Despite the probability that the lawyer had told the truth, the
night passed in vigilant waiting. The two pugilists curled upon the
sofa; O’Leary dozed in the big chair, while Dangerfield, at the
great Florentine table, his chin sunk in his palms, stared ahead of
him, the long periods of immobility broken only by brief nervous
resorting to the cards. Inga, by his side, sought to occupy her
mind with a novel. From the moment she had learned from the lawyer
of the divorce, her attitude toward Dangerfield had taken on an
unwonted reserve. It was long after midnight when he turned and
looked at her. She raised her eyes--she had not been reading for
some time--and met his.
“What is it?” she said, smiling.
“You had better go to bed.”
She shook her head. “I couldn’t sleep.”
“But you are not reading.”
“No; I was thinking.”
He started to question her further and then stopped.
“You knew all along who I was,” he said at last.
“Yes--from the first.”
“And that made no difference?”
She shook her head, smiling a little, but not looking at him.
“A precious fine reputation I’ve got,” he said bitterly. “Wait till
you see what the papers will make of Dan Garford’s latest escapade!”
She shrugged her shoulder impatiently, and checked a reply with
a quick frown and a glance at the others, as though conscious of
their sleeping intrusion.
“I think he told the truth,” he said disjointedly, after a moment.
“Who? Drinkwater?”
“Yes; I’m sure of it.” He pressed his knuckles against his lips
and said, frowning, “Well, that leaves only one more thing to do.”
He said it quietly, but with an accent of deep finality. When she
thought him quite lost in this mood, he surprised her by saying,
“Why does it make a difference to you?” He turned, caught the look
of astonishment on her face, and added: “Why would you rather that
I should be married?”
“Why do you say that?” she said, genuinely amazed at his intuition.
“You are different--you are not the same--I feel it.”
She waited a moment, and then said hurriedly, in a low voice:
“If I told you, you wouldn’t understand!”
At this moment, O’Leary, probably disturbed at the sound of voices,
moved heavily in his chair. Dangerfield waited a moment to assure
himself that the sleep was still profound, before saying:
“I am not so sure I don’t understand now.” He looked at her keenly,
albeit with gentleness, for there was a softness in his eyes and
the smile that came to his lips was one of comprehension. He laid
his hand over hers and said: “Isn’t it because--before nothing
bound you--you were free to go any moment. There’s something wild
in you--untamed.”
“I don’t know--I really don’t know,” she said, looking away.
“I’ve never misunderstood you, child,” he said, nodding as though
satisfied. “Don’t worry. Men like me don’t bruise--” he hesitated a
moment, patted her hand, and said softly, “guardian angels.”
“Oh, I never was afraid of that!” she said swiftly, turning
impulsively toward him.
“I’m not going to put a cloud over your life,” he said doggedly.
He rose, left her, and went to the window. She extinguished the
light and came softly over to his side until her hand slipped
through his arm.
“Why did you do that?” he said, feeling the sudden drop of darkness
about them and then, answering his question, he added, “There is
nothing to fear now--I feel that.”
She stood silently beside him looking out, and the touch on his arm
seemed gradually to grow heavier until her body drew close to his
side. In the black night, one window flamed out, feverishly alive
against a distant tenement.
“Wonder what’s going on there, too?” he said moodily. “I wonder
what poor devil’s fighting out his fight there?”
She did not answer, and then all at once her hands closed about his
arm, and she said,
“Mr. Dan, don’t go away.”
“What makes you say that?” he said, startled.
“Don’t go away from me,” she said, in her deep voice. “Promise me
that.”
“No; I can’t promise that,” he said, between his teeth.
“But you’ll tell me first--just promise that,” she insisted. He
shook his head. “Oh, I don’t know why I am like this to-night,” she
said impulsively, “but I know if you went away--” She stopped and
something caught in her throat.
He gave an exclamation and caught her in his arms in a close clasp.
“Inga, Inga, don’t; it’s more than I can bear.”
“Promise, promise,” she said incoherently, and her hands fastened
to his coat as she hid her head against his shoulder.
“I promise not to--to go without telling you why,” he said, at
last. “Will that satisfy you?”
She caught his hand swiftly and pressed it against her heart. Then
she went back hastily to the table and lit the light. O’Leary
suddenly aroused, started up. It was almost four o’clock.
