BOOK IV: THE IRON TAVERN

I--THE RENDEZVOUS

THE metamorphosis in Dave Henderson's appearance since the night, nine

days ago, when he had left San Francisco and Nicolo Capriano's house,

had been, by necessity, gradual; it had attained its finished state now,

as he stepped from a train to one of the sub-level station platforms

in the City of New York. Then, he had been attired in one of the

old Italian's cast-off and ill-fitting suits, an object neither too

respectable nor presentable; now, the wide-brimmed soft hat was new

and good, and the dark tweed suit, of expensive material, was that of a

well-groomed man.

It had taken time--all this. Nor had it been entirely simple of

accomplishment, in spite of the ample funds received from Square John

Kelly, funds that now, wary of unsavory corners into which a certain

business that he had on hand might lead him here in New York, he had

taken the precaution to secrete about his person in a money belt beneath

his underclothing.

He had scarcely needed old Nicolo Capriano's warning to be careful. Dave

Henderson had not changed so much in five years in prison that he could

take liberties with the risk of recognition in that section of the

country where, in the days before, he had been so familiar a figure

on the local race-tracks. He had made his way out of California, and

considerably beyond California, in the same way that, once before, he

had attempted to elude the police--and on which former occasion would

have succeeded, he was quite satisfied, had it not been for the wound

that had finally robbed him of consciousness and placed him at their

mercy.

He had traveled during three nights, and only at night, in boxcars, and

on freight trains, stealing his way. But there had been no hurry. The

night of the twenty-fourth of June, the date of the rendezvous that

Millman had given him, had not been very far off, and though it had

always obtruded itself upon him and never allowed itself to be forgotten

from the moment he had heard it from Millman's lips, he had consistently

told himself that the twenty-fourth of June was a consideration to be

entirely disregarded. Since Millman was a thief and had double-crossed

him, the rendezvous was blatantly a fake. It existed only as a sort of

jeering, ironical barb with which Millman at times, out of the nowhere,

like a specter, grinning maliciously, prodded and made devil's sport of

him. He had no concern with Millman's twenty-fourth of June! He would

meet Millman in due time--two hemispheres were not big enough, or wide

enough apart, to prevent that--but the meeting would be by his, not

Millman's, appointment.

And then he had passed out of the more critical danger zone, and got

further east. But, even then, he had taken no chances. Dave Henderson

was dead--the creation of one Barty Lynch was not a matter to be trifled

with. He had taken no chances; if anything, he had erred on the side

of extreme caution. The abrupt transition into respectability by one

in misfitting, threadbare garments, and who looked, moreover, a

disreputable tramp from his nights in the boxcars, was only to invite

suspicion at any ordinary store where he might attempt to buy clothes.

A second-hand suit, therefore, of fairly creditable appearance,

first replaced Nicolo Capriano's discarded garments; later, at a more

exclusive establishment still further east, in Chicago, to be exact,

this was exchanged for the attire he now wore--while, here and there,

he had stocked a dress-suit case with needed requirements. He had been

deliberately leisurely in his progress east once he had felt it safe to

dispense with his boxcar mode of travel--and this, actually, as a sort

of defiance and challenge flung down by his common sense to that jeering

prod with which Millman, and Millman's cynical rendezvous, plagued him

in spite of himself. The evening of June twenty-fourth at the St. Lucian

Hotel in New York was of no particular interest to him! It had taken him

a week to reach Chicago. It was nine days now since he had left Nicolo

Capriano's house. Nine days! He was now in New York, standing here

on one of the station platforms--and it was the evening of the

twenty-fourth of June!

He looked at his watch, as he made his way to the main section of the

station. It was seven-thirty. He deposited his dress-suit case in the

parcel-room, and went out to the street. Here, he asked a policeman to

direct him to the St. Lucian Hotel.

He smiled a little grimly as he walked along. The much vaunted challenge

of his common sense had gone down to rout and defeat, it seemed! He was

on his way now to the St. Lucian Hotel--and he would be there at eight

o'clock on the evening of June twenty-fourth. He laughed outright at

himself, suddenly, mirthlessly.

Well, why not! And why not be entirely honest with himself? Despite

self-argument to the contrary, he knew all along that he would be at

the rendezvous at the appointed time. He was a fool--undoubtedly a fool.

Nothing could come of it except, possibly, to afford Millman, if Millman

had elected to watch from some safe vantage point in hiding, an amusing

spectacle.

He was a fool--he offered nothing in defense of himself on that score.

But, too, as far as any results had been obtained, he had been a fool to

go searching the old pigeon-cote for the money, when he had beforehand

already persuaded himself in his own mind that the money was gone! It

was the same thing over again now--the elimination of doubt, that would

always have crept insidiously into his mind; the substitution of doubt,

however ill-founded, for an established certainty. He had felt better

for that visit to the old pigeon-cote; he would feel better, even at the

expense of pampering again to fantastic doubts, for his visit to the

St. Lucian Hotel to-night. Millman would not be there, any more than

the money had been in the pigeon-cote; but, equally, he, Dave Henderson,

would have established that fact beyond the reach of any brain quibbling

which, of late, had been, it seemed, so prone to affect him.

He stopped again to ask directions from an officer, and to ask this time

another question as well--a question prompted by a somewhat unpleasant

possibility which, having once decided to keep the rendezvous, he could

not now ignore. What kind of a place _was_ this St. Lucian Hotel?

“One of the best,” the officer answered. “There you are--two blocks

ahead, and one to the left.”

Dave Henderson smiled with a sort of patient tolerance at himself. The

locality alone should have been sufficient answer to his question. It

was not the setting, very far from it, for a trap! His hand, that had un

consciously closed around the stock of his revolver in the side pocket

of his coat, was withdrawn and swung now at his side, as he walked along

again.

He looked at his watch once more, as he turned the corner indicated. It

was five minutes to eight. A half block ahead of him he saw the hotel.

He walked slowly now, the short distance remaining. “The St. Lucian

Hotel. Eight o'clock in the evening. June twenty-fourth.” The words

seemed to mock at him now, and the gibe to sting. He had fallen for it,

after all! He could call himself a fool again if he wished, but what was

the use of that? It was obvious that he was a fool! He _felt_ like one,

as he passed a much bedecked functionary at the doorway, and found

himself standing a moment later in the huge, luxuriously appointed

rotunda of the hotel. He was not even recompensed by novelty, as he

stared aimlessly about him. It was just the usual thing--the rug-strewn,

tiled floor; the blaze of lights; the hum of talk; the hurry of

movement; the wide, palm-dotted corridors, whose tables were crowded

with men and women in evening dress at after-dinner coffee; the deep

lounging chairs in his more immediate vicinity; the strains of an

orchestra trying to make itself heard above the general hubbub.

A clock from the hotel desk behind him began to chime the hour.

He turned mechanically in that direction, his eyes seeking the

timepiece--and whirled suddenly around again, as a hand fell upon his

shoulder. The police! The thought flashed swift as a lightning stroke

through his mind. Somewhere, somehow he had failed, and they had found

him out, and----

The rotunda, the lights, seemed to swirl before him, and then to vanish

utterly, and leave only a single figure to fill all the space, a

figure in immaculate evening clothes, a figure whose hand tightened its

shoulder-grip upon him, a figure whose clear, gray eyes stared into his

and smiled.

He touched his lips with the tip of his tongue.

“Millman!” he said hoarsely. “You!”

“Well,” said Millman easily, “this is the St. Lucian Hotel; it's eight

o'clock, and June twenty-fourth--who did you expect to meet here?”

“You,” said Dave Henderson--and laughed unnaturally.

Millman's gray eyes narrowed, and his face clouded suddenly.

“What's the matter with you, Dave?” he demanded sharply.

Dave Henderson's hands, at his sides, were clenched. Millman--this was

Millman! Millman, whom he hadn't expected to meet here! Millman, whom

he had promised himself he would track down if it took a lifetime, and,

once found, would settle with as he would settle with a mad dog! And

Millman was here, smiling into his face! His mind groped out through a

haze of bewilderment that robbed him of the power to reason; his tongue

groped for words. It was as though he were dazed and groggy from a blow

that had sent him mentally to his knees. He did not understand.

“There's nothing the matter with me,” he said mechanically.

He felt Millman's hand close on his arm.

“Come on up to my rooms,” said Millman quietly. “It's a little public

here, isn't it?”

Dave Henderson did not disengage his arm from the other's hold, but his

hand slipped unostentatiously into his coat pocket. A rift seemed to

come breaking through that brain fog, as he silently accompanied Millman

to the elevator. He had dismissed the probability of such a thing but a

few minutes before, had even jeered at himself for considering it, but,

in spite of the eminent respectability of the St. Lucian Hotel, in spite

of its fashion-crowded corridors and lobby, the thought was back now

with redoubled force--and it came through the process of elimination. If

Millman was a crook, as he undoubtedly was, and had secured the money,

as he undoubtedly had, why else should Millman be here? There seemed

to be no other way to account for Millman having kept the rendezvous.

Strange things, queer things, had happened in hotels that were quite

as enviable of reputation as the St. Lucian--perhaps it was even

the _safest_ place for such things to happen, from the perpetrator's

standpoint! His lips were tight now. Well, at least, he was not walking

blindfold into--a trap!

They had ascended in silence. He eyed Millman now in cool appraisal, as

the elevator stopped, and the other led the way and threw open the door

to a suite of rooms. There was quite a difference between the prison

stripes of a bare few months ago and the expensive and fashionably

tailored evening clothes of to-night! Well, Millman had always claimed

he was a gentleman, hadn't he? And he, Dave Henderson, had believed

him--once! But that did not change anything. Millman was no less a crook

for that! From the moment Millman had gone to that pigeon-cote and

had taken that money, he stood out foursquare as a crook, and---- Dave

Henderson felt his muscles tauten, and a chill sense of dismay seize

suddenly upon him. There was still another supposition--one that swept

upon him now in a disconcerting flash. Suppose Millman had _not_ gone to

that pigeon-cote, suppose it was _not_ Millman who had taken the money,

suppose that, after all, it had been found by some one else, that

Tooler, for instance, had stumbled upon it by chance! And, instead of

Millman having it, suppose that it was gone forever, without clue to

its whereabouts, beyond his, Dave Henderson's, reach! It was not

impossible--it was not even improbable. His brain was suddenly in

turmoil--he scarcely heard Millman's words, as the other closed the

door of the suite behind them.

“The family is in the country for the summer months,” said Millman with

a smile, as he waved his hand around the apartment; “and I have gone

back to my old habit--since I have been free to indulge my habits--of

living here during that time, instead of keeping a town house open, too.

Sit down there, Dave, by the table, and make yourself comfortable.”

It sounded plausible--most plausible! Dave Henderson scowled. Across

his mind flashed that scene in the prison library when Millman had been

plausible before--damnably plausible! His mind was in a sort of riot

now; but, through the maze of doubt and chaos, there stood out clearly

enough the memory of the hours, and days, and weeks of bitter resolve

to “get” this man who now, offensively at his ease, and smiling, was

standing here before him.

And then Dave Henderson laughed a little--not pleasantly.

Well, he was face to face with Millman now. It would be a showdown

anyhow. Trap, or no trap, Millman would show his hand. He would know

whether Millman had got that money, or whether somebody else had! He

would know whether Millman was straight--or whether Millman was a crook!

He jerked his shoulders back sharply; his fingers closed a little more

ominously on the revolver in his coat pocket. Was he quite crazy? Had he

lost all sense of proportion? The chances were a thousand to one that it

_was_ Millman who had looted the pigeon-cote; the chances were one in a

thousand that it could have been any one else.

“Yes,” he said coolly. “Nice rooms you've got here, and a bit of a

change from--out West!” He jerked his head abruptly toward a door across

the room. “I notice you've got a closed door there. I hope I'm not

butting in, if you're entertaining friends, or anything like that!” He

laughed again--raucously now. His nerves seemed suddenly to be raw and

on edge. Millman was favoring him with what, whether it was genuine or

not, was meant for a blank stare.

