A DAY OF GRACE
The wind blew strong and moist and salt from the western ocean as I
walked down the steps into the semi-darkness of Pine Street. But it was
powerless to cool the hot blood that surged into my cheeks in the tumult
of emotion that followed my dismissal by Luella Knapp. I was furious at
the poor figure I had cut in her sight, at the insults I had been forced
to bear without reply, and at the hopelessness of setting myself right.
Yet, more than all was I sick at heart at the dreadful task before me.
My spirit was bleeding from every stab that this girl had dealt me; yet
I had to confess that her outburst of rage had challenged my admiration
even more than her brightness in the hour that had gone before. How
could I go through with my work? How could I bear to overwhelm her with
the sorrow and disgrace that must crush on her if I proved to the world
the awful facts that were burned on my brain?
Resolve, shame, despair, fought with each other in the tumult in my mind
as I passed between the bronze lions and took my way down the street. I
was called out of my distractions with a sudden start as though a bucket
of cold water had been thrown over me. I had proceeded not twenty feet
when I saw two dark forms across the street. They had, it struck me,
been waiting for my appearance, for one ran to join the other and both
hastened toward the corner as though to be ready to meet me.
I could not retreat to the house of the Wolf that loomed forbiddingly
behind me. There was nothing to do but to go forward and trust to
my good fortune, and I shifted my revolver to the side-pocket of my
overcoat as I stepped briskly to the corner. Then I stopped under the
lamp-post to reconnoiter.
The two men who had roused my apprehensions did not offer to cross the
street, but slackened their pace and strolled slowly along on the
other side. I noted that it seemed a long way between street-lamps
thereabouts. I could see none between the one under which I was standing
and the brow of the hill below. Then it occurred to me that this
circumstance might not be due to the caprice of the street department of
the city government, but to the thoughtfulness of the gentlemen who were
paying such close attention to my affairs. I decided that there were
better ways to get down town than were offered by Pine Street.
To the south the cross-street stretched to Market with an unbroken array
of lights, and as my unwary watchers had disappeared in the darkness, I
hastened down the incline with so little regard for dignity that I found
myself running for a Sutter Street car--and caught it, too. As I swung
on to the platform I looked back; but I saw no sign of skulking figures
before the car swept past the corner and blotted the street from sight.
The incident gave me a distaste for the idea of going back to Henry
Wilton's room at this time of the night. So as Montgomery Street was
reached I stepped into the Lick House, where I felt reasonably sure that
I might get at least one night's sleep, free from the haunting fear of
the assassin.
But, once more safe, the charms of Luella Knapp again claimed the major
part of my thoughts, and when I went to sleep it was with her scornful
words ringing in my ears. I awoke in the darkness--perhaps it was in but
a few minutes--with the confused dream that Luella Knapp was seized in
the grasp of the snake-eyed Terrill, and I was struggling to come to her
assistance and seize him by his hateful throat. But, becoming calm from
this exciting vision, I slept soundly until the morning sun peeped into
the room with the cheerful announcement that a new day was born.
In the fresh morning air and the bright morning light, I felt that I
might have been unduly suspicious and had fled from harmless citizens;
and I was ashamed that I had lacked courage to return to Henry's room
as I made my way thither for a change of clothes. I thought better of my
decision, however, as I stepped within the gloomy walls of the house
of mystery, and my footfalls echoed through the chilling silence of
the halls. And I lost all regret over my night's lack of courage when
I reached my door. It was swung an inch ajar, and as I approached I
thought I saw it move.
“I'm certain I locked it,” was my inward comment.
I stopped short and hunted my revolver from my overcoat pocket. I was
nervous for a moment, and angry at the inattention that might have cost
me my life.
“Who's there?” I demanded.
No reply.
I gave a knock on the door at long reach.
There was no sound and I gave it a push that sent it open while
I prudently kept behind the fortification of the casing. As no
developments followed this move, I peeped through the door in cautious
investigation. The room was quite empty, and I walked in.
The sight that met my eyes was astonishing. Clothes, books, papers, were
scattered over the floor and bed and chairs. The carpet had been partly
ripped up, the mattress torn apart, the closet cleared out, and every
corner of the room had been ransacked.
It was clear to my eye that this was no ordinary case of robbery. The
search, it was evident, was not for money and jewelry alone, and bulkier
property had been despised. The men who had torn the place to pieces
must, I surmised, have been after papers of some kind.
I came at once to the conclusion that I had been favored by a visit from
my friends, the enemy. As they had failed to find me in, they had looked
for some written memoranda of the object of their search.
I knew well that they had found nothing among the clothing or papers
that Henry had left behind. I had searched through these myself, and the
sole document that could bear on the mystery was at that moment fast in
my inside pocket. I was inclined to scout the idea that Henry Wilton had
hidden anything under the carpet, or in the mattress, or in any secret
place. The threads of the mystery were carried in his head, and the
correspondence, if there had been any, was destroyed.
As I was engaged in putting the room to rights, the door swung back, and
I jumped to my feet to face a man who stood on the threshold.
“Hello!” he cried. “House-cleaning again?”
