Just
then he looked up and saw Ernie at the doorway, bloody-faced, cringing,
wide-eyed with dread. Two burly policemen were dangling his ill-favored
body almost clear of the floor.
"Dead as a door-nail," said the kneeling man. "Here's his gun with all
the chambers full. He didn't have a chance to shoot. Say, this is the
worst thing I've ever heard of. You'll swing for this, you dog!"
Ernie sent up a shriek. "Swing for it! I didn't do it! You can't prove
anything on me. Can they, Dick? What are you holding me for? Let go!
I'm an honest, respectable citizen of New York. I'm--"
"Call a wagon," shouted one of the officers to a newcomer. "Nasty job
here. We've got the murderer all right." Dick straightened up at this.
He turned to look at the condemning pistol in the hand of the man who
had taken it from his pocket. A great shudder shook his frame.
"You got me all right," he said. "You won't believe it, of course, but
he pulled a gun first. I had to shoot. Get me out of this. If you don't
I'll kick his face to a jelly. I've always wanted to." He glanced at
Ernie, a crooked smile on his lips.
"Well, Ernie, I guess it's going to come true. I always said it would."
CHAPTER IX
IN THE LITTLE TRIANGULAR "SQUARE"
Jenison did not seek the warrant for Grand's arrest. He remained in the
Portman house until the middle of the afternoon, vastly exercised by
the fainting spell that had come over Christine. The household was
considerably upset by the occurrences of the morning; old Mr. Portman
was the only person about the place who appeared to be in ignorance of
impending peril and disaster. He went out for his drive at two, but was
not accompanied by his daughter, a defection which surprised and
irritated him not a little.
Christine was herself again in a little while. She stayed in her room,
attended by the entertaining Miss Noakes, who struggled manfully, so to
speak, in her efforts to shatter the depression that surrounded the
young girl like a blank wall.
Downstairs Mary Braddock listened to David's earnest eager plea for an
immediate marriage. Now that Braddock had promised to leave at once for
the far West, never to return, it seemed to David that all of their
problems were solved. She had told him that her husband was to depart
by the midnight train, and that it was her intention to go with him to
the depot. David begged her to take him along with her, but she was
firm in her determination to go alone. Braddock had made it a
condition, and she could not break faith with him.
Shortly after the noon hour she drove up town to the bank. On her
return she informed David that she had drawn out a sum of money to be
delivered to Braddock before the train pulled out. She would not say
how much she had drawn, except that it was sufficient to start the man
out afresh in the world, and to keep him comfortable for a long time to
come, if he should adhere to his decision to eschew drink and cards for
the remainder of his life.
"Where is he going, Mrs. Braddock?"
She shook her head. "I will not tell you that, David. Only he and I are
to know."
"And you are to send him money from time to time?"
"No, I am not to send him a penny."
"He goes to-night--positively?"
"He goes to-night, positively."
"And he refuses to see Christine?"
"Why should he see her?"
"Well, I don't know," said he dubiously. "It seems rather hard, don't
you think?"
"Yes. He worships her, David. Yes, it is hard. He is going in this way
because it makes it easier--for both of them, he says. You see, David,
he is doing it for her sake, not for his own. If he were to do things
just now for his own sake, he would kill Grand instead of running away
from him."
"He's a good deal of a man, after all, Mrs. Braddock."
"A good deal of a man," she repeated.
"He wishes Christine to be my wife. He told you so, but she won't
consent until you tell her that it is all right. It's silly of her. I'm
never going to give her up, and she knows it."
She faced him suddenly. "You ask me why the marriage cannot take place
to-morrow, David. Would you be just as eager to have it take place if
her father decided to change his mind and remain here, with all the
consequences such an act might create?"
"Certainly," he replied promptly.
"You do not forget what he is, what he has been, what he may yet
become?"
"That has nothing to do with it. I love Christine."
"Would you be willing to stand at his side, the husband of his
daughter, and say, 'I am content to be called your son'--would you?"
David stared hard at the floor for a moment. "I think that is rather an
unfair question, Mrs. Braddock, when we stop to recall the fact that
both you and Christine have denied him for years. I will call myself
his son when you call him husband and Christine speaks of him as
father--to the world. You can hardly expect me to be proud of what you
are ashamed to own."
She bowed her head in sudden humility. "I was wrong," she said. "I
deserve the rebuke."
"I have hurt you. Forgive me."
She placed her hand on his. He observed that it was as cold as ice.
"While it is true that we have denied him, my dear David, nevertheless
we do belong to him. She is his daughter. That is what I am trying to
make plain to you."
"If she chooses to call herself his daughter, I am perfectly content to
call myself his son."
"I wanted to hear you say that, David. You must take her as Thomas
Braddock's daughter, quite as much as you do as Albert Portman's
granddaughter."
"I am not deceiving myself," he said with a smile.
"Then I am ready to give my consent to an immediate marriage," she
said. For the first time since their interview began she spoke
hurriedly. A feverish light came into her eyes, burning bright and dry.
He sprang to his feet, triumphant. "Come with me to her! She will name
the day if you--"
"I shall name the day, David," she said evenly. "It must be
to-night,--this very night,--before her father goes away."
"Are you in earnest?" he cried, scarcely believing that he heard aright.
"She loves you with all her soul, and you love her. You are her
protector, the stone wall between her and all the unkind things of
life. She needs you now. Tomorrow may bring the hour of trial. It is
best that she should have you to lean upon. It must be to-night. Come;
we will go to her. It is nearly three o'clock. There is much to be done
between now and the time that your train starts for Richmond. I want
her to be in Jenison Hall to-morrow."
Together they went to Christine. Half an hour later he hurried away
from the house, a dozen imperative duties to be performed between that
time and seven o'clock. He went with a joyous spirit, a leaping heart,
and with the will to accomplish all that was required of him in that
short space of time.
At seven Christine and he were to be married in the huge, old-fashioned
drawing-room; at eight-thirty they would be on board the train, bound
for Jenison Hall. He was to take her away with him, far from all the
ugly possibilities that crept up from all sides to threaten her. Mary
Braddock refrained from telling Christine even so much as she had told
David concerning the plans of her husband. The girl was allowed to
believe that the man was already on his way to the far West. There was
a rather trying scene when Christine learned that it would be
impossible for her to see her father. She broke down and wept, crying
out bitterly that she might have been able to comfort him if she had
been given the opportunity. It was with some difficulty and the
exercise of considerable patience that her mother convinced her that
they had acted for the best.
"Some day I shall go to see him, mother," she had said with a
resoluteness that brought a strange gleam to the eyes of the older
woman. "I am sorry for him. He needs some one to love him. I am sure he
is not so wicked as--"
"You must be guided by what David says, my child. Remember that you
will have more than yourself to consider," was the evasive remark of
Mary Braddock.
