mysterious warning, partly because he was not greatly disturbed by it
and trusted to meeting the difficulty in proper time, and partly
because his mind was once more too full of his great good-fortune to
permit of any other interest. Now that he had some one to whom he could
talk freely, he let himself go, and he was deep in conversation when
Stephen Cortlandt strolled up and stopped for an instant to say:
"Quite a lively party, isn't it?"
Kirk noticed how sallow he had grown in the past few months, and how he
had fallen off in weight. He looked older, too; his cheeks had sunken
in until they outlined his jaws sharply. He seemed far from well; a
nervous twitching of his fingers betokened the strain he had been
under. He was quite as immaculate as usual, however, quite as polished
and collected.
"How is our little 'stag' coming on?" he asked.
"Fine! Everything is ready," said Runnels. "You won't expect an
elaborate layout; it's mostly cold storage, you know, but we'll at
least be able to quench our thirst at the Central."
"Then it's really coming off? I was--afraid you'd forgotten it."
Cortlandt cast a curious glance at Kirk, who exclaimed, heartily:
"Well, hardly!" Then, as their prospective guest moved off, "What a
strange remark!"
"Yes," said Runnels, "he's a queer fellow; but then, you know, he's
about as emotional as a toad."
XXVI
THE CRASH
Kirk had no further chance of speaking with his wife, for after the
dance she was whisked away, leaving him nothing but the memory of an
adoring, blissful glance as she passed. With Runnels and Cortlandt and
the rest, he was driven to the Hotel Central, where they found a very
attractive table set in a private dining-room. It was a lively party,
and Kirk's secret elation enabled him to play the part of host with
unforced geniality. The others joined him in a hearty effort to show
their guest the high regard in which they held him, and if Cortlandt
did not enjoy himself, it was entirely his own fault.
Toward Kirk, however, he preserved a peculiar attitude, which only the
young man's self-absorption prevented him from noticing. If he had been
less jubilant, he must have felt the unnatural aloofness of the other
man's bearing; but even had he done so, he would doubtless have
attributed it to Cortlandt's well-recognized frigidity.
At the propitious moment, Runnels, who had reluctantly agreed to share
the social responsibility, made a little speech, explaining that he and
his boys had been sensible from the first of their guest's interest in
them, and were deeply grateful for it. They were all working together,
he said, and what helped one helped another. They had banded together,
and now tendered him a token of their regard in a form which he could
preserve.
"It's a little late," he smiled, "in view of the rumor that has been
going round within the last day or so, but, no matter what happens to
any one of us in the readjustment of our department, we appreciate the
help you have given us collectively."
He handed a handsome loving-cup to Cortlandt, who thanked him
appropriately, then waited courteously for the party to break up. But
Anthony rose, saying:
"I simply have to say a word on my own account, fellows, for I owe Mr.
Cortlandt more than any of you."
The object of these remarks shot a swift, questioning glance from his
stony eyes, and raised a hand as if to check him. But Kirk ran on
unheeding:
"I want to thank him before all of you for what he has done for me
personally. When I landed in Panama I was a rotter. I'd never worked,
and never intended to; I rather despised people who did. I represented
the unearned increment. I was broke and friendless, and what ideas I
had were all wrong. This is something you don't know, perhaps, but no
sooner had I landed than I got into trouble of the worst sort, and Mr.
Cortlandt got me out. He was my bail-bond; he put me up at his hotel;
gave me clothes, and paid my way until I got started. I was a stranger,
mind you, but he's been just like one of my own people, and if I ever
succeed in doing anything really worth while, it will be due to the
start he gave me."
Though the words were commonplace enough, they carried a sincere
message, and Cortlandt saw by the faces about him that the others were
pleased. His own gaunt features turned more sallow than ever. The
memory of what he had heard on the porch of his own house a few
afternoons ago, of what he had seen at other times, of his wife's
telltale behavior on this very evening, swept over him, fanning anew
the sullen emotions he had cherished all these months. How far would
this fellow dare to go, he wondered? What motive inspired him thus to
pose before his friends, and openly goad his victim under the cloak of
modesty and gratitude? Was he enhancing his triumph by jeering at the
husband of whom he had made a fool? He dropped his eyes to hide the
fury in them.
