CHAPTER XXI_Max Fargus

SAMMAMON ACTS

At nine o'clock that night Sheila, who had waited all the afternoon in

agonized ignorance, beheld Bofinger burst in with the fury of the storm

that was raging without. One glance at his wild figure and blood-ridden

face told her all. She fell on her knees shrieking,

"Alonzo, don't hurt me!"

"Get up!" he said hoarsely. "Get up quick and sit over there! And answer

everything I say or I swear I'll do for you!"

She obeyed instantly, saying hurriedly:

"Alonzo, I'll tell you the truth--every word of it!"

"When did you sign those papers?" he asked, each word interrupted by a

gasp.

"What papers?" she cried, for in her ignorance of their import she had

totally forgotten the transaction. "What papers, Alonzo--tell me!"

"The papers--those papers--the papers Fargus got you to sign--your

permission for the sale of the restaurants."

"Yes, yes, I remember," she said eagerly, "the day he left for Mexico."

"You signed--willingly!"

"Yes."

"Why, in God's name!"

She hesitated.

"Why!"

"I'll tell, I'll tell you," she cried, throwing up her arm, and brokenly

she told him of the mine.

"Oh, that fiend! That devil!" he cried, forgetting her for a moment in

his consternation at the malignant ingenuity with which he had been

ruined. The next moment, turning to her furiously, he shouted:

"And you thought by concealing it from me you could cheat me out of my

share! Didn't you--didn't you!"

"Yes."

"You fool!" he cried in a paroxysm, "and what has it cost you? Fargus

sold out the next day and you lost every cent of your dower. Ruined,

that's what we are! Ruined, without a cent in the world to-day!"

In her fear for her life she thought to moderate his fury by pretending

to fall in a swoon. He ran to her angrily, shaking her without drawing

from her a sound. Then, leaving her sprawling, he began to pace up and

down the floor.

Presently, in terror of what he might do, she half opened her eyes.

Imperceptible as was the movement he perceived it and seizing her by the

shoulder swept her up into a chair.

"Get your wits back. Hurry up, I haven't any time to lose," he said.

In his present manner was something venomous and cold that terrified her

more than all the transports of his rage. From that moment she thought

only how she might manage to reach the front door and escape from the

house. She opened her eyes with a sigh and sat up weakly.

"Do you owe any bills?" he began.

"A few."

"Where?"

She enumerated half a dozen stores.

"Do you owe anything on your jewelry?"

"Not a cent."

He breathed a little more freely.

"Take off your rings," he commanded.

She slipped off, hurriedly, seven glittering rings.

"Put them on that table."

She obeyed.

"Take off them bracelets."

She flung them on the table.

"And the pins."

In her haste, she pulled off the brooches, pricking her finger and,

without waiting his command added the gold chain she wore about her

neck.

"Now go up-stairs."

She ran up, trembling to feel him behind her.

"Gather up your jewels, gather up every one of them," he commanded,

following her into her room.

She made a pile, putting into it everything, even to the silver on her

bureau.

"Take them down-stairs."

Again they descended.

"Put them with the rest."

When all were on the table, he raised his eyes and said:

"So you knew all the time about his going to Mexico?"

"Yes," she said faintly.

"And you played me false all the time?"

She noticed that his hand began to tremble and edged away until with a

spring she placed the table between them.

"Come back," he said, glowering at her.

She did not move.

"Come back, I tell you!"

"Don't kill me, Alonzo," she said faintly.

"I'm not going to kill you. Come back you--!" he cried with a vile

expression.

Suddenly the door-bell rang, long and violently.

Both halted in throbbing surprise, so incongruous did an intrusion seem

at such a crisis.

A second time the bell rang angrily, accompanied by a shower of knocks.

Sheila started to the door.

"Stay there!" Bofinger cried, and advancing with a guilty fear he went

to the door and opened it.

In the midst of a cloud of snow Sammamon rushed in, a warrant in his

hand.

"Hell!" Bofinger cried, appalled by the apparition, and rushing to the

table he tried to screen the heap of jewelry from the money-lender,

shouting desperately, "Sammamon, get out of here! Sammamon, do you hear

me, get out! I'll do you harm!"

