_Kismet_
The machine swirled around a corner at a speed that swung the rear
wheels clear of the ground. It righted itself as a frightened dog
scrambles to his legs, and shot on up the avenue, which was for the
moment fortunately clear of other vehicles. It took a crossing at a
single leap, missed a dazed pedestrian by an inch, and shot on as mad a
thing as the man who ran it. It was clearly only a matter of minutes
that this could last. Bending low, the madman, with still enough
cunning left to know how to manage the machine, held it to its highest
speed. But his arm was weakening. He did not have the physical
strength to hold steady the vibrating steering gear. The big car began
to tack.
Donaldson saw the girl's eyes upon him. They were confident with an
instinct that is woman's sixth sense. A man has not lived until he has
seen that look in a woman's eyes. Nor has a man suffered until he
realizes that he must disappoint that look. Donaldson had never been
in an automobile in his life. He knew no more how to control one than
he did an aëroplane. And the arc-lights were flashing by at the rate
of one every four seconds--and a madman at the wheel--and a woman's
eyes upon him.
Donaldson was naturally a man of some courage, but it is doubtful if
under ordinary conditions this situation would not have brought the
cold sweat to his brow. As it was, he was conscious of only two
emotions; an appreciation of the grim humor which had called upon him
so early in his week to fulfill his oath, and a grinding resentment at
the Fate which had thrust him into a position where he should show so
impotent before those eyes. As far as personal fear went, it was nil.
He was as oblivious to possible pain, possible death, as though he were
now merely recalling a dream. Such contingencies had been decided the
moment he swallowed the scarlet syrup. Fear had been annihilated in
him because the most he had to lose was this next six days. He was too
good a gambler to resent, in a fair game, the turn of the cards against
him.
He stepped past her and out upon the running board, feeling his way
along to the empty seat. The machine swayed dizzily. The wind tore
off his hat and tugged at his coat, nearly dragging him to the ground
which flowed beneath him as smoothly as a fly belt. He could not have
made that distance yesterday with the assurance of to-day. He swung
himself into the empty seat.
He had but one thing in mind; he knew that these big machines, in spite
of their tremendous power, were as nicely adjusted as watches. They
had their vital spots, their hearts. If only he could find this
vulnerable place! At his feet he saw a small wooden box fastened to
the dash-board. He did not know what it was, but on a blind chance he
kicked it again and again until it splintered beneath his heels. The
machine swerved across the road and he fought with the crazed man for
the possession of the wheel. He was strong and he had this much at
heart, but the other had the super-human strength of the crazed. Even
as they struggled the machine began to slow down and within a few
hundred yards came to a standstill. In destroying the coil box he had
reached the heart.
The driver turned upon him, but Donaldson managed to secure a good grip
and dragged the fellow to the ground. The latter was up in a minute
and faced him with that gleam of devilish hatred that marks the foiled
maniac. The girl started to separate the two men, but it was
unnecessary; she saw the murder fade from her companion's face before
the calm untroubled gaze of the other. She saw his strained body
relax, she saw his fists unclench, and she saw him shrink back to her
side trembling in fright. The demon in him had been quelled by the
unflinching eyes of the sane man.
There was, luckily, no gathering of a crowd, for no one had witnessed
the struggle in the machine. A few steps beyond, the blue and red
lights of a drugstore stained the sidewalk. The girl seized the man's
arm and turned to Donaldson.
"He is my brother," she explained. "We must leave the machine and get
him home at once. Can we order a cab from somewhere?"
"At the drugstore we can telephone for one and also reach your garage."
"Would you mind attending to it?" she asked anxiously. "We will wait
here,--in the car."
He hesitated.
"I don't like to leave you here alone," he said.
"I shall be quite safe--really."
"But in the drugstore it is warmer, and--"
"No, no," she broke in hurriedly. "I--I would much rather not."
Without further parley he took the address of the garage where the
machine had been hired, and walked on to the drugstore. He was back
again in five minutes, relieved to find her safe and the brother still
quiet. While waiting for the cab it occurred to him that he should
also have telephoned for a physician to meet them when they reached the
house. But Miss Arsdale objected at once to this.
"I think we had better not. But if you would--it's asking a great deal
of you--if you yourself would ride back with us."
"I had intended to do that," he assured her.
The cab arrived within a few minutes, and she gave an address off
Riverside Drive. It took half an hour to make the run. On the journey
the three remained silent save for a few commonplaces, for conversation
seemed to have a disquieting effect upon young Arsdale. The lighted
houses flashed past the carriage windows in the soft spring dark,
looking like specks of gold upon black velvet. A certain motherliness
pervaded the night; there was a suggestion of birth everywhere.
Donaldson responded to it with a growing feeling of anticipation.
Sitting here confronting this girl he was swept back to a primal joy of
things, to a sense of new worlds. He felt for a moment as though back
again with her in that gypsy kingdom into which the music had borne
them.
The cab swung from the boulevard and, after following for a few moments
a somewhat tortuous course among side streets, stopped before an iron
gate which stretched across the drive leading to the house. Either
side of the gate a high hedge extended. The three stepped out and
Donaldson paused a moment before dismissing the cabby. The girl saw
his hesitancy and in her turn seemed rapidly to revolve some question
in her own mind. A quick motion on the part of her brother determined
her. In the shadow of the house he began to show ill-boding symptoms.
"I wonder if--if you would come in for a minute," she asked in an
undertone.