"I want to give you a little remembrance of my own." Anthony was
speaking directly to him. "It isn't much, but it means a good deal to
me, and I hope it will have some sort of personal association for you,
Mr. Cortlandt." He drew from his pocket a plush case and took from it a
very handsome thin Swiss watch with the letters "S. C." artfully
enamelled upon the back. Runnels, who knew the local shops, wondered
how it had been procured in Panama. The others openly expressed their
admiration.
Cortlandt accepted the gift mechanically; then, as it touched his
flesh, a sudden color mounted to his cheeks, only to recede, leaving
them bloodless again. He stared at it uncertainly, then looked up and
ran his eyes slowly around the table. They came to rest at last upon
the broad frame of the giver, crowned with its handsome, sun-tanned
face and close-cropped shock of yellow hair. Anthony was all that he
was not--the very embodiment of youth, vigor, and confidence, while he
was prematurely aged, worn, and impotent.
They noted how ill he appeared, as if he had suffered from a jungle
fever, how his well-cut evening clothes refused to conceal the frail
lines of his figure, and how the hollows in his cheeks added to his
age. But for the first time since they had known him they saw that his
eyes were alive and burning dully.
"I really didn't expect this," he began, slowly, as he rose. "Anthony
exaggerates; he is too kind. But since he has chosen to publicly call
attention to our relations, I will confess that what he tells you is
all true. He was everything he says when he first came to Panama. He
did get into trouble, and I helped him out; he had no money, and I put
him up as my guest; he needed work, and I helped to place him. Through
my assistance--partly, at any rate--he has made a man of himself. He
has been welcome at my house, at my table; he has come and gone as he
pleased, like one of the family, you might say. But those are little
things; they count for nothing." He smiled in a way that seemed
ironical, his lips writhed away from his teeth until his visage
resembled a death-head. His tone had gripped his hearers, and Anthony
stirred uneasily, thinking this an odd way of accepting a gift.
Unclasping his long, white fingers, Cortlandt held up the watch to
public view.
"In payment for my poor friendship he has given me this magnificent
thing of gold and jewels, the finest I ever saw. I never counted upon
such gratitude. It is too much, and yet a man cannot refuse the gift of
his friend and not seem ungracious, can he? Somewhere in the Orient
they have a custom of exchanging gifts. No man may accept a thing of
value without making adequate return, and it has always struck me as a
wise practice." He turned full upon Kirk for the first time since he
had begun speaking, and his voice rose a tone as he said: "I can't let
the obligation rest entirely upon me. We have been friends, Anthony,
and I am going to give you something in return which I have prized
highly; it would be counted of great value by some." Once more he
paused and drew his lips back in that grimace of mockery--it could no
longer be termed a smile. "It is this--I am going to give you--my wife.
You have had her from the first, and now she is yours." For one
frightful moment there was no sound; even the men's breathing was
hushed, and they sat slack-jawed, stunned, half-minded to believe this
some hideous, incredible jest. But the maniacal light in Cortlandt's
eyes, and Anthony's chalk-white, frozen countenance soon showed them
the truth. Some one gasped, another laughed hysterically, the sound
breaking in his throat. Cortlandt turned away gloatingly.
Kirk was the last to recover his powers, but when they did revive they
came with a prodigious rush. He plunged upward out of his chair with a
cry like a wounded animal, and the others rose with him. The table
rocked, something smashed, a chair was hurled backward. The room broke
into instant turmoil. Kirk felt hands upon him, and then went blind
with fury, struggling in a passion too strong for coherent speech. He
was engulfed in chaos. He felt things break beneath his touch, felt
bodies give way before him.
How or when Cortlandt left the room he never knew. Eventually he found
himself pinned in his chair, with Runnels' white face close against his
own and other hands upon his arms. His first frenzy quickly gave way to
a sickening horror. Some one was commanding him to be still, to create
no scene; but those were not words, they were simply mutterings that
conveyed no meaning.
"It's a lie! The man's crazy!" he cried, hoarsely; then, as his
companions drew away from him, he rose to his feet. "Why are you
looking at me like that? I tell you it's a damned lie! I never--"
Runnels turned to the table, and with shaking hand put a glass to his
lips and gulped its contents. Wade and Kimble exchanged glances, then,
avoiding each other's eyes, took their hats from the hooks behind them.