“Friends?” said Millman questioningly. And then his gray eyes softened.

“Oh, I see!” he exclaimed. “It's hard to get over the habit, isn't it?

No; there's no one there. But perhaps you'd feel better satisfied to

look for yourself.”

“I would!” said Dave Henderson bluntly.

“Go ahead, then!” invited Millman readily, and waved his hand toward the

door.

“I'll follow _you_,” said Dave Henderson curtly.

Millman turned toward the door, hesitated, and stopped.

“Dave, what's the matter with you?” he demanded for the second time.

“Nothing much!” replied Dave Henderson. “But we'll get this over first,

eh? Go on, let's see the rest' of this suite of yours. It's good to know

that an old pal is enjoying such pleasant surroundings.”

Without a word, Millman stepped across the room, and opened the door in

question. It led into a bedroom, and from there to a bathroom; there

was nothing else. Dave Henderson inspected these in silence. He eyed

Millman, frowning in a renewed perplexity, as they returned to the outer

room.

“All right!” he said gruffly. “You win the first trick. But how about

a certain little package now? I'll trouble you to hand that over,

Millman!”

Millman shook his head in a sort of tolerant expostulation.

“As we used to say 'out there,' I don't get you, Dave!” he said slowly.

“You are acting very strangely. I've been looking forward to this

meeting--and you haven't even a handshake for an old friend. I don't

understand.”

“I don't myself!” returned Dave Henderson evenly. “There's a whole

lot of things that don't fit. But it's five years since I've seen that

package, and maybe I'm a trifle over-anxious about it. Suppose you come

across with it!”

Millman shrugged his shoulders a little helplessly.

“You're a queer card, Dave,” he said. “Of course, I'll come across with

it! What else in the world are we here for to-night?” He stepped to the

table, pulled a drawer open, and produced a neatly tied parcel, which he

laid on the table. “I took it out of the vault to-day, so as to have it

ready for you to-night.”

From the package, Dave Henderson's eyes lifted, and held Millman's in

a long stare. It was as though, somehow, the ground had been swept from

under his feet. He had expected anything but the package. Logically,

from every conclusion based on logic, Millman should not be handing

over that package now. And this act now was so illogical that he could

account for it on no other basis than one of trickery of some sort.

He tried to read the riddle in the other's eyes; he read only a cool,

imperturbable composure. His hand still toyed with the revolver in his

pocket.

“There's an outside wrapper on it, I see,” he said in a low voice. “Take

it off, Millman.”

Millman's brows knitted in a sort of amused perplexity.

“You're beyond me to-night, Dave,” he said, as he stripped off the outer

covering. “Utterly beyond me! Well, there you are!”

The package lay there now on the table, intact, as it had been on the

night it had found a hiding-place in the old pigeon-cote. The original

brown-paper wrapper was still tied and sealed with its several bank

seals in red wax; the corner, torn open in that quick, hasty examination

in Martin K. Tydeman's library, still gaped apart, disclosing the edges

of the banknotes within. It was the package containing one hundred

thousand dollars, intact, untouched, undisturbed.

Dave Henderson sat down mechanically in the chair behind him that was

drawn up close to the table. His hand came from his pocket, and, joined

by the other, cupped his chin, his elbows resting on the table's edge,

as he stared at the package.

“I'm damned!” said Dave Henderson heavily.

His mind refused to point the way. It left him hung up in midair. It

still persisted in picturing the vengeance he had sworn against this man

here, in picturing every stake he owned flung into the ring to square

accounts with this man here--and the picture took on the guise now of

grotesque and gigantic irony. But still he did not understand. That

picture had had its inception in a logical, incontrovertible and true

perspective. It was strange! He looked up now from the package to

Millman, as he felt Millman's hand fall and press gently upon his

shoulder. Millman was leaning toward him over the table.

“Well, Dave,” said Millman, and his smile disarmed his words, “you've

treated me as though I were a thug up to the moment I opened that

package, and now you act as though the sight of it had floored you.

Perhaps you'll tell me now, if I ask you again, what's the matter?”

Dave Henderson did not answer for a moment. His hand went into his

pocket and came out again--with his revolver balanced in its palm.

“I guess I made a mistake,” he said at last, with a queer smile. “Thug

is right! I was figuring on pulling this on you--in another way.”

Millman drew a chair deliberately up to the opposite side of the table,

and sat down.

“Go on, Dave,” he prompted quietly. “I'm listening.”

Dave Henderson restored the weapon to his pocket, and shrugged his

shoulders in a way that was eloquent of his own perturbed state of mind.

“I guess you'll get the point in a word or two,” he said slowly. “The

story you told me in the pen, and the way you acted for two years made

me believe you, and made me think you were straight. Understand? And

then that afternoon before you were going out, and I was up against it

hard--you know--I told you where this money was. Understand? Well, I

had hardly got back to my cell when I figured you had trapped me. If

you were straight you wouldn't touch that money, unless to do me in

by handing it back to the police, for it would be the same thing as

stealing it again, and that would make a crook of you; if you were a

crook then you weren't playing straight with me to begin with, since the

story you told me was a lie, and the only reason I could see for that

lie was to work me up to spilling the beans so that you could cop the

loot and give me the slip. Either way, it looked raw for me, didn't it?

Well, when I got out, the money _hadn't_ gone back to the police, but

it _had_ gone! I swore I'd get you. Don't make any mistake about that,

Millman--I swore I'd get you. I didn't expect to meet you here to-night.

I called myself a fool even for coming. You were either straight or a

crook, and there wasn't much room left for doubt as to which it was.

See, Millman?”

Millman nodded his head gravely.

“I see,” he said, in the same quiet tones. “And now?”

Dave Henderson jerked his hand toward the package of banknotes that lay

on the table before him.

“I guess that's the answer, isn't it?” he said, with a twisted smile.

“There's the hundred thousand dollars there that you pinched from the

old pigeon-cote.” He shoved out his hand impulsively to Millman. “I'm

sorry, Millman. Shake! I've been in wrong all the time. But I never

seemed to get that slant on it before; that you were--a straight crook.”

Millman's gray eyes, half amused, half serious, studied Dave Henderson

for a long minute, as their hands clasped.

“A straight crook, eh?” he said finally, leaning back again in his

chair. “Well, the deduction is fairly logical, Dave, I'll have to admit.

And what's the answer to that?”

Dave Henderson jerked his hand toward the package of banknotes again.

“There's only one, isn't there?” he returned. “You've got a stake in

that coin now. A fair share of it is yours, and I'll leave it to you to

say what you want.”

Millman lighted a cigarette before he answered.

“All right!” he said, with a curious smile, as his eyes through the

spiral of blue smoke from the tip of his cigarette fixed on Dave

Henderson again. “All right! I'll accept that offer, Dave. And I'll

take--all, or none.”

Dave Henderson drew sharply back in his chair. There was something

in Millman's voice, a significance that he did not like, or quite

understand, save that it denied any jocularity on Millman's part, or

that the other was making a renunciation of his claim through pure

generosity. His eyes narrowed. The money was here. Millman had come

across with it. Those facts were not to be gainsaid; but they were facts

so utterly at variance with what months of brooding over the matter had

led him to expect they should be, that he had accepted them in a sort of

stunned surprise. And now this! Was he right, after all--that there was

some trickery here?

“What do you mean--all, or none?” he said, a hint of menace creeping

into his voice.

“Just that,” said Millman, and his tones were low and serious now. “Just

what I said--all, or none.”

Dave Henderson laughed shortly.

“Then I guess it'll be--none!” he said coolly.

“Perhaps,” admitted Millman slowly. “But I hope not.” He leaned forward

now, earnestly, over the table. “Dave,” he said steadily, “let us get

back to the old pal days again when we believed in each other, just man

to man, Dave; because now you've got a chip on your shoulder. I don't

want to knock that chip off; I want to talk to you. I want to tell you

why I committed what you have rightly called theft in going to that

pigeon-cote and taking that money. And I want to try and make you

understand that my life in prison and the story that I told you there,

in spite of the fact that I have 'stolen' the money now, was not a lie.

There is not a soul on this wide earth, Dave, except yourself, who knows

that Charles Millman served two years in the penitentiary with prison

stripes on his back. If it were known I think it would mean ruin to

me, certainly in a social sense, very probably in a commercial sense as

well. And yet, Dave, I would rather you knew it than that you didn't.

Does that sound strange? Well, somehow, I've never pictured the

flaring headlines that would be in every paper in this city if I were

exposed--because, well, because I couldn't picture it--not through you,

Dave--and that's the only way it could come about. And so you see, Dave,

I did not ask you for faith in me without reposing my own faith in you

in the same full measure.”

Dave Henderson's brows gathered. He stared at the other. It was like

the Charlie Millman of old talking now. But the whole business was

queer--except that the money lay here now within reach of his hand after

five years of hell and torture. He made no comment.

“And so, Dave, what could I do?” Millman went on. “As far as I could see

then, and as far as I can see now, I had no choice but to offer to get

that money from its hiding-place. I knew you meant literally what you

said when you swore you'd fight for it if all the police in America were

blocking your way, and that you'd either get it or go down and out. I

knew you'd do that; I knew the police _would_ watch you, and I feared

for you either physical harm or another long prison sentence. And so I

took the money and shared your guilt. But, Dave, once I was committed to

that act, I was committed to another as well--I hadn't any choice there,

either--I mean, Dave, the return of the money to the estate where it

belongs.”

Dave Henderson was on his feet. His face, that had softened and relaxed

as Millman was speaking, was suddenly hard and set again, and now a red,

angry flush was dyeing his cheeks. He choked for his words.

“What's that you say!” he rasped out. “Return it!” He laughed raucously.

“Have you been drinking, Millman--or are you just crazy?”

A strange, whimsical smile crept to Millman's lips. “No,” he said. “I

guess I'm what you called me--just a straight crook. I can't see any

other way out, Dave. I've stolen the money too, and it's up to me as

well as you. It's got to go back.”

“By God--no!” said Dave Henderson through his teeth. “No! You

understand--no!”

Millman shook his head slowly.

“Dave, it's no good,” he said quietly. “Apart from every other

consideration, it won't get you anywhere. Listen, Dave, I----”

“No!” Dave Henderson interrupted savagely. “You can cut that out! You're

going to preach; but that's no good, either! You're going to pull the

goody-goody stuff, and then you're going to tell me that sooner or later

I'll be caught, anyhow. Well, you can forget it--the preaching, because

I don't want to listen to you; and the other, because there's nothing

to it now.” He leaned across the table, and laughed raucously again, and

stared with cynical humor at the other. “I'm dead--see? Dave Henderson

is dead. A friend of mine pulled the trick on them in 'Frisco.

They think Dave Henderson is dead. The book is closed, slammed shut

forever--understand? I'm dead--but I've got this money now that I've

fought for, and paid for with the sweat of hell, and it's going to pay

me back now, Millman! Understand? It's going to pay the dividends now

that I've earned--and that, by God, no man is going to take away from

me!”

“Good old Dave!” said Millman softly. “That's what's the matter with

you--you'd drop in your tracks before you'd let go. If only you weren't

looking through the wrong glasses, Dave, you'd fight just as hard the

other way. No, I don't want to preach to you, and I'm not going to

preach; but there's a great big bond, two years of prison together,

between you and me, and I want you to listen to me. You were never meant

for a crook, Dave. There's not a crooked thing in the world about you,

except this one distorted brain kink that's got hold of you. And now

you're in wrong. Look at it from any angle that you like, and it doesn't

pay. It hasn't paid you so far--and it never will.”

“Hasn't it!” snapped Dave Henderson. “Well, maybe not! But that's

because it hasn't had the chance. But the chance is here now, and it's

all bust wide open. You can forget everything else, Millman, except just

this, and then you'll understand once for all where I stand: Here's the

money--and I'm dead!”

