_The Derelict_
Chung had news for him; he had not yet found Arsdale, but his men
reported that yesterday the boy had been concealed at Hop Tung's, where
Saul had first suspected him to be. The evil-eyed proprietor had
hidden him, half in terror of Arsdale himself and half through lust of
his money. Finally, however, fearing for the young man's sanity he had
thrown him out upon the street. It would go hard with the yellow rat,
Chung declared, for such treachery as this to the Lieutenant.
"It may go hard with all of you," replied Donaldson significantly.
"But you 've another chance yet; the boy is back here somewhere. Find
him within twenty-four hours and I'll help you with Saul."
"He clome black?" exclaimed Chung.
"Sometime early this morning."
If the boy was in the neighborhood, Chung asserted eagerly, he would
find him within an hour or hang the cursed-of-his-ancestors, Tung, by
his pigtail from his own window.
"Which is better than being locked up in jail. Are you children,"
Donaldson exploded, "that you can be duped like that?"
Chung appeared worried. But his slant eyes contracted until scarcely
more than the eye-lashes were revealed. However inactive he may have
been up to now, Donaldson knew that an end had come to his
sluggishness. When Chung left the room there was determination in
every wrinkle of his loose embroidered blouse.
So there were some nooks in Chinatown, mused Donaldson, that even Saul
did not know. The longer he sat there, the more indignant he became at
the treachery of this moon-faced traitor who was indirectly responsible
for the nightmare through which the girl had passed. Yet, as he
realized, no more responsible than he himself. He had been a thousand
times more unfaithful to the girl than Tung had been to Saul.
Chung returned with a brew of his finest tea. He was loquacious. He
tried one subject after another, interjecting protestations of his
friendship for Saul. Donaldson heard nothing but the even voice and
the sibilant dialect. He seemed chained to that one torturing picture.
Even the prospect of finding the boy and so ending the suspense which
had battered Miss Arsdale's nerves for so long brought little relief.
He never could be needed again as he had been needed then. He might
even have been able to detain Arsdale and so have avoided this present
crisis. He felt all the pangs of an honest sentry who, asleep at his
post, awakes to the fact that the enemy has slipped by him in the night.
It was well within the hour when Chung's lieutenant glided in with a
message that brought a suave smile to the face of his master.
"Allee light," he announced, beaming upon Donaldson. "Gellelum
dlownslairs."
"You've found him!"
"In callage," nodded Chung, with the genial air of a clergyman after
completing a marriage ceremony.
Donaldson reached the carriage before Chung had descended the first
half-dozen steps. He opened the door and saw a limp, unkempt form
sprawled upon the seat. He recognized it instantly as Arsdale. But
the man was in no condition to be carried home. He must take him
somewhere and watch over him until he was in a more presentable shape.
But one place suggested itself,--his own apartments.
Donaldson paused. He must take this bedraggled, disheveled remnant of
a man to the rooms which stood for rich cleanliness. He must soil the
nice spotlessness of the retreat for which he had paid so dearly. In
view of the little he had so far enjoyed of his costly privileges, this
last imposition seemed like a grim joke.
"To the Waldorf," he ordered the driver with a smile.
He himself climbed up on the box where he could find fresh air. At the
hotel he bribed a bellboy to help him with the man to his room by way
of the servant's entrance. Then he telephoned for the hotel physician,
Dr. Seton.
Before the doctor arrived Donaldson managed to strip the clothes from
the senseless man and to roll him into bed. Then he sat down in a
chair and stared at him.
"It's an opium jag," he explained, as soon as Dr. Seton came in, "but
that is n't the worst feature of it. I 'm tied here to him until he
comes to. I can't tell you how valuable my time is to me. I want you
to take the most heroic measures to get him out of it as soon as
possible."
"Very well, we 'll clear his system of the poison. But we can't be too
violent. We must save his nerves."
"Damn his nerves," Donaldson exclaimed. "He doesn't deserve nerves."
The doctor glanced sharply from his patient to Donaldson himself. He
noted the latter's pupils, his tense lips, his tightened fingers. He
had jumped at the word poison, like a murderer at the word police.
"See here," he demanded, "you have n't any of this stuff in you, have
you?"
"No," answered Donaldson, calmly.
"Anything else the matter with you?"
"Nothing but nervousness, I guess. I 've been under something of a
strain recently."
Donaldson turned away. He was afraid of the keen eyes of this man.
Barstow had not experimented very long with the stuff; perhaps, after
all, it did produce symptoms. But he reassured himself the next
minute, remembering that the drug was unknown. Barstow had not
revealed his discovery to any one. If he showed a dozen symptoms they
would be unrecognizable.