"Wait! Bring him back!" Kirk mumbled. "I'll get him and make him say
it's a lie." But still no one answered, no one looked at him. "God! You
don't believe it?"
"I'm going home, fellows. I'm kind of sick," Kimble said. One of the
others murmured unintelligibly, and, wetting a napkin, bound up his
hand, which was bleeding. They continued to watch Kirk as if fearful of
some insane action, yet they refused to meet his eyes squarely. There
was no sympathy in their faces.
The knowledge of what these actions meant came to him slowly. Was it
possible that his friends believed this incredible accusation? The
thought made him furious, too agitated as yet to realize that such a
charge made under such circumstances could not well prove less than
convincing. As he began to collect himself he saw his plight more
clearly. His first thought had been that Cortlandt was insane, but the
man's actions were not those of a maniac. No! He actually believed
and--and these fellows believed also. No doubt they would continue to
think him guilty in spite of all that he could do or say; for after
this shocking denunciation it would take more than mere words to prove
that he had not betrayed his friend and benefactor. It was incredible,
unbearable! He wanted to shout his innocence at them, to beat it into
their heads; but the more he expostulated the more distant they became.
One by one they took their hats and went out, mumbling good-night to
one another, as if intending to go home singly in order to avoid all
discussion of this thing that had fallen among them Runnels alone
remained.
"YOU don't believe I did--that?" Anthony asked, in a strained voice.
"I--I think I do." There was a miserable silence, and then: "It isn't
the thing itself, you know, so much as the rotten--underhanded
advantage you took. If he'd been a stranger, now--Honestly, isn't it
true?"
Kirk shook his head, listlessly. "I wouldn't lie to you."
Runnels drew a deep breath.. "Oh, come, now, the man MUST have known
what he was saying. Do you realize what it means--if--well, if he were
mistaken? It would be bad enough if he were not, but this would be ten
times worse. Don't you see?"
"I don't see much of anything yet. I'm stunned."
"Ugh! To make it public that way, he must be made of iron." Runnels
shuddered; then, with cold eyes on Kirk, continued: "He must have
known, Anthony. Men don't do things like that on suspicion."
"He misunderstood our friendship," said Kirk, heavily, then roused
himself for a last plea. "Look here!" he cried. "You know Cortlandt and
you know me. The man was insanely jealous! I know it sounds weak, but
it's the truth, and it's all I can say. I'll go mad if you doubt me."
Runnels' face showed the pain he felt, but his eyes looked incredulous.
"Another thing," Kirk went on, desperately: "do you suppose that if
what you believe were true I could have the inhuman nerve to come here
to-night? That would make me a fool or a monster!"
"I don't know," said Runnels.
"You do know. You know ME. If we weren't such friends I wouldn't argue
with you like this, but--I can't bear it. And to-night of all--" He
broke off sharply. "My God! I'd forgotten that I'm married! Suppose
Gertrudis hears of this! If it ever gets to her--I--believe I could
kill him."
"Don't talk like that."
"I never really thought I could take a person's life, but if she heard
she might believe; everybody else seems to believe. Understand, she
hardly knows me. She might--she might--" Anthony seized his temples in
despair.
Runnels took a sudden illogical decision. He never knew exactly what
had influenced him, but his whole past knowledge of Anthony surged up
in him with a force that he could not resist. He found that he could
not really believe him capable of this abomination any more than he
could believe it of himself. Little of our life is ruled by reason, and
it is something else than logic that produces the last feeling of
conviction. Here, this something was present where logic was lacking.
He laid his hand on Kirk's shoulder. "Take it easy, old man," he said.
"I believe you. I've always known that they didn't get along together,
although--well, I won't try to understand it. He may not do anything
further, and these fellows won't mention what happened here; they
can't."
"You know we're only half married," moaned Kirk, hardly heeding him.
"Women are apt to be jealous, aren't they, Runnels? What do you suppose
she'd do?"
"Don't worry about that. I'm thinking about Cortlandt. If he finds out
he's mistaken, what will HE do?"
"He'll have to find out. I'm going to tell him. His wife will tell him.
Good God! Do you see what an awful light it puts me in? You don't doubt
me, do you, really, old man?"
"No--but what a night this has been! It seems a year old. Come along,
now, you must get out of here. You must turn in."