Brooks was sent off with a letter to Dr. Browne, the rector, requesting
him to conduct the marriage ceremony. Maid-servants packed Christine's
trunks, all enjoined to secrecy. Ruby Noakes and old Joey attended to a
few of the many preparations that were being hurried through with such
nervous haste.
All through the long afternoon Mary Braddock lived under the most
intense strain of suspense and apprehension. Uppermost in her mind was
the question: had he succeeded in eluding the watchers who were on his
trail?
At four o'clock she went to her father, prepared to tell him all that
had transpired during the past thirty-six hours. She held nothing back
from the old man, not even Braddock's gruesome design. They were
closeted together for more than an hour. That which passed between
father and daughter went no farther than the walls of the secluded
little room that he called his study. She came forth from the trying
interview with her head high and her heart low.
The old man's last tremulous words to her were these: "Well, Mary, God
shows all of us the way. Sometimes the way is hard, but we reach the
end if we look neither to the right nor the left,--nor behind. What you
have just told me is terrible. Is it the only way?"
"Yes, it is the only way."
He bowed his head and said no more. She kissed his gray hair and passed
out from the room, closing the door gently behind her.
David and Christine were married at seven o'clock. The shadow which
hung over the household, the grievous exigency which made haste so
imperative, did much toward suppressing the joy and gladness that under
other conditions would have filled the house and the hearts of all
therein. Mr. Portman, gray-faced and taciturn, gave the bride in
marriage. There were but three witnesses outside of the family. Joey
Noakes and Ruby were there and a single college friend to whom David
had gone in the stress of necessity.
Mother and daughter said their farewells in private. Christine sobbed
in her mother's arms, imploring her to come away with them at once, to
be happy forever. Mary Braddock's eyes were dry and burning, her hands
were cold, her heart like ice.
"I will come some time, my darling, but--not now. You must make your
home before I come to see you in it. I shall go abroad, as I told you
this afternoon. Father agrees with me that it is the thing to do under
the circumstances. When I return, my child, I will come to see you in
Jenison Hall. You will be its true mistress by that time. You will have
discovered the true happiness of life. Until then, my darling, you will
not have lived. Even I found joy and happiness in their fullest estate
before I came to know bitterness and unrest. You are to be very, very
happy. I will come to you in the midst of it all."
After they were gone and the lights were out Mary Braddock, wide-eyed
and tense, stole down to the stables and waited for the father of the
bride. She was there a long while ahead of the appointed time--hours,
it seemed to her.
He came at last, slinking up from the mouth of the alley where a single
street-light spread a dim glow in which he resolved himself for a
moment in transit, only to be blotted out again as if by some magic
process. With narrowed, anxious eyes and alert ears she waited,
standing there in the half-open door of the carriage-house. Suddenly he
grew up out of the darkness, almost at her side.
"Tom," she cried out softly.
He came straight to her. His eyes, used to the darkness and made keen
by the ever-present sense of danger, had seen the faintly white splotch
in the night that marked her face for him. He had seen and had waited
to make sure that it was she who stood there peering forth.
"Well, I'm here," he said in a hoarse, restrained whisper. "Have you
heard what's happened?"
"They are not pursuing you? What is it, Tom?"
"Grand has been murdered, Mary!"
For a full minute they stood as motionless as statues, he listening for
the footstep that had been in his ears for days, she stunned by the
appalling news. Her voice was shrill with agony when she finally broke
the silence--agony, despair, horror, all combined in one bitter cry.
"_You promised me you wouldn't do that!_"
"Sh! Be careful," he whispered, coming close to her side. "I _didn't_
do it, Mary,--so help me, I _didn't!_ Wait! Listen to me! I'm telling
you the truth." She had fallen back against the wall of the building.
Her breathing was quick, as if horror was strangling her. "They caught
the murderers,--a couple of gamblers at Broadso's, I heard. I didn't
hear much about it. The newsboys were shouting it over in Broadway half
an hour ago. I bought a paper, but it gave no details,--except that he
is dead."
"He is dead? Oh, Tom, Tom, you _do_ swear to me that you had no hand in
it. I couldn't bear that now." Her arms were spread out against the
building, her hands clenched. In the darkness he could see her eyes,
wide and staring.
"I swear it, Mary. I was not within a mile of Broadso's. I am as
innocent of that murder as you are. You will know the truth to-morrow,
even if you don't believe me now. I'll never hear the true story. Oh, I
don't mind saying I would have given my very soul to have been the one
to do it. Maybe you think I'm pleased that he is dead. Well, I'm not! I
begrudge those fellows the pleasure they had in killing him. But, this
is not the time or place to talk. Let's say good-by here, Mary. You go
back to the house. Let me go and do it alone."
She swayed toward him. He caught her on his arm,--an arm of iron. She
put her hand to his face.
"Tom," she whispered, "God has taken a hand in our affairs--in yours.
You must believe in God! You must give yourself to Him to-night."
His voice broke a little. "I--I guess you'll have to do the prayin',
Mary. Go back to the house now and send up a little prayer for me.
That's all you've got to do. I can't stay here. It's dangerous. There
is the chance that the police may try to connect me with this murder.
It's known that I was after him. Don't you see? Good-by, Mary, I--"
"I am going with you, Tom."
She grasped his arm tightly. He breathed heavily once or twice; a groan
broke in his throat.
"All right," he said. She felt the great muscle in his arm swell and
relax again. "Do you know the way, Tom?" she asked.
"That next street below takes us to the docks. I walked down there this
morning. By heaven, Mary, I think you might spare yourself all this.
It's too horrible to even think of. Why--why, I just can't do it with
you looking on. What do you think I am?"
"You said you would do it, Tom," she insisted dully.
"Bob Grand is dead," he reminded her. "I said that he and I couldn't
live on the same earth. It's hard to think of going straight to hell
with him not more than two hours ahead of me."
"Come," she said, starting off resolutely. He caught up with her, and
they hurried through the alley side by side.
"_I'll_ do it, all right," he said, after they had traversed nearly two
blocks in silence. The words came as an epitome of the struggle that
was going on in his mind.
"Don't walk so fast, Tom. You are tiring me."
"Tiring you?" he exclaimed. He looked at her bent head and laughed,--a
short, mirthless chuckle. "You'll have to forgive me, Mary. You see
I've been thinking of something else. Men walk fast when they're in a
hurry."
"Is it much farther?" He could scarcely hear the words.
"Six or eight blocks, if I remember right."
She did not speak again until they were in the middle of the second
block beyond. From time to time he turned to look at her, his benumbed
soul trying to get in touch with the spirit that moved her to come with
him to the very brink of the grave. He was puzzled, he could not
understand it in her. If there was a hope of any kind lying buried
under the weight that was in his breast, he neither recognized nor
encouraged it. There was an awful, growing dread that she did not
intend to let him go in alone. He tried to put down the ghastly fear.
