XI

"DAN"----QUIXOTE

Leaving the hotel, Maitland strode quietly but rapidly across the

car-tracks to the sidewalk bordering the park. A dozen nighthawk

cabbies bore down upon him, yelping in chorus. He motioned to the

foremost, jumped into the hansom and gave the fellow his address.

"Five dollars," he added, "if you make it in five minutes."

An astonished horse, roused from a droop-eared lethargy, was yanked

almost by main strength out of the cab-rank and into the middle of the

Avenue. Before he could recover, the long whip-lash had leaped out over

the roof of the vehicle, and he found himself stretching away up the

Avenue on a dead run.

Yet to Maitland the pace seemed deadly slow. He fidgeted on the seat in

an agony of impatience, a dozen times feeling in his waistcoat pocket

for his latch-keys. They were there, and his fingers itched to use them.

By the lights streaking past he knew that their pace was furious, and

was haunted by a fear lest it should bring the police about his ears.

At Twenty-ninth Street, indeed, a dreaming policeman, startled by the

uproar, emerged hastily from the sheltering gloom of a store-entrance,

shouted after the cabby an inarticulate question, and, getting no

response, unsheathed his night-stick and loped up the Avenue in

pursuit, making the locust sing upon the pavement at every jump.

In the cab, Maitland, turning to watch through the rear peep-hole, was

thrown violently against the side as the hansom rocketed on one wheel

into his street. Recovering, he seized the dashboard and gathered

himself together, ready to spring the instant the vehicle paused in its

headlong career.

Through the cabby's misunderstanding of the address, in all likelihood,

the horse was reined in on its haunches some three houses distant from

the apartment building. Maitland found himself sprawling on his hands

and knees on the sidewalk, picked himself up, shouting "You'll wait?"

to the driver, and sprinted madly the few yards separating him from his

own front door, keys ready in hand.

Simultaneously the half-winded policeman lumbered around the Fifth

Avenue corner, and a man, detaching himself from the shadows of a

neighboring doorway, began to trot loutishly across the street,

evidently with the intention of intercepting Maitland at the door.

He was hardly quick enough. Maitland did not even see him. The door

slammed in the man's face, and he, panting harshly, rapped out an

imprecation and began a frantic assault on the push-button marked

"Janitor."

As for Maitland, he was taking the stairs three at a clip, and had his

pass-key in the latch almost as soon as his feet touched the first

landing. An instant later he thrust the door open and blundered blindly

into the pitch-darkness of his study.

For a thought he stood bewildered and dismayed by the absence of light.

He had thought, somehow, to find the gas-jets flaring. The atmosphere

was hot and foul with the odor of kerosene, the blackness filled with

strange sounds and mysterious moving shapes. A grunting gasp came to

his ears, and then the silence and the night alike were split by a

report, accompanied by a streak of orange flame shooting ceilingward

from the middle of the room.

Its light, transient as it was, gave him some inkling of the situation.

Unthinkingly he flung himself forward, ready to grapple with that which

first should meet his hands. Something soft and yielding brushed

against his shoulder, and subconsciously, in the auto-hypnosis of his

excitement, he was aware of a man's voice cursing and a woman's cry of

triumph trailing off into a wail of pain.

On the instant he found himself at grips with the marauder. For a

moment both swayed, dazed by the shock of collision. Then Maitland got

a footing on the carpet and put forth his strength; the other gave way,

slipped, and went to his knees. Maitland's hands found his throat,

fingers sinking deep into flesh as he bore the fellow backward. A match

flared noiselessly and the gas blazed overhead. A cry of astonishment

choked in his throat as he recognized his own features duplicated in

the face of the man whose throat he was slowly and relentlessly

constricting. Anisty! He had not thought of him or connected him with

the sounds that had thrilled and alarmed him over the telephone wire

coming out of the void and blackness of night. Indeed, he had hardly

thought any coherent thing about the matter. The ring of the girl's

"No!" had startled him, and he had somehow thought, vaguely, that

O'Hagan had surprised her in the flat. But more than that....

