Nothing so makes for insomnia as a man's knowledge that he has made a
fool of himself. Between Chicago and New York Wilmot Allen did not even
have his berth made up. He visited the dining-car at the proper
intervals, hardly conscious of what he ordered or ate. He bought
newspapers, books, magazines, and opened none of them. For the most part
he looked out the window of his compartment into rushing daylight or
darkness. His mind kept travelling the round of a great circle that
began and ended in humiliation. He had been as confiding in Blizzard's
hands as an undeveloped child of seven. He had been teaching men whose
creed was murder and anarchy how to handle weapons. He had taken at
their face value words uttered by an emperor among scoundrels; had asked
no material or leading questions, and was in his conscience paying the
penalty for having snatched at tainted money with which to relieve
himself of obligations that pressed till they hurt.
Beginning in humiliation, the circle of his thoughts ascended time after
time to Barbara, only to fall from the high and tender lights which
memories and anticipations of her brought into them, back to that
darkness in which he struggled to give himself "a little the best of
things" and could not.
On arriving in New York a man of more complex mental processes would
have tried first of all to get the precious information which he carried
into the possession of Lichtenstein, but Wilmot felt that he could have
no peace until he had seen Blizzard, spoken his mind, and washed his
hands of him. That he would then put his own life in danger did not
occur to him, and would not have altered his determination if it had.
The lure of Barbara, however, drew him aside from the direct path to
Marrow Lane. He had resolved not to see her for a year, but thought it
right to break through that resolution in order to tell her at first
hand of Harry West's death. But the janitor told him that Miss Ferris
had not been coming to the studio for a long time. She had had no word
from her. She had left one day by the back stair without her hat; a
little later the legless beggar had left by the front door. His
expression had been enough to frighten a body to death. Yes, the boy had
come one day in a taxicab and gone away with her things. He had refused
to answer any questions. She had never thought very highly of him as a
boy. No, the bust upon which Miss Ferris had been at work had not been
removed. No, the gentleman could not see it. Orders were orders.... Yes,
the gentleman could see it. After all there had been no orders recently.
She led the way upstairs, her hand tightly closed upon a greenback. She
unlocked and flung open the door of Barbara's studio, remarking that
nothing in it had been touched since that lady's departure.
Wilmot noticed much dust, an overturned chair, and then his eyes rose to
the bust of Blizzard as to a living presence. The expression of that
bestial fallen face made his spine feel as if ants were crawling on it.
And he turned away with disgust and hatred. "Oh, Barbs, Barbs, what a
wrong-headed little darling you are!" But he added: "And Lord, what a
talent she's got!"
Blizzard was not in his office. But he was upstairs and expected Mr.
Allen.
A girl who had been wonderfully pretty told Wilmot these things. She
would have been wonderfully pretty still, for she was very young, if she
had not looked so tired, so unhappy, so broken-spirited. Did Rose still
love the man for whom she had betrayed her friends and her own better
nature? Yes. But she had learned that she was no more to him than a
plaything--to caress or to break as seemed most amusing to him. At first
until the novelty of her had worn off he had shown her a sufficiency of
brusque tenderness. Latterly as his great plans matured he had been all
brute. Sometimes he made her feel that he was so surfeited with her love
that he considered killing her.
Sideways, with eyes haunted by shame and tragedy, she gave the handsome
bearded youth a look of compassion. "In here, please," she said.
The door closed behind Wilmot with an ominous click, and he found
himself face to face with the legless beggar. In this one's eyes, seen
above a table littered with pamphlets and writings, was none of that
mock affability to which he had formerly treated Wilmot Allen. He looked
angry, dangerous, poisonous. And he broke into a harsh, ugly laugh.
"It takes you," he said, "to rush in where angels fear to tread. Welcome
to my parlor! What a fool! My God! You heard what Harry West had to say
before he died, and you came straight here."
"I don't know how you know it. But I did talk to your son. I did hear
what he said. And I came here to tell you. And to tell you that there
will be no more dealings between us. I am going straight from here to
tell the proper authorities what I know."
"Aren't you going to punch my face first? That's what you'd like to do.
It's in your eyes. But you're afraid."
"I am not afraid," said Wilmot, "and you know it."
For answer the legless man picked up a silver dollar from among the
papers in front of him, and broke it savagely into four pieces.
"Afraid!" he said. "Afraid! Afraid!"
Wilmot took a step forward. "It would give me the greatest pleasure," he
said quietly, "to knock your head off. Unfortunately you are a cripple."
Blizzard said nothing, and presently, white with anger and contempt,
Wilmot turned and tried the handle of the door by which he had entered.
Blizzard laughed.
[Illustration "Climb out of that chair, and let me out of this house"]
"This door is locked," said Wilmot.
"You are a prisoner in this house."
"I am, am I?"
Quick as lightning he had drawn and levelled at the legless man an
automatic pistol of the largest calibre. The legless man did not move an
inch, change expression, or take his eyes from Wilmot's.
Wilmot advanced till only the table separated them. "You will," he said,
"climb out of that chair, and let me out of this house, walking in
front of me."
The legless beggar appeared to consider the matter. There was silence.
Wilmot shifted the position of his feet, and the floor boards under
them creaked.
Blizzard appeared to have made up his mind. He spread his hands on the
table as if to help himself out of his chair. The palm of his right
hand, unknown to Wilmot, covered an electric push-button.
"Perhaps," said Blizzard, "you won't be in such a hurry to go after you
hear that Miss Barbara Ferris is also a prisoner in this house--"
In horror and bewilderment Wilmot allowed the muzzle of his automatic to
swerve. In that moment the palm of the legless man's right hand pressed
upon the button, and the square of the floor upon which Wilmot stood
dropped like the trap of a gallows, and he fell through the opening
into darkness.
He was neither stunned nor bruised, and he began to grope about for the
pistol which in the sudden descent had been knocked from his hand. The
only light came from the open trap in the floor above. Something fell
softly at his feet; he picked it up. It was a cloth, saturated with
chloroform. He flung it from him, and began with a new haste to grope
and fumble for his pistol.
Another cloth fell, and another. Distant and ugly laughter fell with
them. More cloths, and already the air in the place reeked with
chloroform.
He no longer knew what he was looking for, and when at last his hand
closed upon the stock of the automatic, he did not know what it was that
he had found.
Another cloth fell.