His glances at her became more frequent, less furtive. The thought of
this splendid, noble, beautiful creature going down into the black
waters after him was almost beyond his power of comprehension, and yet
he was slowly allowing it to take a hold on his senses.
He came to an abrupt stop, rigid with horror. His hand fell upon her
shoulder, roughly, regardless of the physical pain it was sure to
inflict.
"Mary, how can I be sure that you won't jump in after me? You act so
queerly. I don't understand you. For Heaven's sake, go back! Don't do
anything like that. I can't bear it--I can't bear the thought of you
down there in the water, under the hulls, covered with--Ah!" He covered
his eyes with his hand.
She listened for a tense moment to the labored breathing of the man. He
had thought of her at last! An odd, mysterious smile flickered on her
lips. With a sudden convulsive movement she drew the long shaker cloak
closer about her shoulders.
"Tom, there is a little park over there, with benches. Let us sit down
for a moment."
"You won't do it, Mary, will you?" he pleaded, now completely in the
grip of that terrible dread.
"I am not as brave as you are, Tom," she said. He caught a new, vibrant
note in her voice. He misconstrued it.
"I call it pretty brave to be able to go down and see a man jump into
the river. Not many men could do it, let alone women. It's like seeing
a man hung."
She led him, unresisting, to a bench in the corner of the dark little
triangle that was called a "square." People were passing by, but no one
had stopped there to rest, or to reflect, or to make love. They had the
green little park all to themselves.
"Christine was married to-night," she said after they had been seated
for a few minutes.
He remarked lifelessly: "Hurried it up on my account, eh? It's bad luck
to postpone a wedding, even for a death in the family. Well, I'm glad.
She's sure to be happy, God bless her!"
"Yes, she will be very happy."
"I suppose she--and you, too--had a notion that I'd turn up some day to
spoil the whole business. So you got it over with, eh?"
"I wanted everything to be settled, that's all."
He was silent for a while, breathing heavily.
"Did she ask about me?"
"Yes."
"You told her I was going away--that I'd probably never see her again?"
"I told her you were gone."
"I suppose she was relieved."
"She cried because you were not there to see her married."
He was fully half a minute in grasping the full meaning of that
wonderful sentence.
"Did she?" he asked, lifting his head suddenly. "Honest, Mary? You're
not saying it just to--to make me feel--"
He stopped and waited for her to reply to his unuttered question. She
shook her head.
"Then she does care a little for me. She hasn't lost all the feeling
she used to have--"
"She cried because she was not given a chance to talk with you. She
thought she could comfort you, could help you. That was why she cried,
Tom."
He allowed his chin to rest in his hands, his elbows on his knees.
"I wonder if I could have--Oh, say, there's no use talking," he ended
bitterly.
"What were you about to say, Tom?"
"Nothing."
"Yes, you were. Tell me."
"Oh," he cried, with all the bitterness of a lost, hungry soul, "if I
had only known! She _could_ have comforted me. What a fool I was not to
see her. I've been cursing myself all day. Now I know why I cursed. It
was because I wanted to see her--" He struck himself a violent blow on
the mouth, as if that were all that was needed to crush the great
longing that was in his breast.
"Yes. Go on, Tom," she said quietly.
"I can't, Mary. I can't talk about it. I guess I'd better say good-by
now. I'll lose my nerve if I get to thinking and talking. I don't want
to think that I might still get some happiness out of life if--if I
went after it right."
She put her cold hand on his big, clenched fist. He looked at her. The
faint light from a near-by lamppost struck his face. It was heavy,
leaden with despair and misery.
"Almost the last thing she said to me before she went away was this,
Tom: 'Some day I shall go to him. He needs some one to love him. I am
sure he is not so wicked as--' She got no farther than that. I stopped
her."
"She said all--Mary, why did you stop her? Why didn't you want her to
say it? Why did you begrudge me a little thing like that?" He was
trembling violently. There was misery, not anger or resentment in his
voice.
"Tom, are you ready to go to the river?"
He shrank away from her, shuddering, appalled.
"It's hard to die, after all. I--I ought not to have let you tell me
all this. It's made it harder. I never thought of it before. Somehow,
Mary, I--I think I might have turned out a better man if--if I'd known
just how Christine felt." He got to his feet suddenly. "I said I'd do
it. You want me to do it. Well, I will!"
She clung to his hand. He turned upon her with an oath on his lips. The
light now struck her face. What he saw there caused him to catch his
breath and to choke back the imprecation.
"I am convinced that you would do it, Tom, for her sake and mine. You
would do it, not because you are weak, but because you are strong. I am
satisfied now."
"Satisfied?" he murmured, wonder-struck.
She arose. "Tom, I am not going to say that I love you. You cannot
expect that. There is a feeling within me, however, that may develop
into something like the old love I once had for you, if you give it the
right kind of encouragement--and care."
"What are you saying to me, Mary?" he cried hoarsely.
"You would have given up your life so that Christine might be happy. I
am willing to do as much, Tom, toward the same end. I will give up the
life I am leading. You want another chance, Tom. Well, you shall have
it. I will go where you go, live where you live."
"Mary!" he gasped.
"Christine said you needed help. Well, I will try to give it to you.
You have her love. You didn't quite kill that, as you did mine." She
took his limp hand in hers and looked up into his eyes. "Perhaps, if
both of us try hard, you and I together, Tom, we may be able to make
her forget the ugliest part of her life."
"Together? I don't understand."
"I am still your wife," she said, a shrill note creeping into her voice
despite the effort she made to be calm.
"You--you mean I won't have to go--to go to the river?" he cried,
unable to think beyond that awful alternative.
"I never meant you to do that."
He suddenly took a long, deep breath and lifted his face, to stare
about as if trying to convince himself that he was really there, alive
and awake.
"I guess I don't quite get your meaning, Mary," he muttered, but his
fingers were beginning to tighten on hers. "Of course, I understand you
are still my wife, and--You don't mean you--you are going to take me
back!"
"No. I am asking you to take _me_ back."
He could not speak for a full minute or more.
"You'll give me another chance? That's what you mean--that's what
you're really saying, isn't it?" He was fairly gasping out the words.
"Yes, Tom."
"Oh!" He turned and flung himself on the bench, bursting into tears. "I
don't deserve it--I don't deserve it! It's too much to hope for." These
and other sentences fell in broken disorder from his lips.
She did not speak, but sat down beside him, laying her hand on his
shoulder. After a time, he grew quieter,--then almost deathly still.
She shook him gently.
"Will you come home with me now, Tom?" she asked. She too had been
crying softly.