He glanced swiftly aside at the girl standing still beneath the

chandelier, the match in one hand burning toward her finger-tips, in

the other Anisty's revolver. Their eyes met, and in hers the light of

gladness leaped and fell like a living flame, then died, to be replaced

by a look of entreaty and prayer so moving that his heart in its

unselfish chivalry went out to her.

Who or what she was, howsoever damning the evidence against her, he

would believe against belief, shield her to the end at whatever hazard

to himself, whatever cost to his fortunes. Love is unreasoning and

unreasonable even when unrecognized.

His senses seemed to vibrate with redoubled activity, to become

abnormally acute. For the first time he was conscious of the imperative

clamor of the electric bell in O'Hagan's quarters, as well as of the

janitor's rich brogue voicing his indignation as he opened the basement

door and prepared to ascend. Instantly the cause of the disturbance

flashed upon him.

His strangle-hold on Anisty relaxed, he released the man, and, brows

knitted with the concentration of his thoughts, he stepped back and

over to the girl, lifting her hand and gently taking the revolver from

her fingers.

Below, O'Hagan was parleying through the closed door with the late

callers. Maitland could have blessed his hot-headed Irish stupidity for

the delay he was causing.

Already Anisty was on his feet again, blind with rage and crouching as

if ready to spring, only restrained by the sight of his own revolver,

steady and threatening in Maitland's hand.

For the least part of a second the young man hesitated, choosing his

way. Then, resolved, in accents of determination, "Stand up, you

hound!" he cried. "Back to the wall there!" and thrust the weapon under

the burglar's nose.

The move gained instant obedience. Mr. Anisty could not reasonably

hesitate in the face of such odds.

"And you," Maitland continued over his shoulder to the girl, without

removing his attention from the burglar, "into the alcove there, at

once! And not a word, not a whisper, not a sound until I call you!"

She gave him one frightened and piteous glance, then, unquestioning,

slipped quietly behind the portieres.

To Anisty, again: "Turn your pockets out!" commanded Maitland. "Quick,

you fool! The police are below; your freedom depends on your haste."

Anisty's hands flew to his pockets, emptying their contents on the

floor. Maitland's eyes sought in vain the shape of the canvas bag. But

time was too precious. Another moment's procrastination and----

"That will do," he said crisply, without raising his voice. "Now listen

to me. At the end of the hall, there, you'll find a trunk-closet, from

which a window----"

"I know."

"Naturally you would. Now go!"

Anisty waited for no repetition of the permission. Whatever the madness

of Mad Maitland, he was concerned only to profit by it. Never before

had the long arm of the law stretched hungry fingers so near his

collar. He went, springing down the hall in long, soundless strides,

vanishing into its shadows.

As he disappeared Maitland stepped to the door, raised his revolver,

and pulled the trigger twice. The shots detonated loudly in that

confined space, and rang coincident with the clash and clatter of

shivered glass. A thin cloud of vapor obscured the doorway, swaying on

the hot, still air, then parted and dissolved, dissipated by the

entrance of four men who, thrusting the door violently open, struggled

into the hallway.

Blue cloth and brass buttons moved conspicuously in the van, a grim

face flushed and perspiring beneath the helmet's vizor, a revolver

poised menacingly in one hand, locust as ready in the other. Behind

this outward and visible manifestation of the law's majesty bobbed a

rusty derby, cocked jauntily back upon the red, shining forehead of a

short and thick-set person with a black mustache. O'Hagan's agitated

countenance loomed over a dusty shoulder, and the battered silk hat of

the nighthawk brought up the rear.

"Come in, everybody," Maitland greeted them cheerfully, turning back

into the study and tossing the revolver, shreds of smoke still curling

up from its muzzle, upon a divan. "O'Hagan," he called, on second

thought, "jump down-stairs and see that all New York doesn't get in.

Let nobody in!"

