IT was in early June when she arrived in town again. He was in the lobby
as usual; he lunched at the table by the window as usual. There seemed to
be nothing changed about him except that he was a handsomer man than she
had supposed him.
She ate very little luncheon. As usual, he glanced at her once--a
perfectly pleasant and inoffensive glance--and resumed his luncheon and
his newspaper. He was always quiet, always alone. There seemed to be a
curious sort of stillness which radiated from him, laying a spell upon
his environment for a few paces on every side of him. She had felt this;
she felt it now.
Downtown her business was finally transacted; she went to a matinée all
by herself, and found herself staring beyond the painted curtain and the
mummers--beyond the bedizened scenery--out into the world somewhere and
into two dark, boyish eyes that looked so pleasantly back at her. And
suddenly her own eyes filled; she bent her head and touched them with her
handkerchief.
No, she must never again come to the Hotel Aurora Borealis. There were
reasons. Besides, it was no longer necessary for her to come to town at
all. She _must_ not come any more. . . . And yet, if she could only know
what became of him--whether salvation ever found him----
The curtain fell; she rose and pinned on her hat, gathered her trifles,
and moved out with the others into the afternoon sunshine of Broadway.
That evening she dined in her room. She had brought no luggage. About ten
o'clock the cab was announced.
As she walked through the nearly deserted lobby she looked around for
him. He stood near the door, talking to the hotel detective.
Halting a moment to button her gloves, she heard the detective say:
"Never mind the whys and whats! You fade away! Understand?"
"By what authority do you forbid me entrance to this hotel?" asked the
young man coolly.
"Well, it's good enough for you that I tell you to keep out!"
"I can not comply with your suggestion. I have an appointment here in
half an hour."
"Now you go along quietly," said the detective. "We've had our eyes on
you. We know all about you. And when the hotel gets wise to a guy like
you we tip him off and he beats it!"
"We can discuss that to-morrow; I tell you I have an appointment----"
"G'wan out o' here!" growled the detective.
The young man quietly fell into step beside him, but on the sidewalk he
turned on him, white and desperate.
"I tell you I've _got_ to keep that appointment." He stood aside as the
girl passed him, head lowered, and halted to wait for her cab. "I tell
you I've got to go back----"
"Here, you!" The detective seized his arm as he attempted to pass; the
young man wheeled and flung him aside, and the next instant reeled back
as the detective struck him again with his billy, knocking him halfway
into the street.
"You damned dead-beat!" he panted, "I'll show you!"
The young man stood swaying, his hands against his head; porters, cabmen,
and the detective saw him stagger and fall heavily. And the next moment
the girl was kneeling beside him.
"Let him alone, lady," said somebody. "That bum isn't hurt."
The "bum," in fact, was getting to his feet, groping for some support;
and the girl's arm was offered and he leaned on it a moment, clearing his
eyes with a gloved hand. Suddenly he made a movement so quick that she
never understood how she wrenched the short, dull-blue weapon from his
hand.
"Pick up your hat!" she gasped. "Do what I tell you!"
He looked at her, dazed, then the blood blotted his dark eyes again. She
stooped swiftly, caught up his hat, and, holding tightly to his arm,
opened the other door of the taxicab.
"They'll kill you here," she whispered. "Come with me. I've got to talk
to you!"
"Lady--are you crazy?" demanded the tall head-porter, aghast.
But she had got him into the cab. "Drive on," she said through clenched
teeth. And the chauffeur laughed and started east.
In the swaying cab the man beside her sat bent over, his face in his
hands, blood striping the fingers of his gloves. With a shudder she
placed the automatic weapon on the cushion beside her and shrank back,
staring at him.
But his senses seemed to be returning, for presently he sat up, found his
handkerchief, staunched the rather insignificant abrasion, and settled
back into his corner. Without looking at her he said:
"Would you mind if I thank you? You have been very kind."
She could not utter a word.
Presently he turned; and as he looked at her for the first time a faint
flicker of humour seemed to touch his eyes.
"Where are we going--if you don't mind?" he said pleasantly.
Then the breathless words came, haltingly.
"I've got to tell you something; I've _got_ to! I can't stand aside--I
_can't_ pass by on the other side!"
"Thank you," he said, smiling, "but Lazarus is all right now."
"I mean--something else!" Her voice fell to a whisper. "I _must_ speak!"
He looked pleasantly perplexed, smiling.
"Is there anything--except a broken head--that could possibly permit me
the opportunity of listening to you?"
"I--have seen you before."
"And I you."
She leaned against her window, head resting on her hand, her heart a
chaos.
"Where are you going when--when I leave you?" she said.
He did not answer.
"Where?" She turned to look at him. "Are you going back to that hotel?"
And, as he made no reply: "Do you wish to become a murderer, too?" she
said tremulously. "I have your pistol. I ask you not to go back there."