He looked up. They were so close together that she could detect the
humble, wistful look in his face. His lips moved, but the words did not
come at once.
"Home with you?"
"Yes. We have our plans to discuss, Tom."
"To your father's house?" he persisted.
"Yes. He understands. I talked it all over with him this afternoon. It
was hard to do, Tom,--it was very hard to hurt that poor old man all
over again. But I had it to do, and he understands. He asked me to
bring you back with me. I told him I would. He wants to talk with you
in the morning."
"Mary," he began, fingering his hat in the extremity of an emotion that
almost benumbed him, "I don't know whether you want to hear me say it,
but I've never stopped caring for you. It isn't all Christine with me.
I just want to tell you that."
"I understand, Tom," she said, still more gently.
"I can't take any help from your father," he managed to say after
another long period of silence.
"He will offer nothing but his hand and his well-wishes."
"This is all so unexpected. I'm trying to get too many things through
my head at once. Let me think for a minute or two."
She was silent, looking off into the gloomy little street below. A man
was whistling gayly near by. From afar came the sound of rumbling
street cars. She had not noticed these or any other sounds before. A
policeman came up to the corner, stopped and looked at the huddled
twain for a minute or two, and then moved off. The sight of that
uniform created a sudden chill in her heart. Tom Braddock began
speaking again, in low, steady tones in which there was not only a sort
of bitter determination but something like defiance.
"What's more, Mary, I won't accept anything from you. Whatever you've
got, put it aside for Christine or against the time when you may need
it yourself. I'm not going to live off you. I'm not what I was back in
those rotten days. I believe I'm going to be I happy again--I think
life's going to be sweet to me after all. Half an hour ago I had but a
few minutes to live, as I believed. I don't know just how to take this
new grip on life. Maybe I'll be able some time to tell you all that I
can't say now. I'm all befuddled. The main point is: I'm going to have
a chance to be a man again, a real man; to be your husband and to make
Christine forget she was ashamed of me. That's it. That's what I'm
trying to say. So, you see, I can't afford to be ashamed of myself. Do
you get what I mean?"
"You would be ashamed of yourself if you accepted money or help from
me? Is that it?"
"Yes. I can work, Mary. I can support you, if you'll come with me. I
know where to go. But you'd better think it over carefully. I can go
alone, Mary dear,--I can go alone, if you feel you can't stand being
with me."
She hesitated, weighing her words. "I have a plan, Tom, that I want to
talk over with you. I'll tell you about it when we get home. I want to
know what you think of it. Perhaps you will consider it a good one. It
occurred to me this afternoon while I was making preparations to leave
the city with you to-morrow."
"You--you had it all thought out before you--"
"I had it all thought out. In fact, Tom, I have the railroad tickets at
home in my desk,--two tickets, one way."
"You are the most wonderful woman in all this world, Mary, I'd die for
you a thousand times," he cried. It was almost a sob.
She smiled. "I wouldn't allow you to do it even once for me. Come! We
will go back the way we came, only we will go in by the front door."
As they turned onto the sidewalk he cast a swift, involuntary glance,
as of terror, in the direction of North River. She distinctly heard the
quick intake of his breath and the involuntary chatter of his teeth.
"You will sleep in a good, clean bed to-night," she said, reading his
thoughts.
He reached forth and touched her arm, timidly at first, as if he were
afraid that ever so slight a sign of affection would be repulsed.
Finding that she did not shrink or draw away, he ventured to draw her
arm through his. His figure was still bent, but the slouching, furtive
movement was gone. Mechanically she fell into his stride and they moved
swiftly up the street. A clock in a house across the way banged out the
hour. Far away, in the neighborhood of Broadway, a raucous-voiced
newsboy was crying his "extra." They knew that he was shouting:
"All about the murder!" in that unintelligible jargon of the night.
"We will get it all in the morning papers," she said.
"I hope they don't try to connect me with it--Mary, I'm afraid of that!
You'd better let me get out of town to-night."
She shook her head.
He walked with his eyes set straight ahead, trying to understand,
trying to get control of his new emotions. Always there was the sharp,
ugly little notion that she still despised him, that she was
sacrificing herself that he might be drawn as far away as possible from
the child she was so anxious to shield.
"I'm going to try my best to make you care for me again," he said, a
vast hunger for sympathy and love taking possession of him.
"I hope you may, Tom," she said drearily.
"You're doing this for Christine," he said resentfully. "Just to get me
away, so's I can't trouble her. That's it, isn't it? Tell the truth,
Mary."
"I would not expect you to do anything for her sake if I were not
willing to do a great deal myself," was her enigmatic rejoinder.
"Don't hate me, Mary," he burst out.
She pressed his arm. "I am giving you a chance," she reminded him.
There was still a dreariness in her voice, but he did not detect it. He
returned the pressure, half hopeful that the beginning already had been
made.
Brooks let them in. He had been waiting up for them.
"Mr. Braddock will be here over the night, Brooks."
"Yes, Mrs. Braddock." He opened the door into the library for them, and
then silently hastened upstairs.
"You must have been pretty sure of yourself," commented Braddock, in no
little wonder. She threw off the shaker cloak.
"There is a cold supper for you in the dining-room, Tom--and a piece of
a last-minute wedding cake. You must be hungry. While you are eating we
will talk over my plan."
He went about it as if in a dream. For an hour they discussed her plan
for the future. In the end he fell in with it.
"I'd be a dog if I didn't give in to you in a matter like this," he
said. "You're doing everything for me."
"Our room is at the head of the stairs, the first door to the left,
Tom," she said, rising. Her face was very pale; she looked old. "The
bath adjoins it. If you don't mind I'll stay downstairs awhile. I have
many papers to look over and some letters to write."
He went upstairs to the wide, high bed-chamber with its azure walls.
For a long time he stood in the middle of the room, looking around in
dull amazement and doubt. Was it really true that he was there, in the
midst of all this elegance and comfort? He glanced at his big hands and
started with shame. They were not very clean. The soiled cuffs of an
ill-fitting "hickory" shirt came down over his wrists. Involuntarily he
pushed them up. The greenish-gray of the coarse jeans garments he wore,
clumsy and crumpled, was sadly out of harmony with the delicate,
refined colors that surrounded him. It seemed to him all at once that
he _jarred on himself_.
Suddenly his gaze fell upon a neatly folded suit of clothes lying
across the foot of the bed. The garments were dark blue, with a thin
stripe running through the cloth, and they were new. On the center
table there was a straw hat. Shoes stood beside the chair at the head
of the bed. An immaculate white shirt hung over the back of the chair,
while on the seat were undergarments. He rubbed his eyes. Then he sat
down on the chaise longue and stared, with growing comprehension. The
coverlet on the bed was neatly turned down; a night-gown was there,
clean and white. Beside it was another, soft and filmy.