“Your soul isn't,” said Millman bluntly.

Dave Henderson's jaws set.

“That's enough!” he flung out curtly. “Once for all--no!”

Millman did not answer for a moment, nor did he look at Dave

Henderson--his eyes, through the curling cigarette smoke, were fixed on

the package of banknotes.

“I'm sorry, Dave,” he said at last, in a low, strained way. “I'm sorry

you won't take the biggest chance you'll ever have in your life, the

chance you've got right now, of coming across a white man clean through.

I thought perhaps you would. I hoped you would, Dave--and so I'm sorry.

But that doesn't alter my position any. The money has got to go back to

the estate, and it is going back.”

For an instant Dave Henderson did not move, then he thrust his head

sharply forward over the table. The red had flooded into his face again,

and his eyes were hard and full of menace.

“That's better!” he said through tight lips. “You're talking a language

now that I understand! So that money is going back, is it? Well, you've

talked a lot, and I've listened. Now you listen to me, and listen hard!

I don't want to hurt you, Millman, as God is my judge, I don't want to

hurt you, but it will be one or the other of us. Understand, Millman?

One or the other of us, if you start anything like that! You get me,

Millman? You've called a showdown, and that goes; but, by God, unless

you've got a better hand than I have, you'll never send that money

back!”

Millman's hand was resting on the package of banknotes. He pushed it now

quietly across the table to Dave Henderson.

“Not this, Dave,” he said simply. “You settled that when I asked for all

or none. This is yours--to do with as you like. Don't misunderstand me,

Dave; don't make any mistake. You can put that package under your arm

and leave here this minute, and I'll not lift a finger to stop you,

or, after you are gone, say a word, or make any move to discredit your

assumed death, or bring the police upon your heels. I told you once,

Dave--do you remember?--that you could trust me. But, Dave, if you won't

return the stolen money, then I will. I haven't any choice, have I? I

stole it, too.”

Dave Henderson stared, frowning, into the steel-gray eyes across the

table.

“I don't get you!” he said shortly. “What do you mean?”

“Just what I say, Dave,” Millman answered. “That if you won't return it

yourself, I will pay it back out of my own pocket.”

For a minute Dave Henderson eyed the other incredulously, then he threw

back his head and laughed, but it was not a pleasant laugh.

“You will, eh!” he said. “Well, if you feel that way about it, go to it!

Maybe you can afford it; I can't!”

“Yes,” said Millman soberly, “as far as that goes, I am a rich man, and

I can afford it. But, Dave, I want to say this to you”--he was standing

up now--“the richest man in the world couldn't afford to part with a

nickel as well as you could afford to part with that hundred thousand

dollars there. It isn't money that you've got at stake, Dave. Well,

that's all. Either you pay--or I do. It's up to you, Dave.”

Dave Henderson's hands were clenching and unclenching, as he gripped at

the edge of the table. Vaguely, dimly, he sensed an awakening something

within him which seemed to be striving to give birth to some discordant

element that sought to undermine and shake his resolution. It was not

tangible yet, it was confused; his mind groped out in an effort to grasp

it in a concrete way so that he might smother it, repudiate it, beat it

down.

“No!” he shot out.

Millman shook his head.

“I don't ask you for an answer to-night,” he said gravely. “I don't

think you're ready to give an answer now, and be fair to yourself. It's

a pretty big stake, Dave. You'll never play for a bigger--and neither

will I. I'm staking a hundred thousand dollars on the Dave Henderson

I know--the chap that's dead for a while. It doesn't matter much now

whether the money is back in the hands of the estate in a day, or a

week, or a month from now. Take a month, Dave. If at the end of a month

the estate has not received the money from you--and I shall know whether

it has or not--it will receive a hundred thousand dollars in cash from

me, anonymously, with the statement that it is to square the account for

which Dave Henderson was convicted.”

Dave Henderson raised a clenched hand, and swept it, clenched, across

his eyes. He had it now! He understood that thing within him that seemed

quite as eager to offer battle as he was to give it. And it was

strong, and insidious, and crafty. He cursed at it. It took him at a

disadvantage. It placed him suddenly on the defensive--and it angered

him. It placed him in a position that was not a nice one to defend. He

cursed at it; and blind fury came as his defense. And the red that had

surged into his face left it, and a whiteness came, and his lips thinned

into a straight line.

“Damn you, Millman!” he whispered hoarsely. “I get you now! Damn you,

you've no right to put the screws on me like this! Who asked you to

offer your money as a sacrifice for me--to make me out a white-livered

cur if I turned you down! But it doesn't go, understand? It's blackmail,

that's what it is! It may be whitewashed with holiness, but it's

blackmail just the same--and you can go to hell with it!”

He snatched up the package of banknotes, whipped the outer wrapping

around it, and tucked it under his arm--and paused, as though awaiting

or inviting some action on Millman's part. But Millman neither moved nor

spoke. And then Dave Henderson, with a short laugh, crossed to the door,

wrenched it open, stepped out of the room, and slammed the door behind

him.

II--THE FIRST GUEST

BLIND to his surroundings, mechanically retracing his steps to the

railway station, Dave Henderson swung along the street. He walked as

though he would outwalk his thoughts--fast, indifferent to all about

him. He clung stubbornly to the fury in which he had sought refuge, and

which he had aroused within himself against Millman. He clung to this

tenaciously now, because he sensed a persistent attempt on the part of

some unwelcome and unfamiliar other-self to argue the pros and cons,

both of Millman's motives and Millman's acts; an attempt, that sought

to introduce a wedge doubt into his mind, that sought to bring about

a wavering of purpose with the insidious intent of robbing him, if it

could, of the reward that was now within his grasp.

Within his grasp! He laughed out sharply, as he hurried along. It was

_literally_ within his grasp! The reward was his now--his absolutely,

concretely, tangibly--the hundred thousand dollars was in this

innocent-looking parcel that was at this precise moment tucked under his

arm. He laughed out again. There was enough in that one fact to occupy

his mind and attention, and to put to utter rout and confusion those

other thoughts that endeavored to make cunning and tricky inroads upon

him. It shattered and swept aside, as though by the waving of some

magical wand, every mental picture he had drawn of himself in New York,

every plan that he had made for his sojourn here.

He had been prepared to spend weeks and months of unceasing effort to

run Millman to earth; he had planned to rake the dens and dives of the

underworld, to live as one of its sordid and outlawed inhabitants, if

necessary, in order to get upon Millman's track; he had meant to play

Millman at his own game until he had trapped Millman and the final

showdown came. And, instead, he had scarcely been in New York an hour,

and he was walking now along the street with the hundred thousand

dollars under his arm, with Millman no longer a vicious and stealthy

antagonist to be foiled and fought wherever he might be found--with

nothing to do now but spend or employ this money under his arm as his

fancy or his judgment dictated, free of all hindrance or restraint, for

Millman was no longer a source of danger or concern, and Dave Henderson

was dead to the world in general and to the police in particular,

and that left Barty Lynch as the unfettered possessor of one hundred

thousand dollars!

Millman had given him a month, and--ah! he was back on that tack, was

he? He clenched his hand. No! A month represented time, and it was time

in a purely abstract way that he was considering now; it had nothing to

do with Millman, or Millman's “month,” It would take time to make new

plans and new arrangements. He did not intend to act hastily.

He had come by that money by too brutally hard a road not to realize the

worth of every cent of it. He needed time now to think out the future

carefully. He was not a fool--to scatter that money to the winds. A

thousand times in prison he had buoyed himself up with the knowledge

that in the returns from that sum of money lay independence for life.

That was what he had taken it for in the first place! It meant, safely

invested, a minimum of five thousand dollars a year. He could get along

very well, even luxuriously, on five thousand a year! He had only now to

decide where and how he should invest that money; and he needed only now

the time to arrive at that decision without any undue haste that might

afterwards be bitterly regretted. Would he go to Australia, or to

South America, for example, and begin life anew there as a gentleman of

independent means? Or somewhere in Europe, perhaps? It needed time now

to make this decision, and, as a natural corollary, a temporary abode

was required, an abode where he could feel quite secure, both as regards

his money, and as against any eleventh-hour trick of fate that might

disclose his identity and spill the fat into the fire.

Well, he had had that latter problem solved for him from the first,

hadn't he? There was Dago George's; and in his pocket was Nicolo

Capriano's letter that was an “open sesame” to Dago George's

hospitality, and, more vital still, to Dago George's fidelity. He was

going there now, as soon as he got his dress-suit case again from the

station which now loomed ahead of him down the block.

His thoughts reverted to Nicolo Capriano, and, from the old Italian, to

the old Italian's daughter. Teresa! He had not forgotten Teresa! Again

and again, in those jolting boxcars, and during his flight from San

Francisco, there had come a mental picture in which those fearless eyes

had met his, and he had seen her smile, and watched the color mount and

crimson her face as it had done on that occasion when he had first seen

her.

He had not forgotten Teresa, he had not tried to; he had even invited

those mental pictures of her. It was like some fragrant and alluring

memory that had seemed to ding to him, and he had dung to it. Some day

he wanted to see Teresa again--and she was the only woman toward whom he

had ever felt that way. He wasn't in love with her, that was ridiculous,

unless he had fallen in love with her since he had left her! But of one

thing he was distinctly conscious, and that was that her attitude on

that last night, when she had let him go in so strange a way, still

plagued and tormented him. It was as though she had slammed the door

of her presence in his face, and he wanted to see her again--some

time--and----

Queer fancies crept into his brain. The old Italian said he was

getting better. Perhaps Nicolo Capriano would like Australia, or South

America--or perhaps Europe!

Dave Henderson shrugged his shoulders a little helplessly, and smiled

ironically at himself, as he reached and entered the station. It was

Nicolo Capriano alone, of course, of whom he was thinking! But--he

shrugged his shoulders again--his immediate business now was to get to

this Dago George!

He secured his dress-suit case from the parcel-room, deposited the

package of banknotes in the dress-suit case, and sought a taxi. That was

the easiest and most convenient way of reaching Dago George's. He did

not know either in what direction or how far he had to go, and somehow,

both physically and mentally, he suddenly, and for the first time,

realized that he was tired.

“Chatham Square,” he told the starter, as he climbed into the taxi;

and then, as the car moved forward, he leaned over and spoke to the

chauffeur: “There's a fellow called Dago George who keeps a place right

near there,” he said. “I don't know exactly where it is; but I guess you

can find it, can't you?”

“Sure!” said the chauffeur heartily, with an extra tip in sight, “Sure!

Leave it to me!”

Dave Henderson settled himself comfortably back on the seat, and

relaxed. The strain of the days since he had left San Francisco, the

strain of the days since the prison doors had opened and let him free,

the strain of the five years behind those pitiless walls of stone

and those bars of steel was gone now. The money was his, in his sole

possession, here in the dress-suit case at his feet. It was the end of

the bitter struggle. It was finished. He could let go now, and relax

luxuriously. And, besides, he was tired.

He refused to think of Millman, because it irritated him. He refused

to think of anything now, because his brain was like some weary thing,

which, with a sigh of relief, stretched itself out and revelled in

idleness. His future, Nicolo Capriano, Teresa--all these could wait

until to-morrow, until a night's sleep, the first he would have known

for many nights that was not haunted by distracting doubts and problems,

should bring him fresh to the consideration of his new plans.

He lighted a cigarette and smoked, and watched the passing crowds and

traffic through the window. He had only to present his letter to Dago

George, and turn in for the night, with the feeling, also for the first

time in many nights, of absolute security.

Dave Henderson continued to gaze out of the window. The localities

through which he passed did not seem to improve. He smiled a little. He

knew nothing about New York, but this was about what he had expected.

Dago George was not likely either to reside or conduct his business in a

very exclusive neighborhood!

