He knew he had left the light on. He was standing up. He held something
in his hand--a book. Puzzled, he put out his hand to where the switch
of the electric light should be. It was not there. In a new terror
that surged up, obliterating the older horrors of the night, he groped
along the wall for the switch, and found it. The place sprang into
light. He was in the dining-room! In his hand he held the report of his
grandfather’s trial. The truth flashed on him.
He was a somnambulist.
With a wild cry he sank down in a swoon.
When he returned to consciousness, the electric lamps were yellow
patches in the sunlight which filled the room. He struggled to his feet
and switched them off. He stood for some moments unsteadily, trying
to adjust his mind to these unfamiliar surroundings, to remember--to
remember something. Then his ghastly situation rushed on his mind,
vivid with a new light. He was a criminal! He risked discovery, ruin!
He heard people moving about--servants. They must not suspect him
of any abnormality. Haggard, trembling, giddy, an old, old man, he
tottered up the stairs to his own bedroom.
Escape--escape from the consequences of his involuntary crime was
his master impulse. He was no longer the benevolent Mr. Todmorden,
successful, respected, the eminent solicitor; he was a hunted criminal,
happed by Furies. He must not be found out. He sobbed in self-pity and
strove for the control of his faculties. He must think--must think. The
brooch must be got rid of. He would drop it over London Bridge. Yes,
that was the way. The brooch gone beyond all possibility of recovery,
who would suspect him? He had not suspected himself. He breathed more
freely, feeling himself already safe. He would triple that reward.
That would avert suspicion. Yes. Yes. He repeated the monosyllable to
himself as he walked up and down the room.
But suppose there was some trace of the crime on him? He must make
sure. The inspector’s story of the light-suited fugitive came into
his mind--his pyjamas! That fugitive must have been himself in his
pyjamas. He had again that flashed memory of running, running silently.
He doubted no longer, but examined the pyjamas on his body, searching
for a spot of blood, for any sign that might betray him. Yes! There
on the trouser-leg was a smear of stone-coloured paint--the paint on
Miss Hartley’s window-sill. He must get those pyjamas away, destroy
them--somehow. He thought of half a dozen plans and rejected all.
Everything he thought of seemed to proclaim his guilt. The problem
was still unsolved when another danger occurred to him. His revolver
contained a discharged cartridge. He must reload it. Feverishly he did
so. As he clicked the chambers into place there was a knock at the
door. He put down the revolver and listened in sudden panic. The knock
was repeated. He tried to speak and could not. At last words came:
“What is it?”
“Please, sir, a man from the police-station wants to speak to you at
once.”
He tried hard to reply in his normal tones.
“All right. Tell him I’ll be down presently.”
“Please, sir, he says he can’t wait. It’s very urgent.” Discovery? No!
Impossible--as yet! He kept a tremor out of his voice by an effort.
“Show him into my dressing-room.”
Mr. Todmorden thought swiftly for a vivid second. That smear of paint
must be concealed. He slipped on a dressing-gown. Then he caught sight
of his revolver on the table, and, on a blind impulse, dropped it into
his pocket. He took a long breath. Now--was there anything about him
suspicious? He opened his dressing-gown and surveyed himself in the
mirror. Yes!--there was a button gone from his pyjama-jacket! Where had
he lost that button? He would have given anything for certainty. But he
must not keep the police waiting. That would look strange. He girdled
his gown about him and went into the dressing-room.
The chief inspector awaited him. A sharp expression of surprise came
into the officer’s face.
“I have had a bad night, inspector,” said the old gentleman, noticing
the look and feeling his haggard appearance needed explanation.
The inspector condoled with him.
“I am pleased to say we have found a slight clue to the criminal, Mr.
Todmorden,” he said, looking again sharply at the old gentleman. Mr.
Todmorden felt he quailed under the glance. “It’s a button. And, the
curious thing is, it is a pyjama button.”
“Yes?” Mr. Todmorden’s mouth went dry.
“Funny wear for a burglar--pyjamas,” commented the inspector. “Don’t
you think so, sir?”
“Very curious.” Mr. Todmorden recognized the urgent necessity for a
normal voice. “Yes; very curious.” He must talk--say something! “By the
way, inspector, I’ve been thinking about that reward. I’ve decided to
triple it. I--I am determined to catch the scoundrel.”
“Very kind of you, sir. I hope we shall ask you for the cheque. We’re
on the road, anyway. We’ve only got to find out where those pyjamas
came from, and, quite likely, we shall get on his track.”