Braddock put his hands to his face and sobbed dry, choking sobs that
were not of anguish, but of bewilderment.
At last he pulled himself together and arose to make a tour of the
room. On the dressing-table there were collars and neckties and cuffs.
His own old-fashioned silver watch lay there before him, with its heavy
gold chain attached. He remembered with a pang that he had given it to
her for preservation long ago, because it had once belonged to his
grandfather and he was sentimental about it.
He looked again at the clothes he wore, the clothes the state had
placed on him when he left the penitentiary; he looked at his soiled
hands; in the glass he caught a glimpse of his haggard, unshaven face
and the dirt streaks that the tears had made. With a cry of disgust he
began tearing off the hated garments.
She had done all this for him! She had known all along that he was to
come home with her.
Half an hour later he came from the bath, scrubbed until his skin was
red. He was clean! He was shaved! His hands were amazingly white.
Like a boy, he tried on the fresh, new, clean-smelling clothes. Even to
the shoes the fit in all cases was perfect. She remembered
everything--the size of his collars, the size of his shoes, the length
of his sleeves: the measurements of Tom Braddock as she had known him
when they were young together. He picked up the filmy night-dress and
kissed it a dozen times. Then he looked at the other one. A grim smile
touched his lips. How long had it been since he had slept in a thing
like that? It seemed like centuries.
He sat down on the side of the bed and dropped his chin to his hands,
suddenly a prey to widely varying thoughts, desires and emotions. For
many minutes he drooped there, thinking, wondering, doubting.
Over in a corner stood a small new leather-bound trunk. He did not get
up to look at it, or into it. He knew without looking.
"It's like a fairy story," he murmured over and over again. "I'll do
anything in the world for her, as long as I live!"
Suddenly he started up. He would go down to her. He would renew his
pledges, his promises. As he opened the door to pass out to the stairs
he heard her moving in the hall below. She tried the front door. Then
the lower light went out. He heard her mounting the stairs slowly. She
was coming up to him!
When she got to a point where she could see the streak of light from
the partially open door she came to a stop. A slight shudder went over
her body. Her steps were slower after that, dragging, dejected, with
one or two complete pauses. Braddock understood. He had been listening
to that pitiful approach of the woman who was his wife. He could almost
see the expression in her face.
A sudden wave of pity swept over him. He gently closed the door and
locked it on the inside.
She came on and turned the knob, feebly, timorously.
"Good-night," he called out from the most distant corner of the room.
Fully ten seconds passed before she responded. He felt somehow that she
held her breath during that time.
"Good-night," she cried, a vibrant note in her voice. He heard her as
she went down the hall. She was running.
CHAPTER X
THE BLACK HEADLINES
Christine had been mistress of Jenison Hall for three days when the
expected and anxiously looked-for letter came from her mother.
A sensation of dread, of uncertainty, had been present during those
three wonderful days, lurking behind the happiness that filled the
foreground so completely. She could not divest herself of the vague,
insistent fear that disaster hung over the head of the mother she
idolized. David, supremely happy, used every device that his brain and
a loving heart could present to set her mind at rest, to drive away the
unvoiced anxiety that revealed itself only in the occasional mirror of
her telltale eyes.
When no word came on the morning of the third day, she timidly
suggested that they run up to New York for a short visit. He laughed at
her and playfully accused her of being tired of him, of being homesick.
Nevertheless, he was troubled. He had seen the newspaper accounts of
the murder of Colonel Grand, and he had been horrified, immeasurably
shocked, to find that Dick Cronk was the self-confessed assassin.
There was no mention of Braddock's name in the dispatches, yet he could
not banish the fear that ultimately the man would be implicated.
Dick Cronk's story of the crime, as presented by the newspapers, was
clear and unwavering. He said that he had shot the man in the heat of a
quarrel over money matters. The newspapers professed to be unable to
secure a statement of any kind from the brother, Ernest Cronk, who was
in jail as an accomplice, despite the vigorous protests of the
principal figure in the case. The newspapers went into the history of
the Cronk boys, from childhood up, devoting considerable space to the
excellent reputation of the cripple and the unsavory record of the
noted pickpocket. In summing up the case, there seemed to be no
question of the innocence of the cripple, although it was stated that
the district attorney intended to put him on trial for complicity in
the crime. The men, held without bail, were to be given a hearing in
the trial court at an early day.
Letters from Joey Noakes and Ruby to the Jenisons set forth the details
of a visit to the Tombs on the day following the murder. Both were
constrained to remark that, in the view of Dick's confession, it would
go very hard with him; they could see no chance of escape for him.
Joey, however, urged David to contribute something toward engaging the
services of a clever lawyer who at least might save him from the
gallows. He stated that Ernie, after stubbornly maintaining his own
innocence, refused to pay out money for an attorney, preferring to let
the state provide counsel for him, under the law. There was no mention
of Braddock in either letter, for obvious reasons.
Then the letter came from Mary Braddock. It was addressed to Christine.
The mother's heart cried out in the opening pages. David, at least,
could read between the lines. There were the tenderest protestations of
love and the most confident of prophecies, uttered with a buoyancy of
spirit that convinced and delighted the girl, who had been so hungry
for reassuring words. A new radiance enveloped her. But he saw beyond
the wistful, carefully considered sentences. He saw the shadow of
Thomas Braddock at the elbow of the woman as she wrote.
Near the bottom of the second page she abruptly took up the subject
which was, after all, uppermost in the minds of these anxious young
people.
"Your father," she began, "has changed his mind about going to the
mines in the Southwest. I saw him after that dreadful thing had
happened at Broadso's. He was afraid I might think he had a hand in it,
so he came at once to reassure me. Of course, he was not implicated in
any way. It will please you, Christine, to know that my father had a
long talk with him on the day following the murder, and that he was
more than merely impressed by the change in him. He firmly believes
that your father means to lead an honorable, upright life. I, too,
believe that he can work out his own redemption. Perhaps David will
bear me out in this. He saw him, and he noted the wonderful change.
Time, however, will tell. I ought not to be too rash with my prophecies.
"He loves you. He wants to reclaim your love and respect. That is all
he has to live for, I firmly believe. For this reason, if for no other,
I am confident he will make a brave, a wonderful effort. What he needs
most of all is encouragement, sympathy, the promise of ultimate reward.
If he realizes that the time may yet come when he can stand before you
without shame on his own part, and be received without shame on your
part and David's, I am sure it will mean everything to him in the
struggle he is to make in the next three or four years.