It was Dicky Nahl, and he paused with a smile on his face.
“Ah, Dicky!” I said with an effort to keep out of my face and voice the
suspicions I had gained from the incidents of the visit to the Borton
place. “Entirely unpremeditated, I assure you.”
“Well, you're making a thorough job of it,” he said with a laugh.
“Fact is,” said I ruefully, “I've been entertaining angels--of the black
kind--unawares. I was from home last night, and I find that somebody has
made himself free with my property while I was away.”
“Whew!” whistled Dicky. “Guess they were after you.”
I gave Dicky a sidelong glance in a vain effort to catch more of his
meaning than was conveyed by his words.
“Shouldn't be surprised,” I replied dryly, picking up an armful of
books. “I'd expect them to be looking for me in the book-shelf, or
inside the mattress-cover, or under the carpet.”
Dicky laughed joyously.
“Well, they did rather turn things upside down,” he chuckled. “Did they
get anything?” And he fell to helping me zealously.
“Not that I can find out,” I replied. “Nothing of value, anyhow.”
“Not any papers, or anything of that sort?” asked Dicky anxiously.
“Dicky, my boy,” said I; “there are two kinds of fools. The other is the
man who writes his business on a sheet of paper and forgets to burn it.”
Dicky grinned merrily.
“Gad, you're getting a turn for epigram! You'll be writing for the
_Argonaut_, first we know.”
“Well, you'll allow me a shade of common sense, won't you?”
“I don't know,” said Dicky, considering the proposition doubtfully. “It
might have been awkward if you had left anything lying about. But if you
had real good sense you'd have had the guards here. What are you paying
them for, anyhow?”
I saw difficulties in the way of explaining to Dicky why I had not
ordered the guards on duty.
“Oh, by the way,” said Dicky suddenly, before a suitable reply had
come to me; “how about the scads--spondulicks--you know? Yesterday was
pay-day, but you didn't show up.”
I don't know whether my jaw dropped or not. My spirits certainly did.
“By Jove, Dicky!” I exclaimed, catching my breath. “It slipped my mind,
clean. I haven't got at our--ahem--banker, either.”
I saw now what that mysterious money was for--or a part of it, at all
events. What I did not see was how I was to get it, and how to pay it to
my men.
“That's rough,” said Dicky sympathetically. “I'm dead broke.”
It would appear then that Dicky looked to me for pay, whether or not he
felt bound to me in service.
“There's one thing I'd like explained before a settlement,” said I
grimly, as I straightened out the carpet; “and that is the little
performance for my benefit the other night.”
Dicky cocked his head on one side, and gave me an uneasy glance.
“Explanation?” he said in affected surprise.
“Yes,” said I sternly. “It looked like a plant. I was within one of
getting a knife in me.”
“What became of you?” inquired Dicky. “We looked around for you for an
hour, and were afraid you had been carried off.”
“That's all right, Dicky,” I said. “I know how I got out. What I want to
know is how I got in--taken in.”
“I don't know,” said Dicky anxiously. “I was regularly fooled, myself. I
thought they were fishermen, all right enough, and I never thought that
Terrill had the nerve to come in there. I was fooled by his disguise,
and he gave the word, and I thought sure that Richmond had sent
him.” Dicky had dropped all banter, and was speaking with the tone of
sincerity.
“Well, it's all right now, but I don't want any more slips of that sort.
Who was hurt?”
“Trent got a bad cut in the side. One of the Terrill gang was shot. I
heard it was only through the arm or leg, I forget which.”
I was consumed with the desire to ask what had become of Borton's, but
I suspected that I was supposed to know, and prudently kept the question
to myself.
“Well, come along,” said I. “The room will do well enough now. Oh,
here's a ten, and I'll let you know as soon as I get the rest. Where can
I find you?”
“At the old place,” said Dicky; “three twenty-six.”
“Clay?” I asked in desperation. Dicky gave me a wondering look as though
he suspected my mind was going.
“No--Geary. What's the matter with you?”
“Oh, to be sure. Geary Street, of course. Well, let me know if anything
turns up. Keep a close watch on things.”
Dicky looked at me in some apparent perplexity as I walked up the stair
to my Clay Street office, but gave only some laughing answer as he
turned back.
But I was in far from a laughing humor myself. The problem of paying the
men raised fresh prospects of trouble, and I reflected grimly that
if the money was not found I might be in more danger from my unpaid
mercenaries than from the enemy.
Ten o'clock passed, and eleven, with no sign from Doddridge Knapp, and I
wondered if the news I had carried him of the activities of Terrill and
of Decker had disarranged his plans.
I tried the door into Room 16. It was locked, and no sound came to my
ears from behind it.
“I should really like to know,” I thought to myself, “whether Mr.
Doddridge Knapp has left any papers in his desk that might bear on the
Wilton mystery.”
I tried my keys, but none of them fitted the lock. I gave up the
attempt--indeed, my mind shrank from the idea of going through my
employer's papers--but the desire of getting a key that would open the
door was planted in my brain.