As the janitor unwillingly obeyed, policeman and detective found their

tongues. A volley of questions, to the general purport of "What's th'

meanin' of all this here?" assailed Maitland as he rested himself

coolly on an edge of the desk. He responded, with one eyebrow slightly

elevated: "A burglar. What did you suppose? That I was indulging in

target practice at this time of night?"

"Which way'd he go?"

"Back of the flat--through the window to the fire-escape, I suppose. I

took a couple of shots after him, but missed, and inasmuch as he was

armed, I didn't pursue."

Hickey stepped forward, glowering unpleasantly at the young man. "Yeh

go along," he told the uniformed man, "'nd see 'f he's tellin' the

truth. I'll stay here 'nd keep him company."

His tone amused Maitland. In the reaction from the recent strain upon

his wits and nerve, he laughed openly.

"And who are you?" he suggested, smiling, as the policeman clumped

heavily away. Hickey spat thoughtfully into a Satsuma jardinière and

sneered. "I s'pose yeh never saw me before?"

Maitland bowed affirmation. "I'm sorry to say that that pleasure has

heretofore been denied me."

"Uh-huh," agreed the detective sourly, "I guess that's a hot one, too."

He scowled blackly in Maitland's amazed face and seemed abruptly to

swell with mysterious rage. "My name's Hickey," he informed him

venomously, "and don't yeh lose sight of that after this. It's

somethin' it won't hurt yeh to remember. Guess yer mem'ry's taking a

vacation, huh?"

"My dear man," said Maitland, "you speak in parables and--if you'll

pardon my noticing it--with some uncalled-for spleen. Might I suggest

that you moderate your tone? For," he continued, facing the man

squarely, "if you don't, it will be my duty and pleasure to hoist you

into the street."

"I got a photergrapht of yeh doing it," growled Hickey. "Still, seeing

as yeh never saw me before, I guess it won't do no harm for yeh to

connect with this." And he turned back his coat, uncovering the

official shield of the detective bureau.

"Ah!" commented Maitland politely. "A detective? How interesting!"

"Fire-escape winder's broke, all right." This was the policeman,

returned. "And some one's let down the bottom length of ladder, but

there ain't nobody in sight."

"No," interjected Hickey, "'nd there wouldn't 've been if you'd been

waitin' in the back yard all night."

"Certainly not," Maitland agreed blandly; "especially if my burglar had

known it. In which case I fancy he would have chosen another route--by

the roof, possibly."

"Yeh know somethin' about roofs yehself, donchuh?" suggested Hickey.

"Well, I guess yeh'll have time to write a book about it while yeh--"

He stepped unexpectedly to Maitland's side and bent forward. Something

cold and hard closed with a snap around each of the young man's wrists.

He started up, face aflame with indignation, forgetful of the girl

hidden in the alcove.

"What the devil!" he cried hotly, jingling the handcuffs.

"Ah, come off," Hickey advised him. "Yeh can't bluff it for ever, you

know. Come along and tell the sarge all about it, Daniel Maitland,

_Es_-quire, _alias_ Handsome Dan Anisty, gentleman burglar.... Ah, cut

that out, young fellow; yeh'll find this ain't no laughin' matter.

Yeh're foxy, all right, but yeh've pushed yer run of luck too hard."

Hickey paused, perplexed, finding no words wherewith adequately to

voice the disgust aroused in him by his prisoner's demeanor, something

far from seemly, to his mind.

The humor of the situation had just dawned upon Maitland, and the young

man was crimson with appreciation.

"Go on, go on!" he begged feebly. "Don't let _me_ stop you, Hickey.

Don't, please, let me spoil it all.... Your Sherlock Holmes, Hickey, is

one of the finest characterizations I have ever witnessed. It is a

privilege not to be underestimated to be permitted to play Raffles to

you.... But seriously, my dear sleuth!" with an unhappy attempt to wipe

his eyes with hampered fists, "don't you think you're wasting your

talents?"