Without answer he dismissed the driver and followed her through a small
gate in the hedge, down a short walk, to a brown-stone house with its
entrance on a level with the ground. The house was unlighted and the
lower windows were covered with wooden shutters. In the midst of its
brilliantly lighted neighbors it looked severe and inhospitable. The
girl drew a key from her purse and, opening the door, stepped inside
and switched on the lights. Donaldson found himself in a large,
cheerful looking hall finished in Flemish oak. A broad Colonial
staircase led from the end and swung upstairs in a graceful turn which
formed a landing. The floor was covered with rugs which he recognized
as of almost priceless value. Several oil portraits in heavy frames
ornamented the walls. It took but a glance to see that they were of
the same family and to recognize in all their thin faces an expression
that he had caught in young Arsdale himself--a haunting fear as of some
family tragedy. Through an uncurtained door to the right opened what
appeared to be a library, while to the left--Donaldson turned his back
for a moment upon Arsdale. And the man, freed from the eyes, threw
himself upon Donaldson's shoulder. The woman shouted a warning, but it
was too late. She clutched at her brother's clothes, pulling with all
her strength, crying,
"Ben! Ben!"
Donaldson slipped upon the polished floor and Arsdale, throwing his arm
about his victim's neck, secured a very effective strangle hold. It
looked bad for Donaldson. On the smooth waxed floor he could secure no
purchase by which to regain his feet and he could not reach the fellow
with either fist. He was as helpless as though he had the Old Man of
the Mountain upon his back. The world began to swim before his eyes;
the cries of the girl to sound in the distance. Then he smelled the
biting aroma of spirits of ammonia and felt the clutch upon his throat
loosen. He broke free, got upon his feet and found Arsdale rubbing his
smarting eyes while the girl stood over him, frightened at what she had
done, with the empty bottle in her hand.
"I've blinded him!" she cried, drawing back in horror.
"Thanks. You 've also prevented him from killing me."
"Don't say that--not kill!"
"But the man is n't responsible."
"That is true, but--even when he is like this he would n't do any harm."
His throat was still sore from the press of the fellow's fingers, but
he nodded politely.
Donaldson perceived that she was fighting off a fear. It made the
danger seem even more imminent. He had noted with surprise that no
servants had appeared. This gave a particularly uncanny atmosphere to
the big house, making it look as deserted as though empty of furniture.
"We must get him upstairs and into bed," she said. "Will you help him?"
The man was choking and writhing upon the floor in his pain. Donaldson
stooped and wiped off his eyes. Then he placed his arm about him and
half dragged and half carried him up the stairs as she led the way.
She preceded them up two flights, switching on the lights at each
landing, and entered a small, simply furnished room in the middle of
the house,--a room, Donaldson was quick to note, having only a skylight
for a window. Here he dashed cold water into the man's face and placed
him on the bed. As soon as the pain subsided, Miss Arsdale
administered two spoonfuls of a darkish brown medicine which seemed to
have instantly a quieting effect.
It was the sight of the bottle that again recalled to Donaldson the
fact of his own peculiar position in life. Even at the risk of
appearing rude, he was forced to look at his watch. It was a few
minutes after eleven o'clock. Well, what of it? Had not these hours
been full--had he not had more of real living than during the entire
last decade? He had faced death twice, he had met a woman, and he now
stood at the threshold of a mystery that seemed to demand him. There
was no other interest in his life to occupy him--nothing to prevent him
from throwing himself heart and soul into the case, lending what aid
was possible to this woman. Furthermore, he was clear of all selfish
interests; he need bother himself with no queries of what this might be
worth to him. But it was worth something, it was worth something to
have a woman look at him as this girl had done--with unquestioning
trust in a crisis.
She glanced up as he replaced his watch.
"Oh," she exclaimed, "I must detain you no longer!"
"My time is absolutely yours," he reassured her. "I was merely curious
to know how old I have grown."
She did not understand.
"I 'm eleven hours old."
Again she did not understand, but in turning to care for her brother
she ceased to puzzle over the enigma. Shortly afterwards the patient
closed his eyes and fell into a deep sleep. Immediately the girl led
the way on tiptoe from the room. She locked the door behind her and
preceded Donaldson downstairs.
Once below there seemed nothing for him to do but to leave, but, quite
aside from the fact that he felt himself to be really needed here, he
was as reluctant to depart as a man is to awake from a pleasant dream.
She had picked up a white silk Japanese shawl and thrown it about her
shoulders.
He turned to her with the question,
"Is there nothing more I can do for you? Is there no one I may summon
to help you?"
"I can manage very well now, thank you."
"But you can't stay here alone with the boy in this condition."
"Why not?"
Her reply came like a rebuke of his impetuous presumption.
"It is hardly safe for you," he declared more quietly.
"It is perfectly safe," she answered evenly.
"I suppose there are servants in the house upon whom you can call," he
hazarded.
She looked a bit embarrassed.
"If I should need any one there is my old housekeeper, Marie," she
answered.
Marie was upstairs, sick in bed with rheumatism, too feeble to move
without help. But to confess this fact to him would be almost to force
him to stay. As welcome a relief as it would be to have him remain
until she had administered the medicine once more, she shrank from
placing him in a position where he would have no alternative.
She roused herself from the temptation and extended her hand.
"Thank you is a weak phrase for all you 've done," she said.
"It is enough."
He took the hand but he did not say good night. So she withdrew it,
her cheeks a bit redder, her eyes, a trick they had when brilliant,
growing silver.
He had been studying her keenly, and now removing his overcoat, he said
decidedly,
"I shall stay a little longer."
She seemed to hesitate a moment, meeting his eyes quite frankly. Then,
with a little sigh of relief she stepped into the library.