Twelve o'clock came. No Doddridge Knapp had appeared, and I sauntered
down to the Exchange to pick up any items of news. It behooved me to be
looking out for Doddridge Knapp's movements. If he had got another agent
to carry out his schemes, I should have to prepare my lines for attack
from another direction.
Wallbridge was just coming rapidly out of the Exchange.
“No,” said the little man, mopping the perspiration from his shining
head, “quiet as lambs to-day. Their own mothers wouldn't have known the
Board from a Sunday-school.”
I inquired about Omega.
“Flat as a pancake,” said the little man. “Nothing doing.”
“What! Is it down?” I exclaimed with some astonishment.
“Lord bless you, no!” said Wallbridge, surprised in his turn. “Strong
and steady at eighty, but we didn't sell a hundred shares to-day.
Well, I'm in a rush. Good-by, if you don't want to buy or sell.” And he
hurried off without waiting for a reply.
So I was now assured that Doddridge Knapp had not displaced me in the
Omega deal. It was a recess to prepare another surprise for the Street,
and I had time to attend to a neglected duty.
The undertaker's shop that held the morgue looked hardly less gloomy in
the afternoon sun than in the light of breaking day in which I had
left it when I parted from Detective Coogan. The office was decorated
mournfully to accord with the grief of friends who ordered the coffins,
or the feelings of the surviving relatives on settling the bills.
“I am Henry Wilton,” I explained to the man in charge. “There was a body
left here by Detective Coogan to my order, I believe.”
“Oh, yes,” he said: “What do you want done with it?”
I explained that I wished to arrange to have it deposited in a vault for
a time, as I might carry it East.
“That's easy done,” he said; and he explained the details. “Would you
like to see the body?” he concluded. “We embalmed it on the strength of
Coogan's order.”
I shrank from another look at the battered form. The awfulness of the
tragedy came upon me with hardly less force than in the moment when
I had first faced the mangled and bleeding body on the slab in the
dead-room. Again I saw the scene in the alley; again his last cry for
help rang in my ears; again I retraced the dreadful experiences of the
night, and stood in the dim horror of the morgue with the questioning
voice of the detective echoing beside me; and again did that wolf-face
rise out of the lantern-flash over the body of the man whose death it
had caused.
The undertaker was talking, but I knew not what he said. I was shaking
with the horror and grief of the situation, and in that moment I renewed
my vow to have blood for blood and life for life, if law and justice
were to be had.
“We'll take it out any time,” said the undertaker, with a decorous
reflection of my grief upon his face. “Would you like to accompany the
remains?”
I decided that I would.
“Well, there's nothing doing now. We can start as soon as we have sealed
the casket.”
“As soon as you can. There's nothing to wait for.”
The ride to the cemetery took me through a part of San Francisco that I
had not yet seen. Flying battalions of fog advanced swiftly upon us as
we faced the West, and the day grew pale and ghostlike. The gray masses
were pouring fast over the hills toward which we struggled, and the
ranks thickened as we drew near the burial-place.
I paid little attention to the streets through which we passed. My mind
was on the friend whose name I had taken, whose work I was to do. I
was back with him in our boyhood days, and lived again for the fleeting
minutes the life we had lived in common; and the resolve grew stronger
on me that his fate should be avenged.
And yet a face came between me and the dead--a proud face, with varying
moods reflected upon it, now gay, now scornful, now lighted with
intelligence and mirth, now blazing with anger. But it was powerless
to shake my resolve. Not even Luella Knapp should stand between me and
vengeance.
“There's the place,” said the undertaker, pointing to the vault. “I'll
have it opened directly.”
The scene was in accord with my feelings. The gray day gave a somber
air to the trees and flowers that grew about. The white tombstones and
occasional monuments to be seen were sad reminders of mortality.
Below me stretched the city, half-concealed by the magic drapery of the
fog that streamed through it, turning it from a place of wood and stone
into a fantastic illusion, heavy with gloom and sorrow.
It was soon over. The body of Henry Wilton was committed to the vault
with the single mourner looking on, and we drove rapidly back in the
failing light.
I had given my address at the undertaker's shop, and the hack stopped in
front of my house of mystery before I knew where we were. Darkness had
come upon the place, and the street-lamps were alight and the gas was
blazing in the store-windows along the thoroughfares. As I stepped out
of the carriage and gazed about me, I recognized the gloomy doorway and
its neighborhood that had greeted me on my first night in San Francisco.
As I was paying the fare, a stout figure stepped up to me.
“Ah, Mr. Wilton, it's you again.”
I turned in surprise. It was the policeman I had met on my first night
in San Francisco.
“Oh, Corson, how are you?” I said heartily, recognizing him at last.
I felt a sense of relief in the sight of him. The place was not one to
quiet my nerves after the errand from which I had just come.
“All's well, sor, but I've a bit of paper for ye.” And after some
hunting he brought it forth. “I was asked to hand this to ye.”
I took it in wonder. Was there something more from Detective Coogan? I
tore open the envelope and read on its inclosure:
“Kum tonite to the house. Shure if youre life is wurth savein.
“Muther Borton.”