The next morning came Dangerfield’s lawyer, Judge Brangman, with
his clerk, to confirm the news that Drinkwater had brought. The
interview was private, even the clerk presently reappearing in the
hall and departing. Judge Brangman was closeted a full two hours,
and that the meeting was not without dissension was obvious, not
only from the prolongation of the discussion but by the frequent
rise of angry voices. Finally, the door opened on an evidently
complete disagreement, for Dangerfield’s voice was heard saying:
“Judge, this is not a question of law; it is something--permit
me--that you don’t seem to understand.”
“I only understand,” said the voice of the visitor, in high-pitched
exasperation, “that you are beggaring yourself for a quixotic idea,
and that I, as your legal adviser, have a right to protest.”
“Possibly. But my mind’s set. I like to _buy_ the cur. See that the
information is sent to me this afternoon--time and place.”
“Dan--a last time--won’t anything shake you?”
“Nothing.”
“But we’re not living in the Middle Ages. Men don’t do such things.”
“I do,” said Dangerfield, with cold harshness, “and they know it.”
“I give up,” said the judge, with something like a break in his
voice. “Go on; do what you want.”
“Call me anything you want,” said Dangerfield, with the same
ominous calm. “Probably I am a fool; possibly I always have been
one, but that’s why I’m going to carry my point.”
The judge put up his hands in helpless rage and went stumbling down
the hall, while those in O’Leary’s room heard him exclaim,
“Mad--perfectly mad!”
By this time, the Three Arts, so to speak, had come to the same
conclusion.
“Wish the devil he’d get it over with,” said Flick wearily,
“whatever he’s going to do. I’ve seen some sporting life, but, holy
cats! this being on the jump all hours of the night and day is
getting into my constitution.”
“I say, Music,” said Tootles, equally distressed, “why don’t you
loosen up and tell what you know. We’ve stood enough, don’t you
think?”
Thus confronted, O’Leary said cautiously:
“Well, what’s puzzling you?”
“Puzzling us! That’s good!” said Flick, with a loud laugh. “What we
want to know is what’s all this mystery-game--and, most important,
when do we settle down and sleep?”
“Why, I don’t see why I shouldn’t tell you what I know,” said
O’Leary frankly, “specially as you must have guessed the same.
From all I can figure, it’s a family affair; friend in corner has
forced a divorce; leastwise it must be so, for, from all we can put
together, that’s what brought the woman here that night to try and
get him to give up the idea. Likewise, when that failed, looks as
though they tried to get him jugged for a loony and put away.”
“But why should she care about preventing the divorce?” said Flick.
“Question of money, I suppose,” said O’Leary thoughtfully.
“But, then, Drinkwater?” said Tootles. “How was he in it? I know
that he must have been spying around and carrying information and
that he was in the plot to get us out the way--yes, yes--but this
last business--what the deuce did he say that started Dangerfield
off like a wild bull?”
O’Leary shook his head.
“Some dirty business--the fellow was double-crossing some one,
perhaps.”
“Well, when is it going to stop?” said Flick querulously. “That’s
the only thing interests me.”
“I imagine it’s over now,” said O’Leary, who knew of the granting
of the divorce but was ignorant of any further complications; “in
fact, I’m positive.”
“You are, eh?” said Flick incredulously.
“I’d take my oath on it.”
At this moment, there came a sharp, rattling knock; the door
opened, and Dangerfield walked in.
“Am I interrupting?”
“No.”
There had come a change in the man which struck them at once; the
indecision and groping weariness of the last days had lifted. He
seemed alive with energy and action, and yet, as he stood there
looking about the room, there was about him momentarily the same
expression which had startled them on his first appearance.
“What can we do for you?” asked O’Leary naturally and heartily.
Dangerfield looked down abruptly, his face cleared, and he said in
a matter-of-fact tone:
“O’Leary, will you do me one more service?”
“Sure.”
“Will you accompany me this afternoon for about an hour to a place
I am going? I shall know in a short while.”
“Nothing easier,” said O’Leary; but, under the ease of his manner,
he was watching Dangerfield closely.
“Thanks.” He started to go and stopped. “There’ll be no
trouble--and yet you might as well be prepared.”
“I get you!” said O’Leary, with a nod.
Dangerfield returned to his room, leaving consternation behind.
Tootles was so overcome that he upset a box of charcoal, while
Flick gave vent to a prolonged whistle, adding sarcastically,
“Peace and calm descendeth!”
“What the deuce is up?” said O’Leary, scratching his ear. “I don’t
get this at all!”