The money-lender, whom losses had made frantic and courageous, did not

flinch a minute. Rushing past him, he spied the jewels and divined the

lawyer's purpose.

"You run away with them, eh! You swindler!" he cried violently. "You

touch one thing, you go in jail! Everythings here is mine!"

"Keep your hands off," Bofinger cried. "Those belong to my wife, you

can't touch them!"

[Illustration: "KEEP YOUR HANDS OFF."]

"Touch, eh?" he screamed, "don't she owes me five thousand dollars!"

"Sheila, you owe him--that hound?" he cried, reeling back. "Is that

true?"

"He came himself! He offered it to me!" she cried, and turning in terror

to the money-lender she pleaded, "Mr. Sammamon, don't leave me, he's

going to kill me!"

Sammamon gave no heed,--he was busy inscribing on his cuff the inventory

of the jewelry.

"Kill you? That's too good for the likes of you," Bofinger cried,

starting forward, "I'll fix you. Out on the street you go where you

belong! Get out of here, get out of this house at once!"

"On the streets? To-night?" she cried in terror. "Without a cent?"

"Go out and earn it, the way you're fit for!" he said brutally. Then

with an oath he extended his hand and commanded:

"Get out of those clothes."

"Bofinger," she cried in terror, "have mercy!"

"Take it off!" he said with an ugly look. "Not a rag belongs to you.

Every stitch you have ought to go towards paying what you swindled me

out of!"

She dropped on her knees, stretching out her hands.

"Not like that, Alonzo, not like that!"

"Take it off!" he cried in a fury, and as she made no move he seized the

collar in his hands and tore it open. Sheila fell forward. On the bare

neck flashed a necklace of small diamonds, which she had bought with the

money from Sammamon.

"That was it, was it!" Bofinger cried, beside himself with rage at this

new deception. He seized the necklace and tore it from her, flinging it

on the floor. On the neck a spot of blood sprang up.

She staggered to her feet and fled to the door. When she had got it

open such a blast upset her, driving in the snow, that she shrank back

piteously, begging,

"Alonzo, dear, don't turn me out. Let me stay for pity's sake!"

"Ah, you won't go, won't you!" he cried, and the sight of the blood on

her bare neck unloosed the brute in him. He ran in a rage to the

fireplace and snatched up the shovel. Sheila shrieked and disappeared

into the storm and the night.

EPILOGUE

Two years later, of a sunny morning in April, the carriage of Hyman

Groll transported him to the familiar street where the Jefferson Market

Court casts the shadow of its crushing tyranny over the little

meannesses of the opposite row of lawyers' offices. The carriage

according to orders drew up near the entrance from which presently the

court at the close of the morning session would issue, while Groll, with

a glance at his watch, leaned from the window, as though expecting again

to see the glass window with its gilt display:

HYMAN GROLL AND ALONZO BOFINGER

_Attorneys at Law._

On the threshold of putting into operation his vast scheme for

controlling the tribute on vice throughout the city, he had arrived at

last to that knowledge of human destinies which even in men of the most

practical sense must awaken a power of imagination, if only it begins

with self-contemplation. The sordid street filled him with horror. In

the grubbing days he had never flinched in the confidence of his

destiny. To-day he shuddered at the memory of his former faith,

trembling for a quick moment at the possibilities which had never

daunted his stubborn beginnings,--an emotion the more poignant now that

he looked back over the yawning chasm. He frowned, stiffened and

withdrew into the back of the carriage so as to be concealed from the

sidewalk.

At this moment the doors opened and the steps were covered with the

outflow of the court. With pursed lips he followed the crowd. Some he

knew of person--all by intuition;--the crooks, the flashy women, the

sleek swindlers come to study the ways of the new magistrate and the

pleas that avail. The shabby and the tawdry misery dwindled away.

Several policemen hurried away to luncheon; a late clerk scurried off.

Then after an interval Alonzo Bofinger, guffawing with two reporters,

slouched down the steps and hung himself over the railing, giving and

taking banter with that false laughter which is fanned only from the

lungs.

