"Just because a man belongs to the secret service," returned the youth,
"is no reason why he shouldn't attempt once in a while to do something
really useful."
And he knelt once more and took up his work where he had left off.
Barbara stood by and watched him at it. "I would like to do his hands,
too," she thought, "when I can get round to it." They were very strong,
square, able hands. She found herself wishing to touch them. And since
this was a wish that she had never experienced for any other pair of
hands, she wondered at herself with a frank and childish wonder.
"Your taxi, Miss Barbara."
"Thank you, Bubbles."
She slipped out of her overall, and with swift touches adjusted her hat
at a small mirror. The secret-service agent once more rose from
his knees.
"Good-by," said Barbara, "and thank you, and don't forget."
"Never," said he.
She shook hands with him, and his firm strong clasp, literally
swallowing her own little hand, was immensely pleasant to her and of a
fine friendliness.
"Good-by, Bubbles. See you in the morning."
"Good-by, Miss Barbara."
She was gone. The man resumed his work. The boy watched.
"Harry."
"What?"
"Was I right?"
"Right."
[Illustration: Harry, the workman, ... rose to his feet, and turned to
Barbara with a certain quiet eagerness]
"A wonder--or not?"
"A wonder."
"Harry."
"What?"
"You won't leave Blizzard up to me all alone, will you? Not _now_, you
won't?"
"No, Bubbles, not now. Whenever he's posing in this room, you and I
won't be far off."
"Because," said Bubbles, smiling with relief, "I'd do my best, but if it
came to a show-down with _him_ there ain't a thing I _could_ do."
"One time or another," said Harry, "we'll _get_ him. You and I will."
"I betcher," said Bubbles.
And in his little peaked face there was much that was threatening to the
ultimate welfare of the legless beggar.
X
Barbara, ordinarily clear-minded and single-minded, drove uptown with
her thoughts in a state of chaos. She wished to think only about her
newly begun head of Satan fallen, since nothing else seemed to her at
the moment of any importance, but the face, hands, and voice of the
young secret-service agent refused to be banished, and kept suing for
kindly notice.
In almost the exact degree in which the legless beggar was repulsive to
her sense of perfection the secret-service agent was attractive. She had
never seen a man so agreeable to her eyes. And yet, as a marine artist
might see fame in painting a wreck upon a sea-shore, rather than a fine
new ship under full sail, so she felt that, artistically considered,
there was no comparison whatever between the two men. The face of the
elder compelled attention and study, and loosed in the observer's mind a
whole stream of conjecture and unanswerable questions. The face of the
younger began and ended perhaps in the attractions of youth and high
spirits. It was a face of which, should the mind back of it prove
wanting, you might tire, and learn to look upon as commonplace.
In the midst of unguided thinking Barbara laughed aloud; that small boy
whom she had lifted from the cold gutter to comparative affluence and
incomparable affection for his rescuer came unbidden into the
flurry-scurry of her thoughts, and remained for some time. And she knew
that if all her friends should fail her, if the beggar returned no more
to be modelled, if the secret-service agent proved but a handsome empty
shell, Bubbles would always show up at the appointed time and place
while life remained in him. Then, again, as she tried to concentrate
upon her bust of Blizzard, the secret-service agent stepped forward, you
may say, and smiled into her eyes. And she smiled back. Again she seemed
to feel the strong clasp of his hand, and to hear the agreeable and even
musical intonation of his strong voice. Odd, she thought, that he should
come to put on door-knobs, turn out to be a secret-service agent, and
have at the same time, if not the characteristics of a fine gentleman,
those at least of a man of education and sensibility infinitely superior
to the highest type of day-laborer or detective. One of her new
acquaintances talked like a gentleman and claimed to be the son of a
distinguished man; the other, claiming nothing, was infinitely more
presentable; and there was only the small boy who remained frankly
representative of his class. In spite of his coat of bright buttons, he
was of the streets streety; a valiant little ragamuffin, in all but the
actual rags. He had the morals of his class and the point of view, and
differed only in the excellence of his heart. This was a heart made for
loving, devotion, and sacrifice. Yet it was crammed to the brim with
knowledge of evil, and even tolerance therefor. That certain men in
certain circumstances would act in such and such a way was not a
horrible idea to Bubbles, but merely a fact. In the boy's code stealing
from a friend was stealing, but stealing from an enemy was merely one
way of making a living.