"Oh, I don't feel as if I'd ever sleep again until this thing is
cleared up." His anguish swept over him in a fresh tide. "Those boys
think I did that trick to the man who befriended me!"
"Well, don't let's talk about it any more; we can't stay here all
night, anyhow. The waiters are wondering what this row is about. I
think we'd better take a walk." Runnels dragged his companion out,
trying to calm him as best he could.
In passing through the deserted lobby of the hotel, they saw Clifford
idling about; but they were too much absorbed to wonder what had kept
him up so late. By the clock across the Plaza they saw it was two hours
after midnight as they stepped into the street; then, finding no
coaches in sight, they set out to walk toward Ancon, both badly in need
of the open air.
A moment later Clifford followed them, taking pains to keep at a
distance.
Now that the full import of Cortlandt's accusation had sunk into his
mind, Kirk lapsed into a mood of sullen bitterness. He said little, but
his set face worried his companion, who was loath to bid him goodnight
even when they were close to the Tivoli. After they had parted Runnels
was upon the point of going back and offering to spend the night with
him, but thought better of it. After all, he reflected, his
apprehensions were probably quite unfounded. Anthony was too sensible a
chap to do anything he might repent of, now that his gust of passion
had died down. So he went on homeward wondering vaguely how Cortlandt
would dare to meet his wife, or, if he really found himself mistaken,
how he could ever summon courage to look his hosts in the face.
Instead of passing through the office, Kirk mounted to the porch of the
Tivoli and entered his room from the outside, as he and Chiquita had
done earlier that evening. He found Allan waiting, and bursting with a
desire to gossip, but cut him short.
"Get my street-clothes, I'm going out." He tore the white tie from his
throat as if it were choking him.
"It is too late, sar. You will be h'exposing yourself to a fever in the
mist," expostulated the boy; but Kirk would not hear argument.
"Come along if you want to, I can't sleep. I want to walk--walk until
I'm tired."
Mystified and frightened at this behavior, Allan obeyed. "Never have I
h'observed you so h'angry, boss," he observed. "Is it Ramon Alfarez?"
His eyes began to roll in excitement, for the spectacle of his master's
agitation never failed to work upon him powerfully.
"No, not Ramon; another. I've been hurt, Allan. I can't explain, for
you wouldn't understand, but I've been hurt."
The negro's lips drew apart in an expression of ape-like ferocity, and
he began to chatter threats of vengeance, to which Kirk paid little
heed. A few moments later they went out quietly, and together took the
rock road down toward the city, the one silent and desperate, the other
whining like a hound nearing a scent.
XXVII
A QUESTION
Edith Cortlandt did not retire immediately upon her return from the
ball. Her anger at Anthony's behavior kept her wakeful, and the night
had turned off so dead and humid that sleep was in any case a doubtful
possibility. It was the lifeless period between seasons when the trades
had died out, or, at best, veered about bafflingly, too faint to offer
relief. The cooling rains had not set in as yet, and a great blanket of
heat wrapped the city in its smothering folds. The air was still and
tainted, like that of a sick-room. Through Mrs. Cortlandt's open
windows came hardly a sound; even from the sea below rose only a faint
hissing, as if the rocks at the water's edge were superheated. Earlier
in the evening the temperature had been bearable, but now it had
reached an intensity to strain tired nerves to the snapping-point. It
was the sort of night in which ailing children die and strong minds
feel the burden of living. No relief was to be had, and the slightest
physical effort was a misery.
She was still sitting there at a late hour when she heard the outside
door close and Cortlandt's footsteps mounting the stairs. She was glad
he had his own room and never entered hers at such an hour, for even to
talk with him in her present state of mind and body would have been
more than she could bear.
She was unreasonably annoyed, therefore, when he came boldly into her
chamber without even knocking, for all the world like a welcome lover.
To conceal her irritation, she kept her face turned from him and
continued fanning herself listlessly. She was reclining in a wicker
chair, lightly clad in a filmy silk negligee, which she mechanically
drew closer.
"Rather late for good-nights," she said, coldly.
"I've just come from Anthony's supper-party."
His voice made her look round sharply. She saw that his linen,
ordinarily stiff and immaculate, was sodden and crumpled, his collar
limp, his forehead glistening with drops of moisture. She could not
remember ever having seen him in such a state. His appearance affected
her queerly. In him this dishevelment was shocking.
