"Oh, Doc!" It was the telegraph operator, hatless, in his shirt-sleeves,
hurrying toward her from the station as she passed.
Doctor Harpe stood quite still and waited, not purposely but because a
sudden weakness in her knees made it impossible for her to meet him
half-way. She was conscious that the color was leaving her face even as
her upper lip stretched in the straight, mirthless smile with which she
faced a crisis. She knew well enough why he called her, the dread of
this moment had been with her ever since her foolish boast of Van
Lennop's letter and the destruction of his telegram.
"You gave that message to Essie? She got it all right, didn't she, Doc?"
She had prepared herself a hundred times to answer this question, but
now that it was put she found it no easier to decide on a reply; to know
what answer would best save her from the consequences of the stupid
error into which her hatred had led her.
If she said that she had lost it and subsequent events had driven it
from her mind, he would duplicate the message. If she said she had
delivered it and her falsehood was discovered, her position was rendered
more dangerous, ten-fold. She decided on the answer which placed
discovery a little farther off.
"Sure, she got it; I gave it to her that afternoon."
Her assurance closed the incident so far as the telegraph operator was
concerned; it was the real beginning of it to Doctor Harpe, whose
intelligence enabled her to realize to the utmost the position in which
she now had irrevocably placed herself. She turned abruptly and walked
to her office with a nervous rapidity totally unlike her usual swagger.
When the door was closed behind her she paced the floor with excited
strides. It was useless to attempt to hide from herself the fact that
she was horribly, cravenly afraid of Ogden Van Lennop; for she
recognized beneath his calm exterior a quality which inspired fear. She
was afraid of him as an individual, afraid of his money and the power of
his influence if he chose to use them, for Dr. Harpe had brains enough,
worldly wisdom enough, to know that he was beyond her reach.
In Crowheart, she believed that through her strong personality and the
support of Andy P. Symes she could accomplish nearly anything she
undertook; but she knew that in the great world outside where she had
discovered Van Lennop was a factor, she would be only an eccentric
female doctor, amusing perhaps, mildly interesting, even, but entirely
inconsequential.
Her thoughts became a chaotic jam of incoherent explanations as she
thought of an accounting to Van Lennop should he return, and again she
raged at herself for the insane impulse which had led her to boast of a
farewell letter to her. The sleepless hours in which she had gone over
and over the situation with every solution growing more preposterous
than the last, had been telling upon the nerves which never had quite
recovered from the shock and the incidents which followed Alice Freoff's
death. The slightest excitement seemed to set them jangling of late.
They were twitching now; her eyelids, her shoulders, her mouth seemed
never in repose when she was alone. Her hand shook uncontrollably as she
refilled a whiskey glass and rolled and smoked another cigarette. It
was no new thing, this nervous paroxysm, being nearly always the climax
to a night of exaggerated fear. The necessity for self-possession and
outward calmness in public made it a relief to let her nerves go when
alone.
"If he comes back, I'm ruined! He'll cut loose on me in public and he'll
sting; I know him well enough for that." Her hands grew clammy at the
thought. "It'll put a crimp in my practice. If it wasn't for the backin'
of Symes I'd as well pull my freight--but he hasn't come yet. It's not
likely he ever will with no word from her and this scandal comin' close
on the heels of her silence. I'm a fool to worry--to let myself get in
such a state as this."
She no longer entertained the hallucination that she might attract Van
Lennop to herself; to save herself from public exposure, should he by
any chance return, was her one thought, her only aim. And always her
hopes simmered down to the one which centred in Symes's influence in
Crowheart and his compulsory protection of herself. He dared not desert
her.
"Let him try it!" She voiced her defiant thoughts. "Let him go back on
me if he dare! If I get in a place where I've absolutely nothing to
lose--if he throws me down--Andy P. Symes and Crowheart will have food
for thought for many a day. But, pshaw! I'm rattled now; I've pulled out
before and I'll----"
A hand upon the door-knob startled her. Hastily she shoved the glass and
bottle from sight and pulled herself together.