Finally the taxi stopped, but only to permit the chauffeur to ask

directions from a passer-by on the sidewalk. They went on again then,

turned a corner, and a moment later drew up at the curb.

“I guess this is the place all right,” announced the chauffeur.

A glance confirmed the chauffeur's statement. Across the somewhat dingy

window of a barroom, as he looked out, Dave Henderson read in large,

white, painted letters, the legend:

THE IRON TAVERN

GEORGES VARDI, PROP.

That was Dago George's name, he remembered Nicolo Capriano had told

him--Georges Vardi. He alighted, paid and dismissed the chauffeur, and

stood for an instant on the sidewalk surveying the place.

It was a small and old three-story frame building. The barroom, to which

there was a separate entrance, bordered on a lane at his right; while,

almost bisecting the building, another door, wide open, gave on a narrow

hall--and this, in turn, as he could see through the end window at his

left, gave access to the restaurant, such as it was, for at several

small tables here the occupants were engaged in making a belated dinner.

Above, there was a light or two in the second story windows, the third

story was in complete darkness.

It was certainly not over-prepossessing, and he shrugged his shoulders,

half in a sort of philosophical recognition of a fact that was to be

accepted whether or no, and half in a sort of acquiescent complacence.

It was the sort of a place he wanted for the present anyhow!

Dave Henderson chose the restaurant entrance. An Italian waiter, in

soiled and spotted apron, was passing along the hall. Dave Henderson

hailed the man.

“I want to see Dago George,” he said.

The waiter nodded.

“I tell-a da boss,” he said.

Again Dave Henderson surveyed the place--what he could see of the

interior now. It had evidently been, in past ages, an ordinary dwelling

house. The stairs, set back a little from the entrance, came down at his

right, and at the foot of these there was a doorway into the barroom.

At his left was the restaurant which he had already seen through the

window. Facing him was the narrow hall, quite long, which ended in a

closed door that boasted a fanlight; also there appeared to be some

other mysterious means of egress under the stairs from the hall, an

entrance to the kitchen perhaps, which might be in the cellar, for the

waiter had disappeared in that direction.

The door with the fanlight at the rear of the hall opened now, and a

tall, angular man, thin-faced and swarthy, thrust out his head. His

glance fell upon Dave Henderson.

“I'm Dago George--you want to see me?” His voice, with scarcely a trace

of accent, was suave and polite--the hotel-keeper's voice of diplomacy,

tentatively gracious pending the establishment of an intruder's identity

and business, even though the intrusion upon his privacy might be

unwelcome.

Dave Henderson smiled, as he picked up his dress-suit case and stepped

forward. He quite understood. The proprietor of The Iron Tavern, though

he remained uninvitingly upon the threshold of the door, was not without

tact!

“Yes,” said Dave Henderson; and smiled again, as he set down his

dress-suit case in front of the blocked doorway, and noted an almost

imperceptible frown cross Dago George's face as the other's eyes rested

on that article. His hand went into his pocket for Nicolo Capriano's

letter--but remained there. He was curious now to see, or, rather, to

compare the reception of a stranger with the reception accorded to one

vouched for by the old bomb king in San Francisco. “Yes,” he said; “I'd

like to get a room here for a few days.”

“Ah!” Dago George's features suddenly expressed pain and polite regret.

“I am so sorry--yes! I do not any longer keep a hotel. In the years

ago--yes. But not now. It did not pay. The restaurant pays much better,

and the rooms above for private dining parties bring the money much

faster. I am desolated to turn you away; but since I have no rooms, I

have no rooms, eh? So what can I do?”

Dave Henderson studied the other's face complacently. The man was not

as old as Nicolo Capriano; the man's hair was still black and shone with

oil, and in features he was not Nicolo Capriano at all; but somehow it

_was_ Nicolo Capriano, only in another incarnation perhaps. He

nodded his head. He was not sorry to learn that The Iron Tavern was

ultraexclusive!

“That's too bad,” he said quietly. “I've come a long way--from a friend

of yours. Perhaps that may make some difference?”

“A friend?” Dago George was discreetly interested.

“Nicolo Capriano,” said Dave Henderson.

Dago George leaned suddenly forward, staring into Dave Henderson's eyes.

“What!” he exclaimed. “What is that you say? Nicolo Capriano!” He caught

up the dress-suit case from the floor, and caught Dave Henderson's arm,

and pulled him forward into the room, and closed the door behind them.

“You come from Nicolo Ca-priano, you say? Ah, yes, my friend, that is

different; that is _very_ different. There may still be some rooms here,

eh? Ha, ha! Yes, yes!”

“You may possibly already have heard something from him about me,” said

Dave Henderson. “Barty Lynch is the name.”

Dago George shook his head.

“Not a word. It is long, very long, since I have heard from Nicolo

Capriano. But I do not forget him--no one forgets Nicolo Capriano.

And you have come from Nicolo, eh? You have some message then--eh, my

friend?”

Dave Henderson extended the old bomb king's letter.

Dago George motioned to a chair, as he ripped the envelope open.

“You will excuse, while I read it--yes?” he murmured, already engrossed

in its contents.

Dave Henderson, from the proffered chair, looked around the room. It was

blatantly a combination of sleeping room and office. In one corner was

a bed; against the wall facing the door there was a safe; and an old

roll-top desk flanked the safe on the other side of the only window

that the room possessed. His eyes, from their cursory survey of his

surroundings, reverted to Dago George. The man had folded up the letter,

and was stretching out his hands effusively.

“Ah, it is good!” Dago George ejaculated. “Yes, yes! Anything--anything

that I can do for you is already as good as done. I say that from my

heart. You are Barty Lynch--yes? And you come from the old master? Well,

that is enough. A room! You may be sure there is a room! And now--eh--

you have not perhaps dined yet? And what else is there? It is long, very

long! You may be sure there is a room! And now--eh--you have not

perhaps dined yet? And what else is there? It is long, very long, since

I have heard from the old master the old master? Well, that is enough. A

room! You may be sure there is a room! ”

Dave Henderson laughed.

“There is nothing else--and not even that,” he said. “There was a

dining-car on the train to-night. There's not a thing, except to show me

my room and let me turn in.”

“But, yes!” exclaimed Dago George. “Yes, that, of course! But wait! The

old master! It is long since I have heard from him. He says great things

of you; and so you, too, are a friend of Nicolo Capriano. Well, then, it

is an occasion, this meeting! We will celebrate it! A little bottle of

wine, eh? A little bottle of wine!”

Dave Henderson shook his head.

“No,” he said, and smiled. “As a matter of fact, I'm rather all in; and,

if you don't mind, I'll hit the hay to-night pronto.”

Dago George raised his hands protestingly.

“But what would Nicolo Capriano say to me for such hospitality as that!”

he cried. “So, if not a bottle, then at least a little glass, eh?

You will not refuse! We will drink his health--the health of Nicolo

Capriano! Eh? Wait! Wait!” And he rushed pell-mell from the room, as

though his life depended upon his errand.

Dave Henderson laughed again. The man with his volubility and

effervescence amused him.

Dago George was back in a few minutes with a tray and two glasses

of wine. He offered one of the glasses with an elaborate bow to Dave

Henderson.

“It is the best in my poor house,” he said, and held the other glass

aloft to the light. “To Nicolo Capriano! To the old master! To the

master of them all!” he cried--and drank, rolling his wine on his tongue

like a connoisseur.

Dave Henderson drained his glass.

“To Nicolo Capriano!” he echoed heartily.

“Good!” said Dago George brightly. “One more little glass? No? You are

sure? Well, you have said that you are tired--eh? Well, then, to make

you comfortable! Come along with me!” He picked up the dress-suit case,

opened the door, and led the way into the hall He was still talking as

he mounted the stairs. “There will be many things for us to speak

about, eh? But that will be for to-morrow. We are perhaps all birds of

a feather--eh--or Nicolo Capriano perhaps would not have sent you here?

Well, well--to-morrow, my friend, if you care to. But I ask nothing, you

understand? You come and you go, and you talk, or you remain silent, as

you wish. Is it not so? That is what Nicolo Capriano writes--and it

is enough.” He paused at the second-story landing. “You see,” he said,

waving his hand around the dimly lighted passage. “Little private

dining-rooms! But there is no business to-night. Another flight, my

friend, and perhaps we shall find better accommodations there.”

It was as the other had said. Partially opened doors showed the three

or four small rooms, that opened off the hall, to be fitted up as

dining-rooms. Dave Henderson made no comment, as he followed the other

up the next flight of stairs. He was tired. He had been telling himself

lazily so from the moment he had taken the taxi. He was acutely aware of

it now. It was the relaxation, of course--but he had become of a sudden

infernally sleepy.

Dago George unlocked a door at the head of the third floor landing,

entered, deposited the dress-suit case on the floor, and turned on the

light. He handed the key of the room to Dave Henderson.

“It is plain, it is not rich,” he said apologetically; “but the bed is

good, and you will be quiet here, my friend, very _quiet_--eh?--you can

take my word for that.”

“It looks good to me, all right!” said Dave Henderson, and stifled a

yawn. “I certainly owe you my best thanks.”

Dago George shrugged his shoulders in expostulation.

“But it is nothing!” he protested. “Do you not come from Nicolo

Capriano? Well, that is enough. But--you yawn! No, no; do not try to

hide it! It is I who am to blame. I talk--and you would rest. But, one

thing, my friend, before I go. It is my curiosity. The letter--it is

signed by Nicolo Capriano, and I know the signature well--but it is

written by a woman, is it not? How is that? I am curious. But perhaps

you do not know?”

“Yes,” Dave Henderson answered, and yawned frankly this time, and smiled

by way of apology. “It was his daughter who wrote it. Nicolo Capriano is

sick.”

“Sick!” repeated Dago George. “I did not know! But it is so long since I

have heard from him--yes? He is not very sick, perhaps?”

“I don't know,” replied Dave Henderson sleepily. “He's been laid up in

bed for three years now, I think.”

“Godam!” ejaculated the Italian. “Is that so! But to-morrow--eh?--we

will talk to-morrow. Goodnight, my friend! Good-night--and sleep well!”

“Good-night!” responded Dave Henderson.

He closed and locked the door as Dago George went out, and, sitting down

on the edge of the bed, looked at his watch. It was a quarter to ten.

“I'll stretch out for ten minutes before I turn in,” said Dave Henderson

to himself--but at the end of ten minutes Dave Henderson was asleep.

III--THE SECOND GUEST

IN the hallway of The Iron Tavern, as Dago George descended the stairs

from Dave Henderson's room, a slim little figure in black, heavily

veiled, stood waiting. Beside her, the greasy waiter, who had previously

conveyed Dave Henderson's message to the proprietor, bowed and scraped

and wiped his hands on his spotted apron, and pointed to Dago George on

the stairs.

“Dat-a da boss,” he announced.

A taxi chauffeur had already deposited two valises in the hall, and had

retired. Outside, as the taxi moved away, another taxi, a short, but

discreet, distance up the block, started suddenly out from the curb, as

its fare, a fat man who chewed upon the butt of a cigar, dug with pudgy

fingers into his vest pocket, and handed his chauffeur an address.

“Baggage and all--that's good enough!” said the fat man to himself; and

to the chauffeur: “Beat it--and beat it fast!”

The waiter retired from the hall. The almost imperceptible frown on Dago

George's face at sight of the valises, was hidden by an ingratiating

smile as he hurried forward.

“Madam,” he inquired, “you desire to see me?” The little figure in black

nodded her head.

“Yes--in private,” she answered quietly.

“Ah!” Dago George bowed profoundly. “But, yes--certainly! This way,

then, if you please, madam.”

He led the way into the rear room, and closed the door.

The little figure in black raised her veil.

“Do you not know me?” she asked.

Dago George stared for a long minute into her face. He shook his head.

“I am desolated!” he murmured apologetically. “It is my memory that is

unbelievably stupid, madam.”