Upon arriving at her father's house, Barbara met Wilmot Allen just
turning away from the door. His handsome face brightened at the sight of
her, and he sprang forward hatless to furnish her with quite unnecessary
aid in stepping out of the taxi.
"Oh, _there_ you are!" he said. "Sparker said you might be home for
lunch and again you might not. Please may I graft a meal?"
"Of course," said Barbara, "but unless somebody else drops out of the
skies we'll be all alone."
"Your father off on a case?"
"Yes," said Barbara, as they went in, "he is operating, but in Wall
Street. And what's the best news with you?"
"That spring's come and summer's coming. When do your holidays begin?"
"_That"_ said Barbara, with a certain air of triumph, "is a secret of
the workshop. Let's sit in the dining-room. It's the only way to
hurry lunch."
To persons used to humbler ways of life Dr. Ferris's dining-room would
have proved too large and stately a place for purposes of intimate
conversation. Warriors and ladies looked down from the tapestried walls
upon a small round table set with heavy silver and light glass for two,
and having the effect, in the midst of an immense deep-blue rug, of a
little island in a lake. But Barbara and Wilmot Allen, well used to even
larger and more stately rooms, faced each other across the white linen
with its pattern of lotus-plants and swans, and chatted as comfortably
and unconcernedly as two children in their nursery.
"As for holidays," said Barbara, "I have a new model, Wilmot; a
wonderful person, and that means _work_. I may stay in town right
through the summer."
Allen sighed loudly, and on purpose. "You make me tired," he said.
"Bring a lump of clay down to Newport, and _I'll_ sit for you."
Barbara affected to study his face critically. Then she shook her head.
"My new model," she explained, "has got the face of a fallen angel. I
think I can do it. And if I can do it, why, I see all the good things of
sculping coming my way."
"An ordinary every-day angel face wouldn't do?" her guest insinuated. "I
could go out and fall."
"I don't doubt it!" she returned somewhat crisply. "I feel very sure
that you could disgrace yourself without trouble and even with relish.
But it wouldn't show in your face. You see, you couldn't really
be wicked."
"Couldn't I though!" exclaimed the young man. "A lot you know about it.
I could eat you up for one thing without turning a hair, and that would
be wicked."
"It wouldn't," Barbara laughed. "It would be greedy. My new model has
the face of a man who has never stopped at anything that has stood in
his way. I fancy that he has murders up his sleeve and every other crime
in the calendar. And sometimes memory of them brings the most wonderful
look of sorrow and remorse into his face, and at the same time he looks
resolved to go on murdering and burning and sinning because he can't get
back to where he was when he began to fall, and must go on falling or
perish. Don't you think that if I can cram that into a lump of clay I'll
make a reputation for myself?"
"I think," said Wilmot, "that if you've got that kind of a man sitting
for you, you'll need all the reputation you can get. You talk of him
with the same sort of enthusiasm that a bird would show in describing
being fascinated by a snake."
Barbara considered this judicially. "Do you know," she agreed, "it is
rather like that. He fascinates me, and at the same time I never saw a
brute I hated so. He must be wicked to deserve such pain."
"Oh, he suffers, does he?"
"Of course. Wouldn't you suffer every minute of your life if you had no
legs?"
Barbara, intent upon what was on her plate, did not perceive the sudden
astonished darkening of Wilmot Allen's face, nor that the interest which
he had hitherto only feigned in her new model had become genuine.
"What is he?"
"I was going to say 'just a beggar,'" said Barbara. "But he isn't just
a beggar. I've gathered that he's rather well off, and that he's one of
the powers on the East Side. And he looks money and power, even if he
doesn't talk them."
"Is his name by any chance Blizzard?"