Of the once flashing dandy nought remained, not even the bloom of the

amazing vests. He had grown quite puffy in the throat and the legs and

under the bulbous waistcoat, quite lumpy and neglectful of his dress.

The creases were no longer defined in the trousers, while over the

shoulders the wrinkles ran with impunity.

The reporters rolled away arm in arm. The laughter faded from Alonzo

Bofinger's face and it seemed suddenly to age. He drew a cigar and eyed

it in indecision before fumbling in the shabby pockets. Finding no

match, he started to pocket the cigar, changed his mind, placed it

languidly in his mouth, shoved back his hat and stared on the sidewalk

in heavy lassitude.

Hyman Groll, opening the door of the carriage, called energetically:

"Alonzo--eh, Alonzo!"

At the sight of his old partner Bofinger started up with a flush of

embarrassment which disappeared in the precipitate obsequiousness with

which he hastened to the carriage.

"You were waiting for some one?" Groll said with a slight, amicable nod.

"Never mind, jump in."

Bofinger complied quickly, concealing the cheap cigar in his pocket with

a sly movement Groll did not fail to perceive. The carriage rolled away.

Without preliminaries Groll said:

"Bo, Sheila's dead."

Bofinger dropped the hand he was raising to his collar, shifted in his

seat and said faintly:

"When?"

"Last night."

"Where?"

"Bellevue."

"Here!"

"Yes."

"Were there--"

"You're all right, there were no debts."

"I wouldn't have paid them," he said, in his agitation drawing out the

cigar from his pocket.

"You lost track of her after the night you turned her out?" Groll said,

offering him a light.

Bofinger frowned, shrugged his shoulders and leaned towards the window.

"And didn't care to--I understand. Well, she was picked up the next

morning half frozen," Groll said, glancing at him, "out of her

head,--two months at the Charities. After that she got a place in a

traveling circus. She hung on as long as she could. She died of quick

consumption."

His companion, who had gradually turned towards him, frowned in

perplexity and asked:

"How do you know?"

"I was interested in the case," Groll answered carefully. "And Fargus,

do you know what became of him?"

Bofinger took a sudden deep breath and turned again to the window with

the involuntary distaste of one who wishes to avoid the resurrection of

a disagreeable memory. The movement told all to his companion, the

bitterness, the humiliation, and the never-ending sting.

"What! Haven't you any curiosity," he persisted.

"No," Bofinger said without looking at him, "I don't care to hear

either. All that is over. I botched the job--I got what I deserved."

"You did not understand him," Groll answered.

"He was crazy--mad," Bofinger said bitterly.

"We call mad what we can't understand," Groll objected slowly. "So you

don't care what became of him?"

"I do not."

"He died three weeks after his appearance in the court."

"Who told you that?"

"I was interested in the case," Groll repeated softly.

This time Bofinger remained blankly staring at him, struck by a dawning

comprehension. All at once, forgetting the distance between them, he

seized his partner by the collar crying:

"What do you mean? What had you to do with all that?"

"Everything," Groll said calmly. "Take your hand off and quiet down. I

am going to tell you all."

"You--great God, it was you!"

"Right, me, your partner whom you deceived."

An oath shrieked out and Bofinger, dropping his hold, sank back in the

limpness of despair.

"My time is valuable, let me get at this," Groll said coldly, abandoning

the familiar tone. Then quickly he recounted the circumstances of

Fargus's discovery of Bofinger's conspiracy.

"Yes, it was to me he came for his vengeance," he said, gazing at his

companion who remained as in a stupor. "The idea was like him--to strike

you by the hand of your partner--whom you thought you were deceiving.

Not a bad idea that."

"You planned out that business in Mexico!" Bofinger cried hoarsely.

"An ordinary vengeance," Groll said, nodding, "would have meant nothing

to him. I had to find him something that would not only bankrupt you

both but crush out of you all youth, ambition, and hope. More--Fargus

wished not only all that made life blotted out, but that life itself

should be the most unendurable thing to you both. He succeeded. He knew

it--strange man! He died happy."

"And he--where was he all that time," Bofinger said dully.