“Yes, yes, quite so.” Would the interview never end? Mr. Todmorden
agonized.
“If we can only find some buttons like this we can make a start. There
are differences even in pyjama buttons, you know, sir. I have compared
it with mine, but it doesn’t tally. Would you mind comparing it with
yours?”
Mr. Todmorden stared at him, speechless.
“Would you mind comparing it with yours, sir? We must not neglect any
chance of getting a clue. Allow me!”
He stepped quickly to the old gentleman and flung aside his
dressing-gown. The buttons, with the hanging thread of their missing
fellow, were revealed. Triumph flashed in the inspector’s face.
“James Henry Todmorden, I----”
Mr. Todmorden jumped back from his grasp. With a sharp cry he drew his
hand swiftly from his pocket. There was a report, and he dropped to the
floor.
The inspector looked at his lifeless body.
“I thought the old rascal did it,” he said. “A well-planned bit of
work, though.”
THROUGH THE GATE OF HORN
The young man’s face was pale. His jaw, hard-set in a grip of
self-control, lent his clever, handsome features a suggestion of force
remarkable for his twenty-two years. At maturity, his intellect, backed
by so much character, would be formidable. He turned to the window,
stared out of it for a long moment. Then he switched round upon the
girl.
“So that’s your last word, Betty?--Finish?”
Her eyes dropped under his, were raised again in a volition which dared
to match itself, though she was tremulous with the effort, against the
challenge of his voice. Their blue depths were charmingly sincere.
“I cannot help myself, Jack.” She shook her head pathetically. “You
ought to understand.”
His voice came grimly, with intent to wound.
“You are selling yourself to James Arrowsmith. Yes, I understand.”
She shuddered, turned away her head in despair of sympathetic
comprehension. There was a silence during which both gazed down vistas
of gloomy thought. Then she looked up again, diffidently venturing
another appeal to his magnanimity.
“You know Father’s position----”
He nodded, sardonically.
“I know. He thinks his business is safe if James Arrowsmith is his
son-in-law instead of merely his go-ahead competitor. He’s wrong.
Arrowsmith would cut his own brother’s throat if he met him on a dark
road and thought he had a dollar in his pocket. He’s just a modern
brigand!”
The girl sighed.
“What can I do, Jack?--Father----”
He blazed out in a sudden fury.
“Oh, yes, I know! Father! I can’t help your father being a fool! It’s
not my fault that he can’t recognize potentiality in a man--that he
is only capable of appreciating a success that is already made, which
he can measure by a balance in a bank! Give me ten years--I’ll eat up
James Arrowsmith!”
The girl shook her head sadly.
“Ten years, Jack--it’s a long time ahead. We have got to deal with
things as they are to-day. And to-day----”
“I’m nothing!” he said, bitterly.
She looked up at him.
“You are just a promising young man fresh from college, Jack! With a
big future before you, I am sure of that--but it’s only a future!”
“I’ve started, anyway!” he exclaimed. “I’ve got that job on the
_Rostrum_--begin next week. And I’m going to make good!”
“Of course you are--but--we can’t marry on your pay as a very junior
sub-editor.” She shook her head again. “We must be reasonable, Jack. If
I saw any chance----”
“Yes,” he interrupted, brutally, “if you saw any chance of my
driving you about in six months’ time in a big motor-car like James
Arrowsmith’s--then you would condescend to love me!”
She stood up, her eyes filled with tears.
“Oh, _don’t_, Jack!” She turned away her head, pressed her hand to
her eyes, dropped it in a hopeless gesture. She faced him again, her
sensitive mouth quivering at the corners, her expression appealing
from misery to compassion. Evidently, she hardly dared trust herself
to speak. “You know I love you!” Her voice caught, almost broke. “You
know I love you now--shall never love any one else. All my life I shall
remember you--if I live fifty years----”
His short laugh was intended to express that terrible cynicism of Youth
losing its first illusions.
“Cut it out, Betty! In fifty years you will be seventy. No doubt
you will be a charming old lady. You may even be sentimental--you
can indulge safely in the luxury, then! But you won’t even remember
my name. You’ll only be interested in the love-affairs of your
grandchildren!”
She smiled at him involuntarily--and then consciously maintained the
gleam in her eyes, quick to emphasize and elaborate the note of comedy
he had accidentally struck. It was escape from threatening acrimony.