"He is now on his way to your grandfather's ranch in Montana, of which
he will assume the management next fall. The present manager is most
unsatisfactory to my father. He recognizes Tom's great ability in
handling men; his training in the school of hardship and adversity has
given him all the requisites necessary to the conducting of a large
ranch. You remember the name of the post-office where the mail for the
ranch is always sent. I implore you to write to him often. It will mean
so much to him, and, in the end, so much to you and yours. He insists
that you are to make no effort to see him. You can well understand how
he feels about it. Let _him_ come to you in his own good time. That is
best, I am sure. I strongly advise you to respect his wishes in this
connection.
"As for my own plans, I am going to the ranch with him. He needs me."
That was all she had to say of herself or her plans.
In the next sentence she spoke of Dick Cronk:
"I suppose you have read of that unhappy boy's arrest. Joey is trying
to raise means with which to employ capable counsel for him. I have
sent him a check for a thousand dollars, with the understanding that my
name is not to be mentioned as a donor. Your father says he cannot
conceive of Dick committing a murder. Nor can I. I have a strange
feeling that he did not do it, but, of course, that is silly in the
face of all that has come out. I am sorry for Dick. If David can find
it convenient to befriend him in any way, I am sure he will not
hesitate to help that poor, unfortunate boy who once did him an unusual
service.
"We are leaving at 5.30 for Chicago...."
The weeks passed rapidly for the blissful young Jenisons. The letters
from the far West were full of promise. Even the skeptical David was
compelled to admit to himself that the silver lining was discernible
against the black cloud that Mary Braddock had so deliberately set
herself under.
With his fair young wife he journeyed to New York toward the end of
their first month of married life. It had not required the advice or
suggestion of others to rouse in him a sense of duty. He owed more to
Dick Cronk than he could have hoped to repay under the most favorable
of circumstances: now it seemed utterly impossible to lift the
obligation. His first act was to send a large check to Joey Noakes.
This was followed by numerous encouraging letters to Dick Cronk, in
each of which he openly pledged himself to do all in his power to help
him in his great trouble.
Dick's replies were characteristic. They were full of quaint, sarcastic
references to his plight, glib comments on the close proximity of the
scaffold, and bitter lamentations over the detention of his brother
Ernie, whose misery and unhappiness seemed to weigh more heavily with
him than his own dire predicament.
On his arrival in town David went at once to the office of the great
criminal lawyer who had been engaged to defend the Cronks. There he was
met by Joey Noakes, Casey (no longer a contortionist but the owner of a
well-established plumbing business descended from his father) and young
Ben Thompson, the newspaper man who was soon to become Ruby's husband.
The man of law was brutally frank in his discussion of the case. He had
gone into it very thoroughly with the two prisoners. In his mind there
was no doubt as to the outcome of the trial. The men had elected to be
tried jointly. Richard Cronk did not have the ghost of a hope to escape
the extreme penalty; Ernest would be discharged. There did not seem to
be the remotest chance of saving Dick from the gallows.
The testimony of the two prisoners would have but little weight with a
jury, and there were no extenuating circumstances behind which he could
go in support of his plea for leniency. The prisoners had revealed to
him their motive in visiting Broadso's place, going quite fully into
the details of the interview which ended in the shooting. David's
surprise and horror on learning these hitherto unmentioned facts can
well be imagined.
"Personally," said the lawyer, "I am inclined to the opinion that Dick
Cronk tells the truth when he says Grand drew a revolver on him and
that he shot in self-defense. If we can make the jury see it in that
light there may be some chance for him. That is the defense I shall
offer, in any event. The state, however, is in a position to make light
of the plea, and with tremendous effect. It is just as plausible a
theory that Grand himself drew in self-defense. The fact that Cronk
fired and Grand did not will go far toward substantiating that theory
in the minds of intelligent jurors. It is not at all likely that Grand,
who knew the character of his visitors, could be forestalled in a
shooting affair, especially if he had been the first to draw.
Gentlemen, I shall do my best, but I must say to you that it is a
hopeless fight. Young Cronk is perfectly indifferent as to his own
fate. He seems only anxious to have his brother acquitted of complicity
in the actual crime. Ernie Cronk says that he saw a revolver in Grand's
hand, but, you see, he is so vitally interested that it is doubtful if
his testimony will be credited. It is very black for Dick Cronk. You
may as well understand the situation. We have one chance in a thousand
of getting him off with a life sentence, one in a million of securing
an acquittal."
The next day David and Joey went to the Tombs to see the two men. Dick
came down to the visitor's cage, but Ernie stubbornly refused to see
the callers.
"He's in a terrible way, David," said Dick, in explanation of his
brother's attitude toward them. "You see, I'm an old hand at the
business, and I advised him to talk with no one except the lawyer. It's
bad policy, gabbing with everybody that comes along. Keep a close
tongue in your head, that's my motto. Ernie's followin' my advice right
up to the limit. He's so cussed stingy with his conversation that he
won't talk to himself. I don't believe he has said fifty words out loud
in the past two weeks. It's getting to be quite a joke among the other
guys in here. I never knew any one to be so careful as he is. But, as I
said before, he's in a bad way. It's telling on him, poor kid. He can't
see anything but the rope for both of us. And then, Davy, my boy, he's
got a particular reason for not seeing you. I guess you know what it
is. He's a terrible proud feller, Ernie is. Not a bit like me in that
respect. Now I'm willing to thank you for putting up the coin for us,
and all that, and I do thank you; but Ernie--well, he's a curious kid.
He can't bear to--well, you understand."
"Dick," began David as soon as the complacent rogue gave him the
opportunity to break in, "I want you to tell Joey and me just how it
happened. We are your best friends--"
The prisoner held up his hand, palm outward, shaking his head slowly as
he spoke. "I'd be a poor example for Ernie if I blabbed after tellin'
him to keep his trap shut. Excuse _me_, Davy. My lawyer is the only one
I talk to about the case. As he's your lawyer just as much as he is
mine, and more so, I guess, I don't mind if you chat with him. He can
tell you all he wants to. But not me. Nix, kid. Not even to you and old
Joey here, the greatest close-mouth in the business. Why, I saw Joey
last winter in that pantomime out West, and he never said a word from
the time the curtain went up till it went down. Talk about your
tight-lipped guys! Say, he's the king of them all. He's the only actor
I ever saw that wasn't kickin' for more words to conquer. These gabby
actors just give me a--"
"For heaven's sake, Dick, be serious!" cried David impatiently. "You
_must_ talk to us openly, frankly about--"
"I'm sorry, David," interrupted Dick, his face grave in an instant. "I
can't talk about it. I'd sooner not. You see, I've got to consider
Ernie. He's absolutely innocent. If I got to spoutin' around, I might
say something that could be twisted so's it would hurt him. So, if you
don't mind, I'll talk about the weather. How is it down in old
Virginia? How's old Jeff? And how is the cook-lady at Jenison Hall?
Say, I wish you'd mention me to her. I'm the ghost that took her pies
and cold chicken, you remember."