"Oh, it's you?" Her tone was not cordial, as the Dago Duke stood before
her.
"Did you think it was your pastor," inquired that person suavely as he
sniffed the air, "come to remonstrate with you upon your intemperate
habits?"
She laughed her short, harsh laugh as she took the bottle from its
hiding-place and shoved it toward him.
"Help yourself."
She had long since learned that it was useless to pretend before the
Dago Duke. His mocking, comprehending eyes made pretence ridiculous even
to herself. She dreaded meeting him in public because of the flippant
disrespect of his manner toward her; privately she found a certain
pleasure in throwing off the cloak which hid her dark, inner-self from
Crowheart. He assumed her hypocrisy as though it were a fact too obvious
to question and she had been obliged to accept his estimate of her.
"How like you, my dear Doctor!" He picked up the bottle and read the
label. "Your womanly solicitude for my thirst touches me deeply,
but,"--he replaced the bottle upon her desk--"since I've stood off the
demon Rum for six weeks now I'll hold him at bay until I finish my
little talk with you."
"If you're here on business, cut it short," she said curtly.
"I can't imagine myself here on any other errand" he returned placidly.
"Say, Doc,"--there was a note in his wonderful speaking voice which made
her look up quickly--"why don't you give back that $5.00 and four bits
you pinched from Giovanni Pellezzo?"
The moment showed her remarkable self-control. She could feel her
overtaxed nerves jump, but not a muscle of her face moved.
"What are you driving at?" she demanded.
"The name is not familiar to you?"
"Not at all."
"I'm not surprised at that, since your interest in your contract
patients extends no further than their pockets."
"If you're here to insult me----"
"I couldn't do that," returned the Dago Duke composedly; "I've tried."
"You've got to explain."
"That's what I came for." He smiled pleasantly.
"Well?" She tapped her foot.
"Don't rush me, Doc. I have so few pleasures, you know that, and the
enjoyment I'm extracting from your suspense makes me desire to prolong
it. You _are_ anxious, you must admit that, although you really conceal
it very well. But you're gray around the mouth and those lines from your
nose down look like--yes, like irrigation laterals--furrows--upon my
soul, Doc, you've grown ten years older since I came in. You should
avoid worry by all means, but I can understand exactly how you feel when
you're not quite sure to which case I may refer."
Her tense nerves seemed suddenly to snap. She struck the desk with her
open palm, and cried--
"I'm _sick_ of this!"
He looked at her critically.
"I can believe it. Temper adds nothing to your appearance. But, Doc,
with your intelligence and experience, how did you come to rifle a man's
pocket with a witness in the room?"
She jumped to her feet.
"I won't stand this! I don't have to stand it!"
The Dago Duke crossed his legs leisurely.
"No--you don't have to, but I believe I would if I were you. The fact
is, Doc, I dropped in merely to make a little deal with you."
"Blackmail!" she cried furiously.
"In a way--yes. Strictly, I suppose, you might call it blackmail."
"You're broke again--you want money!"
The Dago Duke shuddered.
"Oh, Doc! how can you be so indelicate as to taunt me with my poverty;
to suggest, to hint even so subtly, that I would fill my empty pockets
from your purse?" He looked at her reproachfully.
"What _do_ you want, then?"
The Dago Duke's voice took on a purring, feline softness which was more
emphatic and final than any loud-mouthed vehemence--
"What do I want? I want you to tell the officers that you passed two men
riding on a run from Dubois's sheep-camp--two Indians or 'breeds' in
moccasins--and I want you to do it quick!"
"You want me to perjure myself and you 'want me to do it quick,'" she
mimicked.
He paid no attention.
"I want you to help clear that girl; if you refuse, Giovanni Pellezzo
will swear out a warrant for your arrest, charging you with the theft of
$5.50 while he was etherized for a minor operation."
They regarded each other in a long silence.