“And you, Jack? In nineteen-seventy-two? Will you remember _my_
name?--Will you be even sentimental, I wonder?--Oh, I should like to
see you--a cynical old grandfather, telling your grandchildren not to
marry for money, but to marry where money is!--Oh, Jack!” Her voice was
genuinely mirthful. “You _will_ come and see me and talk their affairs
over with me, won’t you? We shall be two such dear old cronies!”
He had to concentrate on his frown, endangered by her infectious sense
of humour.
“I shall never marry!” he announced, gloomily. “So there’s not much use
in promising to discuss my grandchildren’s affairs with you fifty years
hence. I shall never love another woman.”
She ignored the sombre vaticination, determined to keep on a safer
plane of futurity.
“Oh, wouldn’t you like to see, Jack? Fifty years ahead--and all that
will happen in the meantime?” There was just a hint of seriousness
in the light tone, in the bright eyes which smiled into his. “If
one could only know!” Her face went wistful. “I often wonder--these
crystal-gazers and people--whether they can really see----” She looked
up at, him. “Jack! You are so clever and know everything--don’t you
know any place where one can go and really see what is going to
happen?”
He smiled, half in pleasure at her flattery, half in the consciousness
of being about to say a clever thing. The smile was wholly youthful,
despite his assumption of withered cynicism.
“Yes. The place to which you are sending me.”
“What place?” Her tone was puzzled.
“Hell!” he said shortly.
She wrinkled her brows.
“I don’t understand.”
“Of course, you haven’t read Virgil,” he said, with the crushing
superiority of the newly fledged graduate. “It’s in the sixth
book--where he takes Ænas into Hades. He describes two gates there--a
gate of horn and a gate of ivory. They are the gates through which
all dreams come. Those that pass through the ivory gate are false
dreams--the true ones come out of the gate of horn. I will sit down
beside it, and report if any of them concern you. You haven’t left me
much other interest,” he concluded, bitterly, “and this life will be
just Hell.”
She looked at him in a short silence.
“You are being very cruel, Jack. Do you think there will be much
happiness for me?” She turned away her head.
He laid both his hands on her shoulders, compelled her gaze to meet his.
“Then let me give you happiness! Betty, I love you! I love you! I care
for nothing in the world but you! Risk it! Forget everything except
that you love me and I love you! You will never regret it. I will
make you the happiest woman on earth as I shall be the happiest man.
You cannot live without love! I love you, Betty!--and I shall always,
always love you! Trust yourself to it, whatever happens!”
She withdrew herself from him, shook her head hopelessly.
“I can’t,” she said, wearily. “I have promised----”
“Arrowsmith?”
“Father.” Her tone answered all the implications of his question
with a dreary finality that left no issue. Her sigh was a seal upon
resignation.
“Then it’s good-bye?”
She nodded in a forced economy of speech.
“Good-bye.”
He picked up hat, stick, and gloves and moved toward the door.
“You’ve nothing more to say to me?”
She shook her head, her eyes brimming with tears.
“No, Jack. Except that I shall remember this birthday as the most
miserable day of my life. You have not made it easy for me.”
“Why should I?” he asked, the uncompromising egotism of youth suddenly
harshly apparent. “You refuse the best gift I can offer you--myself!”
“I can’t help myself. But,” she hesitated on the pathetically forlorn
appeal, “you might be kind.” Her eyes implored him.
He struck himself upon the forehead with a dramatic little ejaculation
which matched the gesture.
“Bah!--It all seems like an evil dream to me!”
She smiled at him, sadly.
“I wish it came out of the gate of ivory, Jack--and not out of the gate
of horn!”
He flushed, his raw sensitiveness resentful of this boomerang return of
his own witticism.
“You can keep your sense of humour for James Arrowsmith,
Betty!--Good-bye!”
He snatched open the door, went out. He could not visualize her
standing there listening for his shattering slam of the front door,
running to the window for a last glimpse. He thought of her only as
mocking at the tragedy which was so real to him.
In a furious rage with the universe as constituted, he marched blindly
out of the house and straight across the pavement with intent to quit
even her side of the road. His brain in a whirl, he looked neither to
right nor left, careless of an environment which was at that moment
scarcely real to him. He only half-heard the raucous scream of a Klaxon
horn, a warning human shout--and then something struck him violently on
the side, followed it with a crashing blow on his head.