“I am Teresa Capriano,” she said.

Dago George moved closer. He stared again into her face, and suddenly

into his own there came the light of recognition.

“You--the so-little Teresa--the little bambino!” he cried. “But,

yes--yes, it is true!” He caught both her hands, and began to pat them

effusively. “Is it possible? Yes, yes! I begin to see again the little

girl of the so-many years ago! Ah, no; Dago George has not forgotten,

after all! The little Teresa! The little bandit queen! Eh? And you--do

you remember that we called you that?” He led her to a chair, and seated

her. “Well, well, the little Teresa! And your father, my good friend

Nicolo--I had heard that he was sick. He is better--yes? And he is

perhaps here, too, in New York?”

“My father is dead,” Teresa answered in a low voice.

“Dead!” Dago George drew back, and stared again, but in a curiously

bewildered way now. “Dead!” he repeated. “You say that Nicolo Capriano

is--dead?”

“Yes,” she said, and turned her face away from his gaze--only to raise

her eyes again, and watch the man covertly, narrowly, as he now began to

walk rapidly up and down the room with quick, nervous strides. Her hands

tightened a little on the arms of her chair. Here was the end of that

long race across the continent, the goal of those fearsome, harried days

of haste in San Francisco while her father lay dead. Was she first or

last in that frantic race? What did Dago George know? A thousand times

she had pictured this scene, and planned for it every word and act that

was to be hers--but it was actuality now, and the room for an instant

seemed to swirl around her. _She_ remembered Dago George--as one of the

most crafty, callous and unscrupulous of the lawless band over whom the

man who had been her father had reigned as king. The letter! Had Dago

George received it--yes or no? Had Dave Henderson reached here before

her? Was he already in danger; or did it require but just a simple bit

of acting on her part to undo the treachery of which her father had been

guilty--a simple story, for instance, that she was on her way to her

father's people in Italy, which would enable her to stay here in this

place unsuspected until Dave Henderson came, and she could intercept

him, and warn him before any harm was done? Which was it? She dared not

ask. If Dago George knew nothing, he must at all costs continue to know

nothing. A hint, and Dago George, if he were the Dago George of old,

would be like a bloodhound on the scent, and, exactly as though Dago

George had actually received her father's letter, Dave Henderson would

be the quarry. But if, on the other hand, the letter had already been

delivered, well, then--then there was another rôle to play. She dared

not ask; not until Dago George had shown his hand, not until she was

sure of her own ground. She turned her head away again; Dago George had

halted abruptly in front of her chair.

“Dead!” he said uneasily. “You say that Nicolo Capriano, that your

father, is dead?”

Teresa nodded without looking up.

Dago George, as abruptly as he had halted, turned and paced the length

of the room and back again, and abruptly halted once more in front of

her. He leaned toward her, one hand now laid over his heart.

“I am unpardonable!” he said softly. “I say nothing to you of your

so-great grief. I do not sympathize. I am heartless! But you will

forgive! It is the shock of my own grief for the loss of my friend from

which I have not recovered. I bleed for you in your deep sorrow. My poor

little bambino! But you understand--yes--do you not?”

Teresa's hands, in her lap now, toyed with one of her gloves which she

had taken off. She did not look up.

“Yes, yes,” murmured Dago George. “You understand! But we will speak

no more of that now--it is but to depress us both. There are other

things--that you have come all this way from San Francisco, and that you

have come immediately to me, for you have but just arrived in New York

to-night, is it not so?”

“Yes,” Teresa answered. “The train was very late. I came here at once

from the station.”

“Then, thanks to your train being late,” said Dago George, with a

significant lowering of his voice, “I think I can tell you why you came.

If you had been an hour earlier, it would have been you who would have

had to tell me. Eh? Is it not so? There was a letter--eh? A letter which

you wrote for Nicolo Capriano, for your father--is it not so?”

The blood seemed suddenly to Teresa to grow hot, and as suddenly to grow

chill and cold in her veins. Dago George had answered her question.

Dave Henderson had already delivered the letter! It brought fear; but it

brought, too, a sense of relief. The road was clear now before her. It

was her wits against Dago George--to draw, and win, and hold the other's

full and unreserved confidence, to make herself appear essential to

Dago George--for an hour--a week--a month--until she could reach Dave

Henderson, wherever he might be, and meanwhile checkmate any move that

this man here might make. She glanced furtively, with well simulated

caution, around her.

“Yes,” she said, in a guarded voice. “You are right. It is the letter

that brought me. What else? My father died the night it was written.

He had no time to communicate with you. I do not know all, but I know

enough, I think, to make the matter sure. There is a great deal of money

at stake, and so I came.”

“Ah!” Dago George was whispering excitedly now. “Wait! Wait a minute, my

little bambino!” He ran to the door, opened it, looked out, closed and

locked it again, and, crossing the room, pulled the half drawn roller

shade down to the window sill. He drew a chair close up to Teresa's,

and sat down. “It is better to be sure, is it not? Yes, yes! And we will

continue to speak English, eh? It is less understood here. Ah, my little

bambino! You are your father's daughter! Yes, yes! Nicolo Capriano is

not dead! Well, the letter, eh? There is money in it, much money in it,

you say?”

“Yes,” she replied. Her voice sharpened, and became a little imperious.

“Yes, there is money in it, provided you have not lost sight of the man

who brought the letter to you.”

Dago George rubbed his hands together softly.

“Have no fear of that!” he whispered eagerly. “Dago George did not serve

under Nicolo Capriano for nothing! The young man is upstairs, and safely

asleep. He came perhaps a little more than half an hour ago. We had a

little glass of wine together, and--” He shrugged his shoulders, and

made a significant little circling motion with his thumb and forefinger.

Teresa's eyebrows lifted in frank impatience.

“What do you mean by that?” she asked sharply.

Again Dago George shrugged his shoulders.

“Have I not said that he is--asleep?” he smiled.

“Drugged!” exclaimed Teresa.

“But, yes--naturally! What would you have?” smiled Dago George.

Teresa's glove slipped from her lap to the floor. She was deliberate and

long in picking it up.

“But why?” There was irritation and censure in her voice now, as she

looked up at him and frowned.

“I don't see why! You know nothing of the reasons that prompted my

father to write that letter. Why should you drug him? What could you

expect to accomplish by that, except to excite his suspicions when he

wakes up?”

“Ah, but you do me an injustice, my little bambino!” said Dago George

smoothly. “It was but a pinch of the drug, a drug that I know very well,

and that never plays tricks on me. He has had but enough to last for

four or five hours, and he will experience no ill effects when he wakes

up. You can trust Dago George for that. And as for why--what else could

I do? It was precisely because I had had no word from Nicolo Capriano,

and because it was all a mystery to me, except that the letter was

signed _con amore_. Eh? You know well enough what that means, and that

it was not to be disobeyed. The man must never leave my sight or hands

until the little game, whatever it was, was played out. Is it not so? It

was also necessary that, having nothing further from the old master to

guide me, I should look this Signor Barty Lynch over for myself--yes? Is

it not so, my little bambino?”

Teresa preserved her frown.

“Perhaps,” she admitted, with well assumed unwillingness. “Well?”

Dago George drew a little closer.

“Well, he is safe upstairs, then. You see that Dago George had his head

about him, after all, eh? And now--the letter! What is it that the old

master was about to do?”

Teresa's mind was working swiftly. Dave Henderson was upstairs, drugged,

but safe so far. It might be hours before he could make any move; but by

morning surely, by morning before daylight, he could get away, and

until then she must stay here. There was only one way she could do

that without arousing suspicion, and at the same time have freedom of

action--as an ally, an indispensable ally, of this man here. There was

only one dominating consideration, therefore, to guide her in what, or

how much, she told Dago George, for once Dave Henderson had slipped away

that was the last Dago George would ever see of him, or her; and the

consideration involved was, that, while she knew Dago George too well

to trust him in the smallest degree, Dago George must be made to trust

_her_ in the fullest measure, and from the strongest of all reasons from

Dago George's standpoint--that of self-interest. And the surest way to

accomplish that was to tell Dago George enough of the truth to, at

one and the same time, arouse his cupidity and leave him in a sense

dependent upon her cooperation for his future activities.

“I can only tell you what I heard them saying to each other that night

when I wrote that letter for my father,” she said deliberately. “But

that is enough, I think; anyway, it was enough to decide me to come here

to you. My father, of course, intended to communicate with you--in just

what way, I do not know--but he died that same night. The only thing,

then, that I could see to do was to get here without a moment's delay,

and I left San Francisco immediately after my father's burial. You

understand?”

“Yes, yes!” Dago George nodded his head vigorously in assent. “But, of

course! Yes, yes, my little bambino! Well--and then?”

She leaned forward impressively toward Dago George.

“This Barty Lynch stole some money,” she said, in a quick, eager voice;

“a great deal of money, thousands; I heard them speak of a hundred

thousand. My father had helped him to get away from the police; that

is why he trusted my father. But this money was stolen again from Barty

Lynch by a man who Barty Lynch said had run here to New York for cover.

That is what has brought Barty Lynch here--to find that man, and get

the money back. You see? Once Barty Lynch gets hold of the money again,

he--but that is why my father gave him a letter to you, and-----”

“Signed it _con amore_ broke in Dago George,” whispering feverishly, and

almost as though speaking to himself. “Yes, yes! I see! It is the hand

of the old master, and it has lost none of its cunning! Yes, yes! I see!

There is no risk! It is stolen money to begin with! Signor Barty

Lynch has no recourse to the law! And even if Signor Barty Lynch

_disappeared_--eh?--who is to know the difference, since he has already

arranged things so nicely in hiding himself away from the police! Eh?

Yes! It is excellent, superb! Is it not so?”

Teresa's face was impassive.

“Yes, except that we have not got that money yet!” she said curtly.

“It may not be as easy as it looks. That is why I am here--to help; and

also”--she stared Dago George levelly in the face--“to see that Dago

George does not get more than his share.”

The Italian's hands were raised instantly in protestation.

“But, my little bambino--that you should say that!” He shook his head

in an aggrieved way. “I am hurt that you should think I forget Nicolo

Capriano, though he is dead, or that you should think I would do

anything like that.”

“Nor do I think so,” she answered steadily. “I warn you, that is all. We

shall work all the better together if we understand to begin with that

Nicolo Capriano's daughter, though Nicolo Capriano is dead, has still

some power; and if we understand that this is Nicolo Capriano's plan,

and not yours, and that the division will be made on the same basis that

Nicolo Capriano would have made it.”

“It is Nicolo himself speaking,” murmured Dago George. He was smiling

now. “I had no thought of anything but that. It is understood. I could

ask for nothing better.”

“Very well!” she said. “There is nothing to be done at first then, but

to watch him in everything he does here in New York. You have plenty of

men you can depend upon--I know that; but I think I can do more, or

at least as much, as they can, and certainly with all of us working

together we should succeed. He is in a room upstairs, you say. You have

another one next to his that is empty, perhaps? Yes? Well, that is good.

I will take it. He will be surprised to see me here, but he will not

be suspicious. He believes that you were a very intimate friend of

my father. Naturally, then, it would be at the house of that intimate

friend that I would come to stay when, owing to my father's death, I am

making arrangements to sail to my father's people back in Italy. Barty

Lynch trusted my father absolutely. That is plain. He therefore trusts

me equally. It may not even be necessary to watch him; he is even more

likely than not--if he is played right--to make a confident of me.”

Dago George rubbed his hands together excitedly. “Yes,” he cried. “It

is superb! I salute you. You do credit to Nicolo Capriano! Ah, my little

bambino, you have your father's brains!”

Teresa, with a prettily imperious nod of her head, rose from her chair.

“It is getting late,” she said. “It must be nearly eleven o'clock, and

I have had a long journey. Since he is drugged, he is safe for the time

being, and there is nothing more to be done to-night. To-morrow we can

begin our work. Take me to my room.”