“Well, I know one thing,” said Flick vehemently; “I think you’re
a bigger fool than I took you for if you start out on any gunman
visit without knowing into what little pocket you’re walking.”
O’Leary evidently thought as much, for presently he wandered up the
hall in search of Inga, but the girl was away, and before she had
returned something else had happened. A messenger arrived with a
letter for Dangerfield, which he read with evident satisfaction,
for he came down to the studio and said briskly:
“O’Leary, can you be ready to start in an hour?”
“I don’t see why not,” said O’Leary.
“Four o’clock, then.”
A few minutes before that hour, O’Leary, ready for the street, made
a last attempt to find Inga, in the hope that she could throw some
light on the errand on which he was embarked. But the girl was
not in her room, and as he was turning away, Dangerfield came out
alone. King O’Leary could not suppress an exclamation of surprise.
The man stood before him in top-hat, a cutaway revealed through the
folds of his fur coat. By the slender gray-silk cravat, caught in
an old-fashioned ring, and the light gloves in his hand, he might
have been mistaken for a bridegroom.
“I say, are we going to a wedding?” said O’Leary facetiously.
“Yes,” said Dangerfield, rather taken back. “Just that, a wedding.”
“A wedding!” said O’Leary, in blank astonishment.
“Now you know,” said Dangerfield, who didn’t seem particularly
pleased at the disclosure.
“I don’t know anything at all,” said O’Leary, who followed him,
grumbling and shaking his head, his imagination filled with the
eccentric possibilities this might portend. “Wonder if he’s going
to be married himself!” he thought, gazing at him suspiciously.
But the depression and moodiness on Dangerfield’s face belied the
surmise. The elevator came up, and in it was Inga. The moment she
saw the two standing there, an expression of great alarm came into
her face.
“What--you are going out!” she stammered, looking from one to the
other. “It is for this afternoon, then?”
Dangerfield nodded, and something like a triumphant sneer, brutal
and vindictive, quite foreign to his usual moods, appeared about
his mouth.
“This afternoon, as I said!”
“You’re not going alone?”
“No, no; O’Leary’s with me.”
The alarm which had seized her from the first seemed suddenly
translated into another terror as she caught him by the arm, saying,
“One word--just one word first.”
While O’Leary and Sassafras stood waiting, ill at ease, she drew
him over the hooded bridge which connected the two wings of the
Arcade.
“Mr. Dan,” she said breathlessly, clasping her hands, “you’ll come
back?”
“Why, of course, of course,” he said nervously, not meeting her
eyes.
“You’ll come back--you promised,” she said, and as she put her head
down and swayed against him, he felt her body trembling. They were
hidden by the bend of the hooded passage, alone in the filtered
light that struggled up the gloomy halls.
“Inga--Inga--don’t make it harder for me,” he said bitterly.
“You’ll come back,” she repeated, desperately clinging to him, her
face upraised, her eyes searching his in terror. “Say it; promise
it!”
“I--perhaps--” His hand closed over her fingers with the nervous
tension that these last days of abstinence had brought him.
“Mr. Dan, you must not think you’re alone--you mustn’t say no
one cares!” She slipped her arms about his neck, and he felt
her breast shaken with the heave of agitated breaths. “If
anything--anything--happened--” She shook her head and stopped,
unable to finish.
“Happen--what do you think--why is that idea in your head?” he
said, holding her from him.
She put her handkerchief hastily to her eyes and threw her head
back suddenly, so that her look seemed to penetrate through his
mask and search into his soul.
He repeated his question, but this time uneasily, conscious of the
scrutiny under which she held him.
“Nothing,” she said abruptly. In a moment she was back into the
restraint of her usual self. “Then you will come back here--to
me,” she said slowly, “to-night. It makes no difference to
me--understand that--in what condition you are. I’ll be waiting.”
He looked at her, rather startled by this, then profoundly touched,
and his face showed the emotion she had aroused in him for he
turned hastily away, saying:
“As you wish, then--and it’s a promise.”
They came back to the elevator hurriedly, each plainly upset, and
separated with a brief nod. The mood into which Inga had thrown
him possessed him long after they had taken a taxi and started
across the park, for he leaned forward, seemingly oblivious to
the presence of company, and frowned down on the strongly clasped
hands which, from time to time, were pressed against his teeth in
strained, convulsive gestures. O’Leary, who watched him in growing
perplexity, decided to break the silence.
“If there’s anything you want of me particularly, Dangerfield,
you’d better tell me.”