He could not see Betty’s face, tense and white, bending over his
senseless body as it was extricated from under James Arrowsmith’s
plutocratic car and--after her emphatic prohibition of hospital--borne
into her father’s house.
* * * * * *
He felt himself shoot upward in the vast, familiar elevator of the
_Daily Rostrum_ building. His head was full of important business,
interviews with Senators, statesmen, financiers which had filled his
busy day. With practised mental control he screened these matters
temporarily from his consciousness, cleared his brain for the immediate
tasks which awaited him. The elevator stopped opposite a door which
bore his name. As he opened it he heard, with the little glow of
observed success, the awed recognitory whisper of one of the two seedy
journalists he left behind him in the lift: “_The Editor!_”
He entered the big room hung with wall-maps above the low-ranged
bookcases, where a lady clerk was arranging his afternoon tea on a
little table by the side of his massive desk. His secretary, evidently
alert for his entrance, appeared at another door.
“Mr. Bolingbroke is waiting to see you, sir!”
“Good! Show him in!”
He settled himself in his big chair, glanced at the pile of papers on
his desk, looked up to nod a curt greeting to the keen-faced young man
who entered.
“Five minutes, Mr. Bolingbroke!” he said warningly, with a gesture
toward the papers which awaited him.
The young man smiled.
“I can do more business with you, sir, in five minutes, than I can with
another man in fifty,” he said, extracting a wad of typescript from an
attaché case. “Here’s the draft of the last article.”
He took it, leaned back in his chair, ran his eye over it. It was
headed “_The Cut-throat Combine. The Arrowsmith Apaches Uneasy For
Their Own Scalps. More Points for the Public Prosecutor._”
He skimmed it through rapidly. It was a scathing denunciation of a
predatory Trust with which the proprietors of the _Daily Rostrum_ had
quarrelled. Chapter and verse were given for a series of malpractices
which, substantiated after this publicity, would infallibly bring the
wrongdoers before a court of justice. He leaned forward, picked up a
pencil, struck out a few sentences, made other points more telling.
Suddenly he frowned, scored out a whole paragraph.
“You’re too tame over this infantile mortality business! You want to
let yourself scream over it. That’s the note that’ll wake ’em up!
Get all the sentimental parents clamouring for his blood!” He handed
back the typescript. “Rewrite the final paragraph and it’ll pass.” He
glanced at his watch. “Four and a half minutes, Mr. Bolingbroke!” he
said, an almost boyish note of triumph in his voice, “and I guess it’s
finish for Mr. James Arrowsmith!”
He turned to his tea while the journalist made his exit. Then he bent
himself forward to the business on his desk.
As he ran through and signed letter after letter, his own phrase
“Finish for Mr. James Arrowsmith!” rang in his head, repeated itself
over and over again with almost the distinctness of an auditory
hallucination. A detached portion of his consciousness listened to it,
was lured into a train of thought that was not unpleasant.
Of course, he had no real personal grudge against James Arrowsmith.
Without him----! He smiled as he set his signature at the foot of yet
another letter. That was a long time ago! And he had prophesied it--he
remembered, suddenly, his own words--“Give me ten years and I’ll _eat_
James Arrowsmith!” Ten years! He glanced involuntarily at the calendar
in front of him, read the date--1932. By Jove, it _was_ ten years--ten
years ago--Betty’s birthday! He glanced again at the calendar--and
dropped his pen on the desk with a sharp exclamation of annoyance. Good
Lord, of course it was! It was Betty’s birthday to-day! And he had
forgotten it!
For a moment or two he stared in front of him, his brows contracted
into a frown which was directed impartially at circumstance and
himself. He had been so terribly busy of late--but, of course, he must
find time. Poor old Betty! He took up the telephone instrument on his
desk, gave a number.
“Hallo! That you, Betty?--Jack. Jack speaking. Many happy returns of
the day! What?--Of course I remembered!--What?--Well, it’s only five
o’clock,” his tone was one of self-extenuation. “I say, old girl!
We’ll go out to dinner--any restaurant you like! What? You’ve got an
appointment?” He repeated the words incredulously. “Oh, very well!--I
say, Betty! You haven’t got a cold or anything, have you?--Oh, all
right--no, I only thought your voice sounded strange.” He frowned.
“Very well--do as you like! Good-bye!” He put back the receiver with a
vicious thud.