It was useless for them to continue. He smilingly but stubbornly
refused to be moved by their eloquence. To all of their subtly-worded
entreaties he gave but the one, oft-repeated response:
"I guess you'd better discuss that with Mr. Prull, the lawyer."
They gave it up, but not until the time allotted to them as visitors
was nearly over.
"Mr. Prull has all the facts. Let him do the worrying," quoth Dick, the
philosopher. "Ernie will get off, dead sure. As for yours truly, I made
my bed, so I guess I'll have to sleep in it. Joey, I'll have the laugh
on you. You always said I was a crazy freak when I told you where I was
going to end. Just you remember that, will you, when you read about me
doing the groundless dance one of these fine days. My old man did it
before me. He was seventeen minutes strangling, they say. Almost a
record-breaking performance. To tell you the truth, Joey, I'd be
downright disappointed if I should happen to cash in natural-like. It
would be an awful jolt to my faith in Fate."
"For the love of 'eaven, Dick, don't go on like that," groaned Joey. A
cold perspiration was standing on his forehead. "You ought to 'ave some
regard for my feelings."
Dick laughed merrily. "There you go! Always thinkin' of yourself. I've
always heard that Englishmen haven't got any feelings."
"Well, they 'ave," was Joey's retort.
"Say, David, what's the latest news from Brad?" He listened with great
interest to David's brief recital. "Good for Brad!" he exclaimed. "I
always said he'd come out clean if he had a chance. I say, Mrs. Brad's
a brick. She'll bring him around, see if she don't. He ain't a natural
crook, Brad ain't. He's got a conscience and he can't get away from
that. No man's a real crook who has a conscience. I've got my own
definition of the word 'conscience': a mental funeral with only one
mourner. Say, kid, I guess I saved your father-in-law's neck when I
plugged old Grand--"
"Dick, don't breathe that, I implore you," cried David. "He had
promised Mrs. Braddock that he'd go away. It can do no good to drag him
into all this."
"Well," said Dick reflectively, "I guess you'd better ask Mr. Prull
about that. He knows all the facts."
"I beg your pardon, Dick. I'm sorry I spoke so quickly."
"It's all right, kid. No harm done. Don't worry. There won't be
anything said about Brad's _original_ intentions. I hope Christine--I
should say Mrs. Jenison--is well. I know she must be happy."
"She is both, Dick. She is very deeply interested in your case."
"I hope you won't let her send me roses and sweet violets, kid. That's
an awful gag they're workin' now. There's a fellow down the line here
that cut his wife's head nearly off in two places--on both sides of the
neck--and he's getting pink roses and lilies of the valley by the
cab-load."
"Christine is sending books and fruit, and three times a week you are
to have a dinner fit for a--"
The sudden fierce glare in the prisoner's eyes caused David to stop in
amazement.
"Look here," demanded Dick savagely, "ain't poor Ernie to have any o'
these things? Is he to set by and see me eat--what?"
"You are to be treated alike, of course," cried David quickly. Dick's
face cleared. He looked down in evident embarrassment.
"Excuse me, kid. I--I always get riled when I think of him getting the
worst of anything. I'm sure we'll both be terrible grateful to
Chris--to Mrs. Jenison. She's an angel,--as of course you know, kid.
Sending me books, eh? Tell her I like Dickens, will you? And, say,
there's _one_ book she needn't go to the trouble of sendin' me."
"You mean the--the Bible?"
"Yes."
"Dick, you don't really mean that. You--"
"I've already got one," said the prisoner simply. His eyes fell with
curious inconsistency. They saw his chin and lower lip quiver ever so
slightly. He scraped the floor with his foot a time or two, and his
fingers tightened on the bars. "It's a little one my mother gave me
when I was a kid. I've always kept it. Funny little old Bible, with
print so small you can't hardly read it, 'specially that place where
all them guys with the jay names were being begot. They seem to run
together a good deal--I mean the names. I guess they must have run
together considerable themselves, if accounts are true. Yes, my ma gave
it to me for being a good boy once."
His eyes were wet when he looked up at David's face again. His smile
seemed more twisted than usual.
"Where is it now, Dick?" asked Jenison, a lump coming into his throat.
Joey was plainly, almost offensively amazed.
"Why,--why, Ernie's got it. He didn't have anything else to read, so he
took it a couple of weeks ago. I--I guess I'll ask him for it some day
soon. Oh, yes, there _is_ something I want to speak to you about, Joey.
A couple o' years ago I took out a life insurance policy in favor of
Ernie, and also an accident policy. I couldn't keep up the accident
one, but the other's paid up to next January. Maybe I won't have to pay
on it again. It's for five thousand. I want you to see that he gets the
money if--if I--well, you know. The policy is in the safe over at old
Isaac's pawnshop,--you know the place. I'll write and ask him to come
down and see me, and I'll tell him to give you the paper, if you don't
mind, Joey."
"Sure, Dick. I'll take charge of it. You're very good to Ernie, and
thoughtful, lad."
"Well, I guess I ought to be," remarked Dick dryly.
David from the first had been more or less certain that Dick was not
the one who shot Grand. He could not drive the ugly conviction from his
mind. It occurred to him at this juncture to put his theory to the
test, hoping to catch Dick off his guard.
"The police are now saying that you did not do the shooting, Dick." He
watched the other's face narrowly.
There was not so much as a flicker of alarm.
"They don't think the old boy committed suicide, do they?" asked Dick,
with a chuckle of scorn for the obtuseness of the police.
"No. They're working on some new evidence, that's all."
"It's grand to have a reputation like mine," grinned the amiable rogue.
"They won't even believe me when they catch me red-handed. Once a liar,
always a liar. That's their idea, eh? If I was to turn around and say I
didn't do it, I suppose they'd believe me? Well, nix! I guess not!"
David and Joey left almost immediately after this, promising to visit
him from time to time, and to do all in their power to aid Mr. Prull.
"Well, so long," said Dick at parting. "Say, Joey, will you remember me
to Ruby? I wish her all the luck in the world."
The summer months wore away and toward the middle of October the case
of the State _vs_. Cronk and Cronk came up. There was little or no
public interest in the hearing. Two sets of friends, rather small
circles very widely apart, were deeply interested, and that was all.
The Jenisons and their friends formed one contingent, while the other
was made up from that shifting, stealthy element of humanity known as
the "under-world."--pickpockets, cracksmen and ne'er-do-wells who had
been the associates of Dick Cronk in one way or another, off and on,
for years.
The plea of self-defense was ably presented by a great lawyer, but it
was shattered by the State quite as easily as he had anticipated. He
made an eloquent, impassioned appeal for clemency. The jury was out not
more than an hour. Their verdict was an acquittal for Ernest Cronk, a
conviction for murder in the first degree against Richard, with the
recommendation that he be hanged by the neck until dead.