The doctor dropped his questioning and turned to his patient. He
subjected the man to the stomach-pump and hot baths. Donaldson
assisted and watched every detail of the vigorous treatment with
increasing interest. At the end of two hours Arsdale was allowed to
sleep.
Seton put on his coat and wrote out instructions for the further care
of the man. But before leaving he again turned his shrewd eyes upon
Donaldson himself.
"My boy," he said kindly, "you ought to pay some attention to your own
health. I hate to see a man of your age go to pieces."
He squinted curiously at Donaldson's eyes. The latter withdrew a
little.
"What makes you think there is anything wrong with me?" he asked.
"Your eyes for one thing," he answered.
"Nonsense. If I need anything, its only a good sweating, such as you
gave Arsdale."
"There are some poisons not so easily sweated out."
Donaldson hesitated. While watching this man at work upon the boy, he
had felt a temptation which was now burning hot within him. It was
possible that it was not too late even now to clean his own system of
the drug he had swallowed. This man, he knew, would bring to his aid
all the wisdom of medical science. Barstow may have been mistaken,
although he knew the careful chemist well enough to realize this was
well nigh an impossibility. The next second he held out his hand. It
was steady. He smiled as he saw Seton pause a moment to note if it
trembled.
"Thanks for all you 've done, doctor," he said. "Do you think I can
take him home tomorrow?"
"If you follow my instructions. The boy really has a sound physique.
He ought to pull out quickly."
As the door closed upon the doctor, Donaldson drew a breath of relief.
Thank God he had resisted his impulse. He would keep true to his
compact. He must remain true to himself. That was all that was now
left. There must be no shirking--no flinching. If he had played the
fool, he must not play the coward. The subtle tempter had suggested
the girl, but he realized that he had better not come to her at all
than to come as one who had played unfairly with himself. To be
unfaithful to the spirit of his undertaking would be as weak a thing as
not to fulfill the letter of his oath. His shadowy duty to the girl
would not justify himself in evading a crisis demanding his life for
the life of another, nor would it vindicate the greater evasion. It
was a matter of honor to remain true to that which at the start had
justified the whole hazard to him. It was this which restrained him
even from learning whether or not Barstow was in town.
The man on the bed was breathing heavily, his lips moving at every
breath in a way to form a grimace. He made in this condition the whole
room as tawdry as a tavern tap. And at the feet of this thing he was
tossing his meager store of golden minutes.
Yet it was through this inert medium alone that Miss Arsdale could pay
the debt to the father who had been so good to her; and it was only
through this same unsightly shell that he, Donaldson, could in his turn
repay his debt for the dreams she had quickened in him.
He stepped to the telephone to tell her what he could of that which he
had found and done. The mere sound of her voice as it came over the
wire brightened the room like a flood of light. The joy in it as she
listened to what he had accomplished was payment enough for all he had
sacrificed. He told her that the doctor had advised keeping the boy in
for at least another day.
"Oh, but you are good!" she exclaimed. "And you will not leave
him--you will guard him against running off again?"
"I shall stay here at his side until it is absolutely safe to go."
"If I could only come down!"
"But you must n't. You must stay where you are and do as you 're told."
"It will be only for to-day and to-night, won't it?"
"Probably that is all."
"That is n't very long."
"Not as time goes."
"But it will seem long."
"Will it--to you?"
He regretted the question the moment it had been uttered. But it came
to his lips unbidden.
"Of course," she answered.
"It will seem very long to me," he returned slowly. "Almost a
lifetime."
"Perhaps you will telephone now and then."
"Very often, if I may."
"The nurse says she 'll not allow me to answer the telephone after nine
at night."
"Nine to-night is a long way off yet."
"It's only half a day."
"But that's twelve hours!"
"Do you think that long?"
"Yes. That seems a very long while to me."
"It is soon gone."
"Too soon."
"Then comes the night and then the morning and then you 'll bring him
home."
"Then I 'll bring him home."
What a new meaning that word home had when it fell from her lips. What
a new meaning everything had.
She turned aside to address some one in the room and then her voice
came in complaint.
"The nurse is here with my medicine."
"Then close your eyes and swallow it quickly. I 'll telephone you
later and inquire how it tasted."
"Thank you. Good bye."
"Good bye."
He hung up the receiver and settled down to the grim task of counting
the passing minutes which were draining his life as though each minute
were a drop of blood let from an artery. And all the company he had
for it was this poor devil on the bed who grimaced as he breathed.
He folded his arms. If this, too, was a part of the cost he must pay
it like a man.