By this time even the policeman seemed doubtful. He glanced askance at

the detective and shuffled uneasily. As for the cabby, who had

blustered in at first with intent to demand his due in no uncertain

terms, apparently Maitland's bearing, coupled with the inherent

contempt and hatred of the nighthawk tribe for the minions of the law,

had won his sympathies completely. Lounging against a door-jamb, quite

at home, he genially puffed an unspeakable cigarette and nodded

approbation of Maitland's every other word.

But Hickey--Hickey bristled belligerently.

"Fine," he declared acidly; "fine and dandy. I take off my hat to yeh,

Dan Anisty. I may be a bad actor, all right, but yeh got me beat at the

post."

Then turning to the policeman, "I got him right. Look here!" Drawing a

folded newspaper from his pocket, he spread it open for the officer's

inspection. "Yeh see them pictures? Now, on the level, is it _natural_?"

The patrolman frowned doubtfully, glancing from the paper to Maitland.

The cabby stretched a curious neck. Maitland groaned inwardly; he had

seen that infamous sheet.

"Now listen," the detective expounded with gusto. "Twice to-day this

here Maitland, or Anisty, meets me. Once on the stoop here, 'nd he's

Maitland 'nd takes me to lunch--see? Next time it's in Harlem, where

I've been sent with a hot tip from the C'mmiss'ner's office to find

Anisty, 'nd he's still Maitland 'nd surprised to see me. I ain't sure

then, but I'm doin' some heavy thinkin', all right. I lets him go and

shadows him. After a while he gives me the slip 'nd I chases down here,

waitin' for him to turn up. Coming down on the car I buys this paper

'nd sees the pictures, and then I'm _on_. See?"

"Uh-huh," grunted the patrolman, scowling at Maitland. The cabby

caressed his nose with a soiled forefinger reflectively, plainly a bit

prejudiced by Hickey's exposition.

"One minute," Maitland interjected, eyes twinkling and lips twitching.

"How long ago was it that you began to watch this house, sleuth?"

"Five minutes before yeh come home," responded Hickey, ignoring the

insult. "Now--"

"Took you a long time to figure this out, didn't it? But go on, please."

"Well, I picked the winner, all right," flared the detective. "I guess

that'll be about all for yours."

"Not quite," Maitland contradicted brusquely, wearying of the

complication. "You say you met me on the stoop here. At what o'clock?"

"One; 'nd yeh takes me to lunch at Eugene's."

"Ah! When did I leave you?"

"I leaves yeh there at two."

"Well, O'Hagan will testify that he left me in these rooms, in

dressing-gown and slippers at about one. At four he found me on this

divan, bound and gagged, by courtesy of your friend, Mr. Anisty. Now,

when was I with you in Harlem?"

"At seven o'clock, to the minute, yeh comes--"

"Never mind. At ten minutes to seven I took a cab from here to the

Primordial Club, where I dined at seven precisely."

"And what's more," interposed the cabman eagerly, "I took yer there,

sir."

"Thank you. Furthermore, sleuth, you say that you followed me around

town from seven o'clock until--when?"

"I said--" stammered the plain-clothes man, purple with confusion.

"No matter. I didn't leave the Primordial until a quarter to eleven.

But all this aside, as I understand it, you are asserting that, having

given you all this trouble to-day, and knowing that you were after me,

I deliberately hopped into a cab fifteen minutes ago, came up Fifth

Avenue at such breakneck speed that this officer thought it was a

runaway, and finally jumped out and ran up-stairs here to fire a

revolver three times, for no purpose whatsoever beyond bringing you

gentlemen about my ears?"

Hickey's jaw sagged. The cabby ostentatiously covered his mouth with a

huge red paw and made choking noises.

"Pass it up, sarge, pass it up," he whispered hoarsely.