"What ails you, Stephen?" she cried. "Have you been drinking?"
"No. I didn't drink much. I brought you something."
He took the loving-cup from its flannel bag and set it upon the table.
"They gave me this."
"It is very pretty, though I don't care for such things."
"And this too." He tossed the watch with its enamelled monogram into
her lap.
"Ah! That's very handsome."
"Yes, I thought you'd like it; it's from Anthony." He laughed, then
shuddered, as though a cold wind had bitten through his sodden garments.
"Why--you seem excited over these souvenirs. You surely expected--"
He broke in--a thing he rarely did while she was speaking:
"Anthony made a speech when he gave it to me--a very nice speech, full
of friendship and love and gratitude." He repeated Kirk's words as he
remembered them, "What do you think of that?"
"I think he expressed himself very frankly. But why do you tell me now,
when the morning will do just as well? I'm prostrated with this heat."
"He actually acknowledged his debt in public."
Mrs. Cortlandt's eyes widened. This was not the man she knew. At this
moment he was actually insistent, almost overbearing, and he was
regarding her with that same ironical sneer that had roused her anger
earlier in the evening.
"Well, come to the point," she cried, irritably. "I don't understand
what you are getting at. If you didn't wish to accept anything from
him, why did you go?"
He began to chuckle, apparently without reason. His shoulders shook,
feebly at first, then more violently; his flat chest heaved, and he
hiccoughed as if from physical weakness. It was alarming, and she rose,
staring at him affrightedly. The sight of her increased his mirthless
laughter. He continued to shudder and shake in uncontrollable hysteria,
but his eyes were bright and watchful.
"Oh, I--I--took it all in--I let him p-put the noose around his own
neck and tie the knot. Then I hung him." His convulsive giggling was
terrible, forecasting, as it did, his immediate breakdown.
"Stephen!" she exclaimed, in a shocked tone, convinced that his mind
was going. "You are ill, you need a doctor. I will call Joceel." She
laid her hand on his arm.
But he sniggered: "N-no! No! I'm all right. I t-t-t-t--" A
stuttering-fit seized him; then, with an effort of will, he calmed
himself. "Don't think I'm crazy. I was never more sane, never cooler,
in here." He tapped his head with his finger. "But I'm tired, that's
all, tired of waiting."
"Won't you go to your room and let me call a doctor?"
"Not yet. Wait! He told them what I had done for him, how I'd made a
man of him when he was broke and friendless, how I'd taken him into my
home like one of my family, and then I went him one better. I
acknowledged it all and made them hear it from my lips too. Then--" He
paused, and she steeled herself to witness another spectacle of his
pitiable loss of self-control. But instead he grew icy and corpse-like,
with lips drawn back in a grin. "What do you think I said? Can't you
guess? I couldn't let him get away with that, could I? I played with
him the way you have played with me. Think!"
Her face went suddenly ashen. He stood before her grimly triumphant,
enjoying his sense of mastery and deliberately prolonging her suspense.
"Well, I told him before them all that I intended to give him something
in return, and I did. I--gave--him--YOU."
She stared at him uncomprehendingly.
He nodded. "I said he'd had you from the first and that now I'd give
you to him."
She gave an unintelligible cry, standing now, as if petrified. He went
on:
"I knew all the time that I was in the way, but my work is done at
last, so I'll step out. But--you both got more than you bargained for,
didn't you?"
"God! You didn't tell him that? You didn't say THAT--before those men!
Oh-h!" She shrank back, drawing the gauzy silk robe closer about her
breast. Her hands were shaking, her hair, which had fallen free when
she rose, cascaded about her neck and shoulders. She let her eyes
wander about the room as if to assure herself that this was not some
hideous nightmare. Then she roused to sudden action. Seizing him by the
shoulders she shook him roughly with far more than her natural
strength, voicing furious words which neither of them understood.
"Oh, I did it," he declared. "He's yours now. You can have him. He's
been your lover--"
She flung him away from her so violently that he nearly fell.
"It's a lie! You know it's a lie!"
"It's true. I'm no fool."
She beat her hands together distractedly, "What have you done? What
will those men think? Listen! You must stop them quickly. Tell them
it's not so."