Following the conviction came the application for a new trial, which
was not granted. The record in the case was so clear of error and the
proof so conclusive that Mr. Prull declined to carry the matter to the
higher courts, realizing the hopelessness of such a proceeding. Then
began the systematic, earnest effort to induce the governor to commute
the sentence to life imprisonment. He declined to interfere.
Dick Cronk was doomed.
At eleven o'clock on the morning of a bitterly cold Friday in January a
grim, sullen group of men, evil-faced fellows whose eyes were heavy
with dread, and whose lips hung limp with dejection, crowded around the
stove in a squalid, ill-smelling basement room. They spoke but seldom;
their voices were rarely raised above the hoarse half-whisper of
anxiety known only to men who wait in patience for a thing of horror to
come to pass, an inevitable, remorseless thing from which there is no
escape.
They shivered as they crouched close to the red-hot stove,
notwithstanding the almost unbearable heat of the foul, windowless room
in which they were gathered. Their faces were pallid, their eyes
bloodshot, their flesh a-quiver.
Occasionally one or another of them would go to the door to listen for
sounds in the black passage beyond. He would resume his seat without a
word to his fellows, each of whom looked up with stark, questioning
eyes. Then they would fall to staring at the walls again, or at the
floor, their chins in their hands. At their feet lay the newspapers,
eagerly read and discarded by each and every member of this little
group. There was a "noon extra," fresh from a ten o'clock press. It had
been the last to fall into their hands.
They tried to smoke, but the water of mortal terror filled their
mouths. The smell of dead, dank tobacco pervaded the room.
In a far corner, huddled against the wall, there was a shivering,
silent figure, a Pariah even among these under-world outcasts. He sat
apart from the others, denied a place in the circle, despised and
abhorred by the men he once had scorned because they were the
devil-may-care companions and emulators of his brother. His beady black
eyes never shifted from the low, padlocked door in the opposite end of
the room. He, too, was waiting for the dread news from the upper world.
His breathing was sharply audible, as of one drugged by sleep; his body
had not moved an inch in an hour or more, so fierce was the suspense
that held him rigid. From time to time he swallowed, although his mouth
was dry and empty; there was a rattling sound accompanying the act that
suggested the hoarse croak of a frog. Always his gaze was on the door,
never wavering, unblinkng, fascinated by the horror that was creeping
down to him as surely as the sun crept up to the apex of the day.
Noon! Twelve o'clock, midday! The hour they were dreading!
One of the shivering thieves beside the stove drew forth from a ragged
pocket the plutocratic timepiece of a millionaire victim. The way his
eyes narrowed as he looked at its face told the silent observers that
it was twelve o'clock and after. Unconsciously every figure stiffened,
every jaw was set, every nostril spread with the intake of air. Every
mind's eye in that fear-sick group leaped afar and drew a picture of
the thing that was happening--then! At that very instant it was
happening!
"Oh!" groaned some one, half aloud.
"It's after twelve," muttered another thickly.
"The jig's up wid Dick, kids. Blacky ought to be here wid de extry.
Wot's a keepin' him?" said the first speaker, glaring over his shoulder
in the direction of the door.
"Twelve sharp, that's wot it says," shuddered a small, pinched thief.
"He's a-swingin' now."
Suddenly a wild, appalling shriek arose from the corner behind them. As
one man, they whirled. Their gaze fell upon the cringing figure over
there, now groveling on the floor in the agony of a terror that severed
all the restraining bonds that had held his tongue so long.
They shrank back as their minds began to grasp the words he was
shrieking in his madness.
He was sobbing out the thing that each man there had suspected from the
first!
For many minutes they listened to his ravings, stupefied, aghast. Then
a stealthy glance swept round the circle as if inspired by one central
intelligence. It crept out of the corners of rattish eyes, reading as
it ran the sinister circle, and hurried back to its intense, malevolent
business of transfixing the quarry in the corner.
A hand reached down and grasped the leg of a short, heavy stool.
Another went lower and clutched a long, murderous bar of iron that
served as a poker. Savage eyes went in quest of deadly things, and
purposeful hands obeyed the common impulse.
Then they advanced....
Later, the stealthy, shivering group stole forth from the room and down
the black hallway that led to the street. The last man out cast a
terrified glance at the still, shapeless object in the corner as he
closed the door behind him and fled after his fellows. When they came
from the passage into the full light of day, each skulker looked at his
hands and found that they shook as if with a mighty ague.
Even as they blinked their eyes in the glaring sunlight, an excited
young man came rushing toward them from the opposite side of the
street. They paused irresolute. The newcomer was white, excited--yes,
jubilant. In his hand he carried a newspaper, the heavy black headlines
standing out in bold relief.
"He's got a reprieve!" he was shouting eagerly. "Look 'ere! See wot it
says."
Fascinated, they slunk back into the dark passage, to listen in
stupefaction while the joyous Blacky repeated the astounding news from
the prison.
"Mr. Jenison and his wife done it," cried Blacky, his eyes gleaming.
"It says so here. They went to the gov'nor this morning and put it up
to him in a way that made him grant a reprieve for thirty days, so's
Mr. Jenison can get the real facts before him. That means a pardon
sure, kids. Say, Jenison's all right! He's the kind of a friend to
have, he is. He never quit on Dick. Say, where's Ernie? We'd better put
him wise."
"It won't make any difference to Ernie now," said one of the rogues,
wiping his wet brow with his hand.
Blacky fell away with a great look of dread in his eyes. He understood.
"We'd better duck out o' this," he muttered vaguely. "It says here that
the cops are going to question Ernie. They're out huntin' for him by
this time, kids."
"They know he was here wid us, and they'll find him sure," cried one
shifty-eyed fellow. "Me to the woods."
"Hold on. Spike," interposed another grimly. "We got to stand together
on this. We got to stick by Dick, now he has a chance. We got to stay
here and tell 'em what Ernie said to us in there. It's the only way.
We'll do time for it, but what's the dif? Dick was doin' more for
Ernie. We're sure to get off light, when it all comes out."
They drew back into the passage and waited for the police to come.
An hour went by, and not one faltered. There came at last to their ears
the sound of heavy footsteps on the narrow stairway. Spike heaved a
deep sigh and said to his comrades:
"We've seen the last of Dick, kids. This Mr. Jenison will take care of
him from now on. He'll have a good chance to be honest, lucky dog, just
as he's always wanted to be."
The fellow with the plutocratic watch took it from his pocket and gazed
at it with the eyes of one who is contemplating a great sacrifice.
"Jenison's all right, God bless him. I'm going to see that he gets his
watch back, too. I was a dog to have pinched it in the first place."
THE END
End of Project Gutenberg's The Rose in the Ring, by George Barr McCutcheon