“What? Oh, yes!” Dangerfield came back to his seat with a start,
ran his hand over his forehead, and said apologetically,
“O’Leary, I owe you my apologies!”
“Oh, that’s all right!”
“I owe you more than that,” he said, with one of his sudden smiles
which had the effect of charming away all resentment. “I know it;
I’m deeply grateful. If I don’t tell you all details won’t you
understand that it’s because the subject is too painful?”
“Don’t say a word, then,” said O’Leary.
“Besides--to-morrow--when the papers get hold of it--” He shrugged
his shoulders. “Will it suffice you to know that I have asked
you to assist at a wedding, a wedding for which I am peculiarly
responsible?” The tones became cold and implacable. “In fact, you
have met the lady before--as you perhaps have guessed, she is my
former wife. There are circumstances which make it desirable for
all parties to avoid as much publicity as possible. That’s why
it’s being solemnized at the place we are going.” He leaned forward
and rapped on the window, signaling the driver to stop. “We’ll get
out here.”
The taxi drew up in a side street at his orders. Up the avenue in
that thronged district of the slums of the upper city which lies on
the beginnings of Harlem, O’Leary perceived the tower of a church.
Dangerfield’s moodiness had closed over him again. At a gesture
of his, O’Leary followed him into the vestibule. Knowing what he
had been able to patch together, he could faintly divine the storm
of emotion which swept his companion as the door closed behind
them and they entered the dimness of the chapel. There were a bare
half-dozen persons--the minister, the couple standing before him by
the pulpit, the whole far enough away to be unrecognizable; yet at
the sudden letting-in of the noises of the street, each turned with
a start. It was as though each had divined who the new arrival must
be.
Dangerfield acknowledged the recognition with a short forward
bending of his head, but, instead of taking a seat, he remained
standing by a pillar, arms folded, immovable; nor in the
obscurity was it possible for his companion to judge what emotion
predominated. The sounds of the minister’s voice came to them in
regular cadences until the decisive words, “I therefore pronounce
you man and wife.”
At this, O’Leary, with his eyes still on Dangerfield, saw the arms
relax and the head thrown back as though a weight had slipped from
the shoulders. The next moment his companion had touched him on the
arm and gone out, saying:
“That’s all--come!”
On the sidewalk, Dangerfield seemed to be moving blindly, for he
stumbled once and had started off in a direction quite different
from the corner where their taxi was waiting, when O’Leary checked
him on the arm, saying:
“That’s not the way, man, to your taxi.”
At his touch Dangerfield turned, without seeming realization of
where he was.
“What--what taxi?”
“The taxi we came in that’s waiting,” said O’Leary impatiently, “or
shall I let it go?”
“No, no.”
They retraced their steps, but, to do so, they were forced to
pass by the entrance of the church just as the wedding-party was
emerging. Dangerfield stopped with an exclamation and drew himself
up stiffly, while the press of the crowd brought them momentarily
face to face with the bride and groom, as they came through the
fringe of spectators. A curious pair they made for two who had just
come from the altar. Each face seemed dominated by a sullen fury,
and O’Leary, looking at them, mumbled to himself:
“’Deed they look more like they were waiting to knife each other
than dreaming of wedded bliss!”
When they perceived Dangerfield, the man started back with
something akin to fear in his eyes, while the woman, warned by his
movement, looked up and, meeting the look of her former husband,
caught her breath. For a moment the black rage which convulsed her
face shook her so that she seemed on the point of breaking all
restraint and turning on them. But at this dangerous moment, some
one spoke to her in sharp command, seized her arm and hurried her
into a carriage. O’Leary recognized Doctor Fortier.
A moment later, the whole party had disappeared down the avenue,
leaving Dangerfield and O’Leary standing in the midst of a group of
urchins, grocer-boys and nursery-maids, who, sensing the approach
of a tragic coincident, were staring open-mouthed at the shaggy,
bearlike man who continued lost in his reveries. It wasn’t until
O’Leary felt impelled to recall him by a touch on his arm that
Dangerfield (to keep to the name which he had voluntarily assumed)
came to himself, perceived the growing curiosity of the throng with
a start, brushed them aside with an angry sweep of his arms. Half
an hour later, without having uttered a word, he deposited O’Leary
at the Arcade, dismissed the car, and strode away down the avenue,
before his companion, taken off his guard, had thought to remind
him of his promise to Inga.