Throughout the remainder of the afternoon, while he gave directions to
the series of sub-editors who came deferentially into his presence, an
obscure worry persisted at the back of his consciousness. Of course--he
had to confess it--he had neglected her of late. How long was it since
he had been home? Only a month--or five weeks? The foreground of his
brain, working at full pressure on the problems continuously submitted
to it for instant decision, failed to solve the question--relegated it
to be worried over by that independent consciousness at the back of
his mind. It was a long time, anyway! Of course she understood. It was
the paper--the paper to which he was the slave--which, practically, he
never quitted (he had a bedroom in the building)--the paper of which he
personally read every item that was printed and an enormous quantity
of copy which was not--the paper which was his pride, his joy, his
one interest in life! Of course, she understood--but it was rough on
her. Poor old Betty! He thought of her strange voice, and winced with
remorse. She had been brooding over no letter that morning. If only
she would have gone to dinner with him! He felt that he could have
explained things, put everything straight. But she had an appointment!
What appointment? With whom? He put a thought out of his mind, and the
thought peeped persistently over the barrier. Impossible, of course!
Preposterous! Docile little Betty? Besides--who could there be? His
vanity was scornful of the idea.
Nevertheless, as he worked, an impulse kept rising in him, ever more
powerfully, an impulse to go home--to go home at once. He fidgeted as
he beat back the disturbing desire, had to concentrate himself fiercely
upon his task. Suddenly, as though the obscure subconsciousness, which
was, after all, his real self, had come to a decision in which his
brain had no part, he surrendered. He was surprised at himself as he
sharply pressed the bell-button upon his desk. His secretary appeared.
“Tell Mr. Thompson to see the paper through to-night. Get me a taxi at
once!”
The well-disciplined secretary barely succeeded in veiling his
astonishment.
“Very good, sir.--And if we get that cable from Yokohama----?”
He bit his lip in an unwonted hesitation. Upon the contents of a cable
expected that evening from Yokohama he would have to decide the policy
of his paper, and upon the policy of his paper, as outlined in the
leader which would be published in the morning, depended to a large
extent the direction of the current of popular opinion--the current
which would set in a few days toward peace or war. To-night, if ever,
he ought to remain at his post, but the dominant impulse which had
swept over him would take no denial. He felt like a traitor to his
professional code as he replied:
“I may be back. If I am not, ring me up. You will find me at home.”
His straight stare at the secretary challenged and browbeat the
bewilderment in that young man’s eyes.
“Very good, sir,” he said, submissively, and departed.
A few minutes later he found himself speeding homeward in a taxi that,
despite the reckless audacity of the liberally subsidized driver,
could not go fast enough. The momentary halts imposed by cross-traffic
seemed interminably prolonged delays. Of course he was a fool, he
told himself--but his impatience increased with every second, set
his fingers drumming upon the unread evening newspaper on his knee.
At last! The taxi swung into the pavement in front of the tall block
of flats where he had his city home. He jumped out with the feverish
alacrity of a man who hastens to avert disaster, almost ran to the
elevator.
Another moment and he was fitting his key into the latch. He swung the
door open--was confronted by Betty in hat and furs, apparently just on
the point of departure. She shrank back at his entrance, went white.
“Jack!”
The tone of her voice reëchoed in him like an alarm-bell. He looked
sharply at her.
“Where are you going?”
She stared at him, white to the lips, evidently unable to answer. He
repeated the question in a level voice from which, by an effort of
will, he banished the wild suspicion which suddenly surged up in him.
“Where are you going, Betty?”
She laughed, a trifle hysterically.
“You are taking a great interest in my doings all at once, Jack! I’m
going out, of course.--I told you I had an appointment.”
His eyes met hers, held them till they dropped and she went suddenly
red. He opened the door of an adjoining room, gestured her to enter,
followed her.
They stood and faced each other in a silence that seemed to ring with
the menace of near event. He was the first to break it.
“Now perhaps you will tell me where you are going, Betty?” He held
his voice on a note of politeness, but it was nevertheless sternly
compelling.
Her eyes sought the carpet. Her bosom heaved deeply through a long
moment where there was no sound save the suddenly perceived loud
ticking of the clock upon the mantelpiece. Then, on the wave of a
resolve, she lifted her head, confronted him proudly.
“I am going to leave you, Jack!” It was evident that she had to fight
to keep her voice from breaking. “I--I have had enough of it!”
His ejaculation was characteristic.
“My dear!--You must be mad!”
An answering anger came into her eyes.