“Yes--it is superb!” Dago George repeated exultantly. He bowed Teresa to

the door, and, picking up the valises, led the way upstairs. He chuckled

with perverted humor, as they passed Dave Henderson's door. “He is in

there,” he said; “but we must not disturb his rest, eh? He said he was

very tired!” He ushered Teresa into the next room, and turned on the

light. “If there is anything that the little bambino requires?”--his

head and hands gestured eloquently.

Teresa was looking around the none too clean, and none too well

furnished, room.

“Nothing!” she said.

Dago George Retreated to the door. He cleared his throat, and hesitated,

and shuffled a little awkwardly with his feet.

“It is that the little bambino will know that I am thinking of her great

sorrow, though I have said little, that I speak of it again,” he said

softly. “The master has been long dead? It is true you have told me he

died on the night you wrote that letter for him, but the letter”--he

produced it from his pocket, and scanned it earnestly--“yes, I am

right--it bears no date.”

“My father died nine days ago,” Teresa answered tersely, and half turned

away her head.

“Ah, yes! Nine days ago!” Dago George shook his head sorrowfully, as he

backed across the threshold. “The old master! It is very sad! Nine days

ago! It is very sad! I wish you repose, my little bambino. Good-night!”

Teresa closed and locked the door behind Dago George--and stood still

for an instant listening. Dago George's footsteps died away on the

stairs below. She moved a little then, and stood with her ear pressed

against the partition of the next room. There was no sound. And then she

began to walk slowly about the room, and a few minutes later, the time

that it would ordinarily have taken her to prepare for bed, she turned

out the light--and sat down in a chair, fully dressed, and stared into

the blackness.

She pressed her hand a little wearily across her eyes. She was here now

at the end of those thousands of miles, every one of which had seemed to

yawn as some impassable gulf between her and her goal; she was here now,

and, in spite of her fears, she had reached that goal--in time. She had

even outwitted--for the moment anyhow--Dago George. True, Dave Henderson

lay there in that next room drugged, but she was not too late. She

smiled a little ironically. In a purely literal sense she was too early!

She dared not make a move now for perhaps hours yet, not until she was

sure the house was closed for the night, and that Dago George--she did

not trust Dago George--had gone to bed.

And so she must sit here and stare into the blackness. She would not

fall asleep; there was no fear of that. She could not sleep. Already

thoughts and memories, as myriad in divergence as they were in numbers,

were crowding upon her, and goading her brain into an abnormal and

restless activity.

She twisted her hands together now in her lap. She remembered, and she

could not forget, the horror and the fear of that night when her father

had died, and of the days thereafter when she had performed--alone--the

last duties that had devolved upon her. Yes, it had been alone. She

had lied to Dago George. It had been alone! If Nicolo Capriano had had

friends and been powerful in life, Nicolo Capriano had been alone in

death. She had lied to Dago George; there had been no heritage of power.

She had lied--but then her whole life was a lie!

A low sound, a bitter moan, came suddenly from her lips. It was not the

Teresa now who had faced Dago George with cool complacence in the room

below. She slipped from the chair to her knees, and buried her face in

her hands. It was the black hour, of which she had known so many since

that fearful night, that surged and swept upon her now again. It whirled

scenes and thoughts of the past, and pictures of the future, before her

like some bewildering and tormenting kaleidoscope. She could not define

to herself her feelings relative to her father's death; grief seemed to

mingle indissolubly with bitter abhorrence at his act of treachery. But

in another way her father's death meant something to her that she was

coming to grasp more clearly. It seemed to release her from something,

from--from a tangled life.

All her life had been a lie. She was the daughter of a criminal, and all

her life had been a lie; her environment had been a lie. In big things,

in little things, it had been a lie. She had lied to herself that night

when she had let this man in the next room here go without a word of

protest from her lips to carry out a criminal act. She had been a coward

that night, and it had shamed her. She had owed something to her father,

a loyalty to her father; perhaps, fundamentally, that was the basis

for her refusal to face the issue squarely that night; perhaps it was

because the habit of years, the lies, and only lies, that had been lived

around her, had strangled her and weakened her. Perhaps it was that; but

if so, and if she had owed and given loyalty to her father, then she

had given more than loyalty--she had given her soul. And her soul turned

miserably away from this pitiful landscape of life upon which now she

was forcing it to gaze.

But this was a picture of the past, for if it were true, or in any

degree true, her father's death had brought her release--her father

was dead. And so she faced the future--alone. In so many a different

sense--alone. She was alone now, a free agent to mold her own life, and

the test was before her; whether the lie, for example, she had acted

that night when she had sent Dave Henderson away, was the outcome of

things extraneous to her soul, or inherent in that soul itself. Her

hands, that clasped her face, tightened. Thank God, she knew! Thank God,

that from the moment her brain had staggered out of its blind pit of

horror and darkness on that night, she had seen the way clearly lighted

before her! Her first duty was to save the man in the next room from her

father's treachery, and she was here now to do that; but she was here,

too, to do something else. She could, and would, stand between Dave

Henderson and the personal harm that threatened him through the trust he

had reposed in Nicolo Capriano, and she would do this at any cost and at

any sacrifice to herself; but she could not, and she would not, connive

at anything that would tend to keep the stolen money from the possession

of its rightful owners.

Her hands lifted now and pressed hard against her temples, which had

begun to throb. Yes, and she must do even more than that. There had been

not only treachery on her father's part toward Dave Henderson, there had

been treachery and trickery toward the police in an effort to cover up

the stolen money; and, tacitly at least, she had been an accomplice in

that, and therefore morally she was as much a thief as that man next

door, as much a thief as her father had intended to be--unless now,

with all her strength, with all her might, she strove to undo and make

restitution for a crime in which she had had a part. If it lay within

her power, not adventitiously, not through haphazard, but through the

employment toward that end of every faculty of brain and wit and courage

she possessed, she had no choice now but to get possession of that money

and return it to the authorities. Her conscience was brutally frank

on that point, and brutally direct; there was no room to temporize, no

halfway course--and here was the final, ultimate and supreme test.

Her face in the darkness whitened. Her lips moved silently. It was

strength and help she asked now. Her mind was already made up. She would

fight for, and, in any way or by any means that offered, get that money,

and return it. And that meant that _she_ must watch Dave Henderson, too.

There was no other way of getting it. He alone knew where it was, and

since it was not to be expected that he would voluntarily give it up,

there seemed left but one alternative--to _take_ it from him.

Her mind was almost overpoweringly swift now in its flow of tormenting

thoughts. It seemed an impossible situation that she should warn him of

danger from one source, only to do to him again what--no! His life was

not in danger with her; that was the difference. But--but it was not

easy to bring herself to this. She was alone now, with no bonds between

herself and any living soul, except those strange, incongruous bonds

between herself and that man in the next room whom she was, in the same

breath, both trying to save and trying to outwit. Why was it that he was

a thief? They could have been friends if he were not a thief; and she

would have been so glad of a friend now, and she had liked him, and he

did not look like a thief. Perhaps her mother had liked Nicolo Capriano

in the early days, and perhaps Nicolo Capriano then had not looked like

a thief, and perhaps her mother had counted on turning Nicolo Capriano

into an honest man, and----

Teresa rose abruptly to her feet. She felt the hot color flood her face.

She saw the man as he had stood that first night on the threshold of her

father's room, and he had looked at her so long and steadily--and there

had been no offence in his look. She caught her breath sharply. Her mind

was running riot! It must not do that! She had many things to accomplish

tonight, and she would need all her wits.

She forced her thoughts violently into another channel. How long would

it be before this Iron Tavern closed for the night, and Dago George was

in bed and asleep? She did not trust Dago George! She knew him as

one utterly without scruples, and one who was insidiously crafty and

dangerously cunning. She began to rehearse again the scene that she had

had with him--and suddenly drew herself up tensely. Why, at the last

moment as he had left the room, had he reverted to her father's death,

and why had he waited until then, when it should naturally have been

one of his first questions, to inquire--so plausibly--when her father's

death had taken place?

Her lips grew suddenly hard. Nine days! She had told him nine days. Was

there any significance in that--to Dago George, or to herself? She had

been delayed in leaving San Francisco by her father's funeral. Dave

Henderson had left there several days earlier, but he had only arrived

here at Dago George's to-night. True, the difference in time might be

accounted for through Dave Henderson's presumed necessity of travelling

under cover; but, equally, it might not. Had Dago George thought of

that--as she was thinking of it now? Was it possible that Dave Henderson

had _already_ got that money, and had come here for refuge with it; that

it was now, at this moment, in that next room there, and that, below

stairs, Dago George, too, was sitting, waiting for the hours to pass,

and sleep to come to all but himself!

She went mechanically to the window, and stood for a moment staring out

upon a vista of dark, shadowy buildings that made jagged, ill-defined

points against the sky-line--and then, with a sudden start, she raised

the window cautiously, soundlessly, inch by inch, and leaned out. Yes,

she was right! The iron platform of a fire-escape was common to her room

and to the room next door.

For another moment she stood there, and then returned softly across the

room to her chair.

“It is too early yet!” she whispered--and, with her chin in her hands,

settled back in her chair, and stared into the blackness.

IV--THE THIRD GUEST

BOOKIE SKARVAN, alias the fat man in the taxicab who chewed on the

butt of his cigar, leaned back in his seat, and nibbed his pudgy hands

together in a sort of gratified self-applause.

“Baggage and all,” repeated Bookie Skarvan to himself. “I guess that's

good enough--what? I guess that's where she's going to hang out, all

right. And I guess the place looks the part! The Iron Tavern--eh?” He

read the window sign, as his taxi rolled by. “Well, leave it to Bookie!

I guess I'll blow back there by-and-by and register--if the rates ain't

too high! But there ain't no hurry! I've been sticking around now for

five years, and I guess I can take a few minutes longer just to make

sure the numbers go up right on the board this time!”

Bookie Skarvan, with the adroit assistance of his tongue, shifted the

cigar butt to the other corner of his mouth. He expectorated on the

floor of the taxi--and suddenly frowned uneasily. He had had uneasy

moments more than once on his late trip across the continent, but they

were due, not so much to the fear that anything was wrong with his

“dope-sheet,” as they were to the element of superstition which was

inherent in him as a gambler--so far he had not had any luck with that

hundred thousand dollars, in the theft of which he had been forestalled

by Dave Henderson five years ago. That was what was the matter. He was

leery of his luck.

He chewed savagely. He had an attack of that superstition now--but at

least he knew the panacea to be employed. At times such as these he

communed and reasoned patiently with himself. He communed with himself

now.

“Sure, she knows where the money is! She's the dark horse, and the long

shot--and I got the tip and the inside dope, ain't I? Sure, she's the

play!” he reassured himself. “She hustled that funeral along something

fierce. And she went tearing around like a wet hen raising money,

letting things go and grabbing at any old price until she'd got enough

to see her through, and then she suddenly locks the house up and beats

it like hell. 'Twasn't natural, was it? She was in _some hurry_--believe

me! What did she do it for--eh? Well, I'll tell you, Bookie--on the

quiet. What Nicolo Capriano knew, she knew. And Nicolo Capriano wasn't

the bird to let one hundred thousand dollars get as close to his claws

as it did without him taking a crack at it. If you ask me, Nicolo pulled

Dave Henderson's leg for the dope; and if you ask me, Nicolo was the guy

who handed out that bomb, and he did it to bump Dave Henderson off--same

as I figured to do once--and cop the loot for himself. Mabbe I'm

wrong--but I guess I'm not. And I guess the odds weren't too rotten to

stake a ride on across the country, I guess they weren't!”

Bookie lifted a fat hand, pushed back his hat, and scratched

ruminatively at the hair over his right temple.