* * * * *
At eleven o’clock, Dangerfield, led by some dramatic impulse,
returned to his club, from which he had exiled himself for
months. From the moment that the old tugging, feverish thirst for
oblivion had swept him from O’Leary into the solitude of crowds
and the electric heart of the city, he had been drinking blindly,
impatiently, with a need of quieting the throbbing nerves which
were rapping an insistent tattoo against his brain. A dozen men
were in the lounge up-stairs, old friends, who started up with
exclamations of surprise at seeing the familiar tousled head with
the gray lock appearing above the stairs. Quite a crowd came
thronging about the prodigal returned, the more enthusiastic in
that they had never expected to lay eyes on him again. He stood
among them outwardly calm and smiling, his brain fighting off the
numbing, confused riot that raged within it. Several, divining his
condition, stole wondering, apprehensive glances at him.
He was installed in a great armchair before the blazing logs in the
fireplace in the light and warmth of familiar friendly regions,
and, as he put out his hands gratefully against the heat, feeling
himself surrounded by friends, it seemed to him that he was a
prey to some tantalizing hallucinations of happiness that must
vanish at a waking start. He remained deep into the night, drinking
steadily, striving to beat down the iron control of his head,
which still held him cruelly to the realization of the actual.
One by one the old friends were forced to leave, going silently,
ominously impressed by the deliberate intensity of the man, the
wildness in his eyes and the sudden fits of moody wandering. At
two o’clock, all sounds had grown dulled and pleasant in his ears.
He rose, walked into the office without faltering, exchanged a
courteous handshake with a friend from the pool-table and asked
for his account, discharged it in full, wrote out his resignation,
and posted it to the board of directors. As he started to leave
he found himself before the board on which was posted the list
of members suspended for house-charges or non-payment of dues.
All at once, a sentimental idea came to him. He examined the list
carefully, found in it the names of four men, old friends in
straightened circumstances, and carefully wrote down the sums of
their indebtedness.
“I think I should like to attend to these,” he said politely,
drawing his check-book.
Then he thanked the clerk, pocketed the receipts, insisted on
buying a last round of drinks for the few late stragglers at the
pool-tables, who, amazed, watched him depart without a single
misstep. When he had received his coat and hat, he slipped a bill
in the hand of Pedro, the Argus of the club.
“’Gainst the rules,” he said, in a whisper, “but not ordinary case.
Wish you luck, Pedro!”
* * * * *
On the long, bleak way to the Arcade, he stopped at a drug store
on Seventh Avenue, whispered a moment to a clerk in the shadows
of the back counter, received a small bottle, and as he examined
it nodded with satisfaction, and went out. He entered the Arcade
and stood a moment in its deserted, oppressive silence, staring
at the dim interiors of shops that showed like pale catacombs on
either side, and all at once broke out into a short, bitter laugh,
as though this end of all had struck him as the most incongruous
thing in his fantastic life. He did not wake up Sassafras, but went
up the long six flights slowly, sitting down from time to time and
talking to himself, his head in his hands. The corridor was deathly
quiet and dim, and the one struggling, bending blue flame in the
gas-jet before his room seemed to him a beacon in far-off regions
as he groped his way to it. The door was unlocked--the room faintly
reflecting outlines in queer distorted shadows. He sat down and
stared solemnly about him. Then he rose, fumbled a moment, and
found the button. The lights flashed across the room. At the table,
asleep, her body sunk into weariness of long vigilance, was Inga
Sonderson. At the same moment she moved, saw him, and started up
with a cry of relief, which she checked with a clutching of her
hand at her throat. The next moment she came swiftly over to him,
all surprise banished from her face, quick and matter of fact,
saying:
“Slip out of your coat. I’ll take it.”
He backed away, rebelling at her presence and the will which was
there to oppose his. All at once he remembered his promise, and a
cunning loophole dawned in his foggy brain.
“Came back as I promised,” he said solemnly, folding his arms in
antagonism. “All right now, going out again.”
Instinctively he comprehended the persistent opposition that lay
in the slender body facing him, and sought to escape it. To his
surprise, she did not object, but after a moment’s thought nodded
and went toward her room.
“What are you going to do?” he said roughly.
“I’m going with you,” she said.
He laughed incredulously. The next moment she was back, enveloped
in coat and muffler.
“You’re going,” he said frowning, “now?”
“Whenever you wish,” she said, her dark eyes steadily on him,
without reproach or criticism.
“We’ll see,” he said, resentfully, and he started down the hall.
Without a word she followed at his side.