"He--he lay hidden in the safest place in the world," Groll said,

looking out at the city with a smile full of malice. "Max Fargus, from

the time you began to hunt him high and low--during the whole seven

years remained quietly and safely in the house opposite to Sheila."

"Impossible!" Bofinger cried in horror.

"The most possible thing in the world," Groll answered. "Do you know

the face of one of your neighbors? I don't."

"Ah, you were well paid for all that!" Bofinger murmured, clenching his

fists.

"Of course--of course, naturally. His whole fortune has passed to me."

Bofinger, beside himself with rage, flung himself on the hunchback,

crying:

"And if I strangle you, you scoundrel!"

"My dear Bo," Groll said calmly, "open murder fortunately is a

transgression we lawyers avoid by instinct. Besides, it is not me you

want to throttle but your own fate. What have I done that you wouldn't

do if you had the opportunity? There, return to your side and don't make

me call for help."

Bofinger gradually released his hold, sunk back and covered his eyes

with his hand. At the end of a moment he said pleadingly:

"You're right. I have no kick comin'. You'll do something for me,

Hyman?"

Groll puffed away on the cigar he had not ceased to smoke before

answering decisively:

"No."

"Why not?"

"I promised him."

"Well, what?" Bofinger said coaxingly. "You ain't going to talk to me of

promises and honor--come now!"

"Just that," Groll answered with a nod. "You won't understand. It's a

superstition--so be it. But I owe what I am and what I'm going to be to

Max Fargus. I shall do what I promised him."

"He's dead."

"It's not him I'm thinking of--it's myself--it's a superstition. I'd be

afraid to do otherwise, I have that in me. Besides, I liked him."

"You won't do anything, then?"

"No."

"Honest?"

"Yes."

"What was the use of telling me, then?"

"I promised him to do so, as soon as Sheila was gone."

"Why not before?"

"There might have been complications."

"And do you think me such a fool that I don't know what to do now?"

Bofinger cried suddenly. "A third of the estate belongs to Sheila as her

dower right."

"And you would bring suit to recover that?" Groll said. The carriage had

come to a stop before an office building on Union Square. "I get out

here. One moment, are you quite sure that Sheila ever was the wife of

Max Fargus?"

"What do you mean," Bofinger cried, halting with one foot on the

sidewalk,--aghast at the thought.

"I think, my dear Bofinger," Groll said maliciously, "that a contract of

marriage exists between you and Sheila--"

"Trickery!"

"But very difficult to explain away. You have the contract?"

"It is destroyed."

"You are sure?"

"Yes."

"My dear fellow," Groll said suavely, "that contract was in my

possession three hours after you had told me of it."

"You stole it, then,--you!"

"I do not object to the word," Groll said. "You see I was careful to

protect myself at every point before telling you these things. Moreover,

I have the death-bed statement of Sheila herself. She at least believed

it a marriage. A little reflection, I think, will show you the danger of

your position."

Bofinger looked at the ground as a child does in the sudden lust of

murder.

"Will you go back in the carriage," Groll said politely.

"No!"

"You are foolish to take it so hard," Groll said with a shrug. "I have

stirred up a mess of nasty memories and you imagine you are the Bofinger

of ten years ago. You are not. You will suffer an hour or so and then

you will forget. Do you know what is the best thing to do? Get into my

carriage and drive back. Make an impression on your clients. Call out,

when you get back, 'Mr. Hyman Groll wants you at his office.' Then

you'll get a reputation as a man of influence. Get into the carriage and

for twenty minutes imagine yourself its master. Here, smoke

these--they're good ones."

He drew a couple of cigars and held them out gravely to Bofinger, who at

the end of a moment took them, looking on the ground, and entered the

carriage.

"Hyman, you'll do something for me?" he said gently.

"I won't give you a cent," Groll said, "but I may have need of you some

day." He shut the door and called to the coachman, "Jefferson Market

Court!"

When the carriage turned, Bofinger was holding his head in his hands.

"Ugh!" Groll said to himself, gazing after him with a somber glance,

"and I might have been like that!"

He remained still, shuddering at the thought which Bofinger's abjection

had called up; as in another's death what we weep for is often the

imminence of our own.

Two or three persons found the situation unusual enough to turn and

glance back.