“Dave must have had a pal, or he must have slipped it to some one that

time Baldy chased him in the car. It must have been that--he slipped it

to some one during them days the bulls was chasing him, and whoever it

was mabbe has been keeping it for him here in New York. So she beats

it for New York--what? It don't figure out any other way. He didn't go

nowhere and get it after he got out of prison, _I_ know that. And he got

killed the same night, and he didn't have it then. Sure, Capriano bumped

him off! Sure, my hunch is good for the limit! Dave fell for the Lomazzi

talk, and goes and puts his head on Nicolo's bosom so's to give the

police the go-by, and Nicolo sucks the orange dry and heaves away the

pip! And then the old geezer cashes in himself, and the girl flies the

coop. Mabbe she don't know nothing about it”--Bookie Skarvan stuck his

tongue in his cheek, and grinned ironically--“oh, no, mabbe she don't!

And I guess there ain't any family resemblance between the old man and

the girl, neither--eh?--oh, no, mabbe not!”

The taxi stopped abruptly. The chauffeur reached around and dexterously

opened the door.

“Here you are!” he announced briefly.

Bookie Skarvan looked out--upon a very shabby perspective. With the

sole exception of a frankly dirty and disreputable saloon, designated

as “O'Shea's,” which faced him across the sidewalk, the neighborhood

appeared to consist of nothing but Chinese tea-shops, laundries,

restaurants, and the like; while the whole street, gloomy and

ill-lighted, was strewn with unprepossessing basement entrances where

one descended directly from the sidewalk to the cellar level below.

Bookie Skarvan picked up his hand-bag, descended to the sidewalk, paid

and dismissed the chauffeur, and pushed his way in through the swinging

doors of the saloon.

“I guess I ain't drinking--not here!” confided Bookie Skarvan to

himself, as he surveyed the unkempt, sawdust-strewn floor and dirty

furnishings, and a group of equally unkempt and hard-looking loungers

that lined the near end of the bar. “No, I guess not,” said Bookie to

himself; “but I guess it's the place, all right.”

He made his way to the unoccupied end of the bar. The single barkeeper

that the place evidently boasted disengaged himself from the group of

loungers, and approached Bookie Skarvan.

“Wot's yours?” he inquired indifferently.

Bookie Skarvan leaned confidentially over the rail, “I'm looking for a

gentleman by the name of Smeeks,” he said, and his left eyelid drooped,

“Cunny Smeeks.”

The barkeeper's restless black eyes, out of an unamiable and unshaven

face, appraised Bookie Skarvan, and Bookie Skarvan's well-to-do

appearance furtively.

“It's a new one on me!” he observed blandly. “Never heard of him!”

Bookie Skarvan shifted his cigar butt--with his tongue.

“That's too bad!” he said--and leaned a little further over the bar.

“I've come a long way to see him. I'm a stranger here, and mabbe

I've got the wrong place. Mabbe I've got the wrong name too”--Bookie

Skarvan's left eyelid twitched again--“mabbe you'd know him better as

the Scorpion?”

“Mabbe I would--if I knew him at all,” said the barkeeper

non-committally. “Wot's your lay? Fly-cop?”

“You're talking now!” said Bookie Skarvan, with a grin. He pulled a

letter from his pocket, and pushed it across the bar. “You can let the

Scorpion figure out for himself how much of a fly-cop I am when he gets

his lamps on that. And it's kind of important! Get me--friend?”

The barkeeper picked up the plain, sealed envelope--and twirled it

meditatively in his hands for a moment, while his eyes again searched

Bookie Skarvan's face.

“Youse seem to know yer way about!” he admitted finally, as though not

unfavorably impressed by this later inspection.

Bookie Skarvan shoved a cigar across the bar.

“It's straight goods, colonel,” he said. “I'm all the way from 'Frisco,

and everything's on the level. I didn't blow in here on a guess. Start

the letter on its way, and let the Scorpion call the turn. If he don't

want to see me, he don't have to. See?”

“All right!” said the barkeeper abruptly. “But I'm tellin' youse

straight I ain't seen him to-night, an' I ain't sayin' he's to be found,

or that he's stickin' around here anywhere.”

“I'll wait,” said Bookie Skarvan pleasantly.

The barkeeper walked down the length of the bar, disappeared through a

door at the rear for a moment, and, returning, rejoined the group at the

upper end of the room.

Bookie Skarvan waited.

Perhaps five minutes passed. The door at the rear of the bar opened

slightly, the barkeeper sauntered down in that direction, and an instant

later nodded his head over his shoulder to Bookie Skarvan, motioning him

to come around the end of the bar.

“Cunny'll see youse,” he announced, stepping aside from the doorway

to allow Bookie Skarvan to pass. “De Chink'll show youse de way.” He

grinned suddenly. “I guess youse are on de level all right, or youse

wouldn't be goin' where youse are!”

The door closed behind him, and Bookie Skarvan found himself in a

narrow, dimly-lighted passage. A small, wizened Chinaman, in a white

blouse, standing in front of him, smiled blandly.

“You fliend of Scorpy's--that allee same belly glood. You come,” invited

the man, and scuffled off along the had.

Bookie Skarvan followed--and smiled to himself in complacent

satisfaction. Cunny Smeeks, alias the Scorpion, was, if surroundings

were any criterion, living up to his reputation--which was a not

insignificant item on Bookie Skarvan's “dope-sheet”--as one of the

“safest,” as well as one of the most powerful criminal leaders in the

underworld of New York.

“Sure!” said Bookie Skarvan to himself. “That's the way I got the

dope--and it's right!”

The passage swerved suddenly, and became almost black. Bookie Skarvan

could just barely make out the flutter of the white blouse in front of

him. And then the guide's voice floated back:

“Allee same stlairs here--you look out!”

Cautioned, Bookie Skarvan descended a steep flight of stairs warily into

what was obviously, though it was too dark to see, a cellar. Ahead of

him, however, there appeared, as through an opening of some sort, a

faint glow of light again, and toward this the white blouse fluttered

its way. And then Bookie Skarvan found himself in another passage; and a

strange, sweetish odor came to his nostrils; and strange sounds, subdued

whisperings, rustlings, the dull ring of metal like coin thrown upon

a table, reached his ears. And there seemed to be doors now on either

side, and curtained hangings, and it was soft and silent underfoot.

“I dunno,” observed Bookie Skarvan to himself. “I dunno--it ain't got

much on 'Frisco, at that!”

The guide halted, and opened a door. A soft, mellow light shone out.

Bookie Skarvan smiled knowingly. He was not altogether unsophisticated!

A group of richly dressed Chinamen were absorbed in cards. Scarcely one

of them looked up. Bookie Skarvan's eyes passed over the group almost

contemptuously, and fixed on the only man in the room who was not

playing, and, likewise, the only man present who was not an Oriental,

and who, with hands in his pockets, and slouch hat pushed back from his

forehead, stood watching the game--a man who was abnormally short in

stature, and enormously broad in shoulder, who had hair of a violently

aggressive red, and whose eyes, as he turned now to look toward the

door, were of a blue so faded as to make them unpleasantly colorless.

Bookie Skarvan remained tentatively on the threshold. He needed no

further introduction--no one to whom the man had been previously

described could mistake Cunny Smeeks, alias the Scorpion.

The other came quickly forward now with outstretched hand.

“Any friend of Baldy Vickers is a friend of mine,” he said heartily.

“You want to see me---eh? Well, come along, cull, where we can talk.”

He led the way a little further down the passage, and into another room,

and closed the door. The furnishings here were meager, and evidently

restricted entirely to the votaries of poppy. There was a couch, and

beside it a small tabouret for the opium smoker's paraphernalia.

The Scorpion pointed to the couch; and possessed himself of the

tabouret, which he straddled.

“Sit down,” he invited. “Have a drink?”

“No,” said Bookie Skarvan. “Thanks just the same. I guess I won't take

anything to-night.” He grinned significantly. “I'm likely to be busy.”

The Scorpion nodded.

“Sure--all right!” he agreed. “Well, we'll get to cases, then. Baldy

says in his letter that you and him are in on a deal, and that you may

want a card or two slipped you to fill your hand. What's the lay, and

what can I do for you?”

“It's a bit of a long story.” Bookie Skarvan removed the cigar butt from

his lips, eyed it contemplatively for a moment, finally flung it away,

fished another cigar from his pocket, and, without lighting it, settled

it firmly between his back teeth. “I got to be fair with you,” he said.

“Baldy said he handed it to you straight in the letter, but I got to

make sure you understand. We think we got a good thing, and, if it is,

anything you do ain't going for nothing; but there's always the chance

that it's a bubble, and that there's a hole gets kicked in it.”

“That's all right!” said Cunny Smeeks, alias the Scorpion, easily.

“If there's anything coming I'll get mine--and I'm satisfied with any

division that Baldy puts across. Baldy and me know each other pretty

well. You can forget all that end of it--Baldy's the whitest boy I ever

met, and what Baldy says goes with me all the way. Go ahead with the

story--spill it!”

“The details don't count with you,” said Bookie Skarvan slowly; “and

there's no use gumming up the time with them. The bet is that a nice,

sweet, little Italian girl, that's just piked faster'n hell across the

continent, knows where there's a hundred thousand dollars in cold

cash, that was pinched and hidden five years ago by a fellow named Dave

Henderson--see? Dave served his spaces, and got out a few days ago--and

croaked--got blown up with a Dago bomb--get me? He didn't have no time

to enjoy his wealth--kind of tough, eh? Well he stood in with this

Italian girl's father, an old crook named Nicolo Capriano, and he went

there the night he got out of prison. The way we got it doped out is

that the old Italian, after getting next to where the money was, bumped

off Dave Henderson himself--see? Then Nicolo dies of heart disease, and

the girl hardly waits to bury the old man decently, and beats it for

here--me trailing her on the same train. Well, I guess that's all--you

can figure for yourself why we're interested in the girl.”

“I get you!” said the Scorpion, with a sinister grin. “It don't

look very hard bucking up against a lone female, and I guess you can

telegraph Baldy that he don't need to worry. What do you want--a

bunch to pinch the girl, or a box-worker to crack a safe? You can have

anything that's on tap--and I guess that ain't passing up many bets.”

Bookie Skarvan shook his head.

“I don't want either--not yet,” he said. “The girl ain't got the money

yet, and there ain't anything to do but just watch her and keep her from

getting scared until she either grabs it, or lets out where it is.” He

leaned forward toward the Scorpion. “D'ye know a place, not far from

here, that's called The Iron Tavern?” he demanded abruptly.

The Scorpion shrugged his shoulders.

“Everybody knows it!” he said caustically. “It's a dump! It's the

rendezvous of the worst outfit of black-handers in America; and the guy

that runs it, a fellow named Dago George, runs the gang, too--and he's

_some_ guy. But what's that got to do with it?”

“The girl's there,” said Bookie Skarvan tersely. “Oh, she is, eh?” There

was a new and sudden interest in the Scorpion's voice.

“She went there from the train with her grips.” Bookie Skarvan's cigar

grew restive in his mouth.

“Well, me, too, I'm for the same joint, only I don't want to take any

chances of spilling the beans.”

“You mean you're afraid she'll pipe you off?”

“No,” said Bookie Skarvan. “No, I ain't afraid of that. She never got

a peep at me on the train, and she only saw me once before in her life,

and that time, besides it being dark and me being outside on the front

doorstep, she was so scared I might have been a lamppost, for all she'd

know me again. It was the night her old man croaked--see? No, I ain't

afraid of her--but I couldn't afford to take any chances by blowing

in there right after her. I wasn't afraid of her, but I had my fingers

crossed on whoever ran the place, and I guess, after what you've said,

that my hunch was right. It was a queer place for her to go right off

the bat the minute she landed in New York, and she didn't go there

instead of to a decent hotel just by luck--get me? I figured she might

stand in there pretty thick--and if she did, and I blew in right on top

of her, the betting odds were about one million dollars to a peanut that

I'd be a sucker. I'm sure of it now that you say the fellow who runs

it is a Dago in the same old line of business that her father was in.