"Shut yer trap," snapped the detective. "I know what I'm doin'. This

crook's clever all right, but I got the kibosh on him this time. Lemme

alone." He squared his shoulders, blustering to save his face. "I don't

know why yeh done it----"

"Then I'll tell you," Maitland cut in crisply. "If you'll be good

enough to listen." And concisely narrated the events of the past

twenty-four hours, beginning at the moment when he had discovered

Anisty in Maitland Manor. Save that he substituted himself for the man

who had escaped from Higgins and eliminated all mention of the grey

girl, his statement was exact and convincing. As he came down to the

moment when he had called up from the Bartholdi and heard mysterious

sounds in his flat, substantiating his story by indicating the receiver

that dangled useless from the telephone, even Hickey was staggered.

But not beaten. When Maitland ceased speaking the detective smiled

superiority to such invention.

"Very pretty," he conceded. "Yeh c'n tell it all to the magistrate

to-morrow morning. Meantime yeh'll have time to think up a yarn

explainin' how it come that a crook like Anisty made three attempts in

one day to steal some jewels, 'nd didn't get 'em. Where were they all

this time?"

"In safe-keeping," Maitland lied manfully, with a furtive glance toward

the alcove.

"Whose?" pursued Mr. Hickey truculently.

"Mine," with equanimity. "Seriously--_sleuth!_--are you trying to make

a charge against me of stealing my own property?"

"Yeh done it for a blind. 'Nd that's enough. Officer, take this man to

the station; I'll make the complaint."

The policeman hesitated, and at this juncture O'Hagan put in an

appearance, lugging a heavy brown-paper bundle.

"Beg pardon, Misther Maitland, sor----?"

"Well, O'Hagan?"

"The crowd at the dure, sor, is dishpersed," the janitor reported. "A

couple av cops kem along an' fanned 'em. They're askin' fer the two av

yees," with a careless nod to the policeman and detective.

"Yeh heard what I said," Hickey answered the officer's look.

"I'm thinkin'," O'Hagan pursued, calmly ignoring the presence of the

outsiders, "thot these do be the soot that domned thafe av the worruld

stole off ye the day, sor. A la-ad brought ut at ayeleven o'clock, sor,

wid particular rayquist thot ut be daylivered to ye at once. The

paper's tore, an'----"

"O'Hagan," Maitland ordered sharply, "undo that parcel. I think I can

satisfy you now, sleuth. What kind of a suit did your luncheon

acquaintance wear?"

"Grey," conceded Hickey reluctantly.

"An' here ut is," O'Hagan announced, arraying the clothing upon a

chair. "Iv'ry domn' thing, aven down to the socks.... And a note for

ye, sor."

As he shook out the folds of the coat a square white envelope dropped

to the floor; the janitor retrieved and offered it to his employer.

"Give it to the sleuth," nodded Maitland.

Scowling, Hickey withdrew the inclosure--barely glancing at the

superscription.

"'Dear Mr. Maitland,'" he read aloud; "'As you will probably surmise,

my motive in thus restoring to you a portion of your property is not

altogether uninfluenced by personal and selfish considerations. In

brief, I wish to discover whether or not you are to be at home

to-night. If not, I shall take pleasure in calling; if the contrary, I

shall feel that in justice to myself I must forego the pleasure of

improving an acquaintance begun under auspices so unfavorable. In

either case, permit me to thank you for the use of your

wardrobe,--which, quaintly enough, has outlived its usefulness to me: a

fat-headed detective named Hickey will tell you why,--and to extend to

you expression of my highest consideration. Believe me, I am enviously

yours, Daniel Anisty'--Signed," added Hickey mechanically, his face

working.

"Satisfied, Sleuth?"

By way of reply, but ungraciously, the detective stepped forward and

unlocked the handcuffs.

Maitland stood erect, smiling. "Thank you very much, sleuth. I shan't

forget you ... O'Hagan," Tossing the janitor the keys from his desk,

"you'll find some--ah--lemon-pop and root-beer in the buffet, this

officer and his friends will no doubt join you in a friendly drink

downstairs. Cabby, I want a word with you.... Good morning, gentlemen,

_Good Morning,_ sleuth."