What?”

The Scorpion's pale blue eyes scrutinized Bookie Skarvan's face--and

lighted with a curious benignity.

“You and Baldy make a pretty good combination, I guess!” he observed

with dry admiration.

Bookie Skarvan indulged in his wheezy chuckle. “We've had a little luck

together once in a while,” he admitted modestly. “Well, you get me,

don't you? I've got to get into that Iron Tavern joint just the same.

That's the first card we play. I figured that mabbe this Dago George

would know you by reputation anyhow, and that you could fix it for me

without it looking as though it were anything more than a friend of

yours, say, who'd got into a little temporary difficulty with the police

down in Baltimore, say, and was keeping quiet and retired for a few days

till the worst of it blew over--and that you'd picked out his joint as

the best bet for me.”

The Scorpion got up from his seat abruptly.

“Say,” he said cordially, “I'm glad I met you! That listens good! Sure!

I guess I can fix that! Dago George and me ain't exactly pals, and we

don't love each other any more than you'd notice--but he knows where he

gets off with Cunny Smeeks! You wait a minute, and I'll get him on the

phone.”

Cunny Smeeks, alias the Scorpion, of the élite of the New York

underworld, left the room. Bookie Skarvan sprawled negligently back on

the couch. He smiled softly--and chewed contentedly on his cigar. Things

were working well.

“There's nothing like credit in this wicked world,” Bookie Skarvan

confided sapiently to himself. “I may have to run up quite a bill with

Mr. Cunny Smeeks before I'm through, mabbe quite a fat little bill--but

he can always send it to Baldy--if I'm not here! What? It's beginning to

look good again. Five years I've been trying to get the grappling

hook on that coin. It looks pretty good now, and I guess I can see it

coming--and I guess I won't have to wait as long as Baldy will!” He

wagged his head pleasantly. “I never was fond of San Francisco--and I

always wanted to travel! Perhaps Baldy and Mr. Cunny Smeeks won't be

such good friends by-and-by. I dunno! I only know that Bookie Skarvan

won't be sticking around to see them go into mourning for their share

of that hundred thousand that they think they're going to get--not so's

you'd observe it!”

Bookie Skarvan's eyes swept the den indifferently and without interest.

They fastened finally on the toe of his own boot. The minutes passed,

and as they passed a scowl came gradually to Bookie Skarvan's face, and

a fat hand in a sudden nervous gesture went to his forehead and brushed

across his eyes. His thoughts seemed to have veered into a less pleasant

channel.

“Yes,” he muttered, “you can take it from me that I ain't sorry Dave

Henderson's dead--not very! He never saw all my cards, and that's the

one hold Baldy had on me.” The room was apparently over-heated--for a

fat man. A bead of sweat came out on Bookie Skarvan's forehead. He swore

savagely. “You damn fool, can't you forget it! You're not afraid of a

dead man now, are you!”

The Scorpion came back.

“Come on!” he said, from the doorway. “It's fixed! He put up a howl and

wouldn't stand for it at first, and he kicked so hard that I guess he's

in with the girl all right. He said he had no place to put anybody; but

he came across all right--with a twist of the screws. You're a friend of

mine, and your Baltimore spiel goes--see?” The pale blue eyes darkened

suddenly. “You get what I've done, don't you? Dago George don't forgive

easily, and if this thing busts open and Dago George tumbles to what

I've handed him, I'm mabbe going to have a little gang war on my hands.”

“I get you!” said Bookie Skarvan earnestly, as he joined the other in

the doorway. “And that goes into the bill at a hundred cents on the

dollar--and you know Baldy well enough to know what that means.” The

Scorpion laughed.

“Oh, well, it's nothing to worry about! As I told you, I've never been

very fond of Dago anyhow, and I guess I can take care of anything he

wants to start. There'd be only one of us in at the finish--and it

wouldn't be Dago George! You can go the limit, and you'll find you've

got the biggest backing--on any count--in little old New York! Well,

come on over, and I'll introduce you.”

“Sure! That's the stuff!” said Bookie Skarvan, as he accompanied the

other to the street. “Baldy said you were the real goods--and I guess I

got to hand it to Baldy!” He chuckled suddenly and wheezingly, as they

went down the block. “The Baltimore crook--eh? Me and Dago George! Leave

it to me! I guess I can handle Dago George!”

And twenty minutes later, in a room on the third floor of The Iron

Tavern, Bookie Skarvan, “handling” Dago George, laid a detaining hand on

the proprietor's arm, as the latter was bidding him good-night.

“Look here,” whispered Bookie Skarvan. “I know you're on the level

because Cunny Smeeks says so; but I got to lay low, damned low--savvy?

I ain't for meeting people--not even for passing 'em out in the hall

there. So how about it? Have I got neighbors? I ain't taking any

chances.”

Dago George laid his forefinger along his nose--and smiled reassuringly.

“Ah, yes!” he said. “Yes, yes, I understand--eh? But you need have

no fear. I do not take guests, except”--he shrugged his

shoulders--“except--you understand, eh?--to oblige a friend like Cunny

Smeeks. Otherwise”--again the shoulders lifted--“I would not have the

so-great honor of offering you a room. Is it not so? Well, then, there

is no one here, except”--he jerked his thumb toward the opposite door

across the hall--“my niece, who will not trouble you; and in the next

room to hers a friend of mine, who will not trouble you either. There

is no one else. You need have no fear. I assure you, you need have no

fear.”

Bookie Skarvan nodded.

“That's all right, then,” he said in a cordial and relieved tone.

“It's only that I got to be careful.”

He shook hands with Dago George, as the latter again bade him

good-night. He closed his door, and sat down. The bulge of the

protruding cigar butt metamorphosed what was intended for an amiable

smile into an unlovely grimace.

“Niece--eh?” murmured Bookie Skarvan to himself. “Well, well--and in

the room across the hall! I guess I won't go to bed just yet, not just

yet--but I guess I'll put out the light.”

V--THE ROOM ON THE THIRD FLOOR

IT was pitch black. Dave Henderson opened his eyes drowsily. He lay

for a moment puzzled and bewildered as to where he was. And then

consciousness returned in fuller measure, and he remembered that he

had thrown himself down on the bed fully dressed--and must have fallen

asleep.

He stirred now uneasily. He was most uncomfortable. Something brutally

hard and unyielding seemed to be prodding and boring into his side. He

felt down under him with his hand--and smiled quizzically. It was his

revolver. He would probably, otherwise, have slept straight through the

night. The revolver, as he had turned over in his sleep undoubtedly, had

twisted in his pocket, and had resolved itself into a sort of skewer,

muzzle end up, that dug ungraciously and painfully into his ribs.

He straightened the revolver in his pocket--and the touch of the weapon

seemed to clear his faculties and fling him with a sudden jolt from the

borderland of sleepy, mental indolence into a whirl of mental activity.

He remembered Millman. Millman and the revolver were indissolubly

associated. Only Millman had returned the money. That was the strangest

part of it. Millman had returned the money. It was over there now on the

floor in the dress-suit case. He remembered his scene with Millman.

He remembered that he had deliberately fanned his passion into a white

heat. He should therefore be in an unbridled rage with Millman now--only

he wasn't. Nor would that anger seemingly return--even at his

bidding. Instead, there seemed to be a cold, deliberate, reasoned

self-condemnation creeping upon him. It was not pleasant. He tried to

fight it off. It persisted. He was conscious of a slight headache. He

stirred uneasily again upon the bed. Facts, however he might wish to

avoid them, were cold-blooded, stubborn things. They began to assert

themselves here in the quiet and the darkness.

Where was that sporting instinct of fair play of his of which he was so

proud! Millman had _not_ gone to that pigeon-cote with any treacherous

motive. Millman had _not_ played the traitor, either for his own

ends or at the instigation of the police. Millman, in blunt language,

knowingly accepting the risk of being caught, when, already known as a

prison bird, no possible explanation could avail him if he were

found with the money in his possession, had gone in order to save a

friend--and that friend was Dave Henderson.

Dave Henderson shook his head. No--he would not accept that--not so

meekly as all that! Millman hadn't saved him from anything. He could

have got the money himself all right when he got out, and the police

would have been none the wiser.

He clenched his hands. A voice within him suddenly called him--_coward!_

In that day in the prison library when he had felt himself cornered, he

had been desperately eager enough for help. It was true, that as things

had turned out, he could have gone safely to the pigeon-cote himself,

as he actually had done, but he had not foreseen the craft of Nicolo

Capriano then, and his back had been to the wall then, and the odds had

seemingly piled to an insurmountable height against him--and Millman,

shifting the danger and the risk to his own shoulders, had stepped into

the breach. Millman had done that. There was no gainsaying it. Well,

he admitted it, didn't he? He had no quarrel with Millman on that score

now, had he? He scowled savagely in the darkness. It was Millman with

his infernal, quixotic and overweening honesty that was the matter. That

was what it was! His quarrel with Millman lay in the fact that Millman

was--_an honest man_.

He sat bolt upright on the bed, his hands clenched suddenly again. Why

hadn't Millman kept his honesty where it belonged! If Millman felt the

way he did after going to the pigeon-cote and getting that money, why

hadn't Millman stuck to his guns the way any ordinary man would, instead

of laying down like a lamb--why hadn't he fought it out man to man,

until the better man won--and that money went back, or it didn't! Fight!

That was it--fight! If Millman had only fought it out--like an ordinary

man--and----

“Be _honest_--at least with yourself!” whispered that inner voice

quietly. “Millman was just as honest with you as he was with his own

soul. He kept faith with you in the only way he could--and still keep

faith with himself. Did he throw you down--Dave?”

For a moment Dave Henderson did not stir; he seemed mentally and

physically in a strange and singular state of suspended animation. And

then a queer and twisted smile flickered across his lips.

“Yes, he's white!” he muttered. “By God, the whitest man on

earth--that's Millman! Only--damn him! Damn him, for the hole he's put

me in!”

Yes, that was it! He had it at last, and exactly now! Over there on the

floor in the dress-suit case was the money; but it wasn't the money that

he, Dave Henderson, had taken a gambler's risk and a sporting chance to

get, it wasn't the money he had fought like a wildcat for--it was

Millman's money. It wasn't the money he had staked his all to win--he

staked nothing here. It was another man's stake. Over there was the

money, and he was free to use it--if he chose to take it as the price of

another man's loyalty, the price that another man paid for having taken

upon himself the risk of prison bars and stone walls again because that

other man believed his _risk_ was substituted for the _certainty_ that

Dave Henderson would otherwise incur that fate!

The inner voice came quietly again--but it held a bitter gibe.

“What is the matter? Are you in doubt about anything? Why don't you get

up, and undress, and go to bed, and sleep quietly? You've got the money

now, you're fixed for all your life, and nothing to worry you--Millman

pays the bills.”

“Five years!” Dave Henderson muttered. “Five years of hell--for

nothing?”

His face hardened. That was Nicolo Capriano lying over there on his

bed, wasn't it?--and plucking with thin, blue-tipped fingers at

the coverlet--and eyeing him with those black eyes that glittered

virulently--and twisting bloodless lips into a sardonic and contemptuous

sneer. And why was that barbed tongue of Nicolo Capriano pouring out

such a furious and vicious flood of vituperation?

Another vision came--an oval face of great beauty, but whose expression

was inscrutable; whose dark eyes met his in a long and steady gaze; and

from a full, white, ivory throat, mounting upward until it touched the

wealth of hair that crowned the forehead, a tinge of color brought a

more radiant life. What would Teresa say?

His hands swept again and again, nervously, fiercely, across his eyes.

In the years of his vaunted boast that neither hell nor the devil would

hold him back, he had not dreamed of this. A thief! Yes, he had been a

thief--but he had never been a piker! He wasn't a vulture, was he, to

feed and gorge on a friend's loyalty!