And he showed them the door. "I shall be at your service officer," he

called over the janitor's shoulder, "at any time to-morrow morning. If

not here, O'Hagan will tell you where to find me. And, O'Hagan!" The

Janitor fell back. "Keep them at least an hour," Maitland told him

guardedly, "and say nothing."

The Irishman pledged his discretion by a silent look. Maitland turned

back to the cabby.

"You did me a good turn, just now," he began.

"Don't mention it, sir; I've carried you hoften before this evenin',

and--excuse my sayin' so--I never _'ad_ a fare as tipped 'andsomer.

It's a real pleasure, sir, to be of service."

"Thank you," returned Maitland, eying him in speculative wise. "I

wonder--"

The man was a rough, burly Englishman of one of the most intelligent,

if not intellectual, kind; the British cabby, as a type, has few

superiors for sheer quickness of wit and understanding. This man had

been sharpened and tempered by his contact with American conditions.

His eyes were shrewd, his face honest if weather-beaten, his attitude

respectful.

"I've another use for you to-night," Maitland decided, "if you are at

liberty and--discreet?" The final word was a question, flung over his

shoulder as he turned toward the escritoire.

"Yes, sir," said the man thoughtfully. "I allus can drive, sir, even

when I'm drinkin' 'ardest and can't see nothink."

"Yes? You've been drinking to-night?" Maitland smiled quietly, standing

at the small writing-desk and extracting a roll of bills from a

concealed drawer.

"I'm fair blind, sir."

"Very well." Maitland turned and extended his hand, and despite his

professed affliction, the cabby's eyes bulged as he appreciated the

size of the bill.

"My worrd!" he gasped, stowing it away in the cavernous depths of a

trousers pocket.

"You will wait outside," said Maitland, "until I come out or--or send

somebody for you to take wherever directed. Oh, that's all right--not

another word!"

The door closed behind the overwhelmed nighthawk, and the latch clicked

loudly. For a space Maitland stood in the hallway, troubled,

apprehensive, heart strangely oppressed, vision clouded by the memory

of the girl as he had seen her only a few minutes since: as she had

stood beneath the chandelier, after acting upon her primary

clear-headed impulse to give her rescuer the aid of the light.

He seemed to recall very clearly her slight figure, swaying, a-quiver

with fright and solicitude,--care for him!--her face, sensitive and

sweet beneath its ruddy crown of hair, that of a child waking from evil

dreams, her eyes seeking his with their dumb message of appeal and

of.... He dared not name what else.

Forlorn, pitiful, little figure! Odd it seemed that he should fear to

face her again, alone, that he should linger reluctant to cross the

threshold of his study, mistrustful and afraid alike of himself and of

her--a thief.

For what should he say to her, other than the words that voiced the

hunger of his heart? Yet if he spoke ... words such as those to--to a

thief ... what would be the end of it all?

What did it matter? Surely he, who knew the world wherein he lived and

moved and had his being, knew bitter well the worth of its verdicts.

The world might go hang, for all he cared. At least his life was his

own, whether to make or to mar, and he had not to answer for it to any

power this side of the gates of darkness. And if by any act of his the

world should be given a man and a woman in exchange for a thief and an

idler, perhaps in the final reckoning his life might not be accounted

altogether wasted....

He set back his shoulders and inspired deeply, eyes lightening; and

stepped into the study, resolved. "Miss--" he called huskily; and

stopped, reminded that not yet did he even know her name.

"It is safe now," he amended, more clearly and steadily, "to come out,

if you will."

He heard no response. The long gleaming folds of the portières hung

motionless. Still, a sharp and staccato clatter of hoofs that had risen

in the street, might have drowned her voice.

"If you please--?" he said again, loudly.

The silence sang sibilant in his ears; and he grew conscious of a sense

of anxiety and fear stifling in its intensity.

At length, striding forward, with a swift gesture he flung the hangings

aside.