AN ECHO OF WARNING
“All quiet?” I asked of my guards, as we took our way down the street.
“All quiet,” said Porter.
“You'd better tell him,” said Barkhouse.
“Oh, yes,” said Porter, as if in sudden recollection. “Dicky Nahl
was along here, and he said Terrill and Meeker and the other gang was
holding a powwow at Borton's, and we'd best look out for surprises.”
“Was that all?”
“Well, he said he guessed there was a new deal on hand, and they was
a-buzzin' like a nest of hornets. It was hornets, wasn't it, Bob?”
“Hornets was what he said,” repeated Barkhouse stolidly.
“Where's Dicky now?” I asked.
“I ain't good at guessing,” said Porter, “and Bob's nothing at all at
it.”
“Well,” said I, “we had better go down to Borton's and look into this
matter.”
There was silence for a time. My guards walked beside me without
speaking, but I felt the protest in their manner. At last Barkhouse said
respectfully:
“There's no use to do that, sir. You'd better send some one that ain't
so likely to be nabbed, or that won't matter much if he is. We'd be in a
pretty fix if you was to be took.”
“Here comes Dicky, now,” said Porter, as a dark figure came swinging
lightly along.
“Hullo!” cried Dicky, halting and shading his eyes from the gaslight. “I
was just going up to look for you again.”
“What's up, Dicky?”
“I guess it's the devil,” said Dicky, so gravely that I broke into a
laugh.
“He's right at home if he's come to this town,” I said.
“I'm glad you find it so funny,” said Dicky in an injured tone. “You was
scared enough last time.”
I had put my foot in it, sure enough. I might have guessed that the
devil was not his Satanic Majesty but some evil-minded person in the
flesh whom I had to fear.
“Can it be Doddridge Knapp?” flashed across my mind but I dismissed the
suspicion as without foundation. I spoke aloud:
“Well, I've kept out of his claws this far, and it's no use to worry.
What's he trying to do now?”
“That's what I've been trying to find out all the evening. They're noisy
enough, but they're too thick to let one get near where there's anything
going on--that is, if he has a fancy for keeping a whole skin.”
“Suppose we go down there now,” I suggested. “We might find out
something.”
Dicky stopped short.
“Cæsar's ghost!” he gasped; “what next? Wouldn't you like to touch off
a few powder-kegs for amusement? Won't you fire a pistol into your mouth
to show how easy you can stop the bullet?”
“Why, you have been down there and are all right,” I argued.
“Well, there's nothing much to happen to me, but where would you be if
they got hold of you? You're getting off your _cabesa_, old fellow,”
said Dicky anxiously.
“If I could see Mother Borton I could fix it,” I said confidently.
“What! That she-devil?” cried Dicky. “She'd give you up to have your
throat cut in a minute if she could get a four-bit piece for your
carcass. I guess she could get more than that on you, too.”
Mother Borton's warnings against Dicky Nahl returned to me with force
at this expression of esteem from the young man, and I was filled with
doubts.
“I came up to tell you to look out for yourself,” continued Dicky. “I'm
afraid they mean mischief, and here you come with a wild scheme for
getting into the thick of it.”
“Well, I'll think better of it,” I said. “But see if you can find out
what is going on. Come up and let me know if you get an inkling of their
plans.”
“All right,” said Dicky. “But just sleep on a hair-trigger to-night.”
“Good night,” I said, as I turned toward my room, and Dicky, with an
answering word, took his way toward the Borton place.
I had grown used to the silent terrors of my house. The weird fancies
that clung around the gloomy halls and dark doorways still whispered
their threatening tales of danger and death. The air was still peopled
with the ghosts of forgotten crimes, and the tragedy of the alley
that had changed my life was heavy on the place. But habit, and the
confidence that had come to me with the presence of my guards, had made
it a tolerable spot in which to live. But as we stumbled up the stairway
the apprehensions of Dicky Nahl came strong upon me, and I looked ahead
to the murky halls, and glanced at every doorway, as though I expected
an ambush. Porter and Barkhouse marched stolidly along, showing little
disposition to talk.
“What's that?” I exclaimed, stopping to listen.
“What was it?” asked Barkhouse, as we stopped on the upper landing and
gazed into the obscurity.
“I thought I heard a noise,” said I. “Who's there?”
“It was a rat,” said Porter. “I've heard 'em out here of nights.”
“Well, just light that other gas-jet,” I said. “It will help to make
things pleasant in case of accidents.”
The doors came out of the darkness as the second jet blazed up, but
nothing else was to be seen.
Suddenly there was a scramble, and something sprang up before my door.
Porter and I raised the revolvers that were ready in our hands, but
Barkhouse sprang past us, and in an instant had closed with the figure
and held it in his arms.
There was a volley of curses, oaths mingled with sounds that reminded me
of nothing so much as a spitting cat, and a familiar voice screamed in
almost inarticulate rage:
“Let me go, damn ye, or I'll knife ye!”
“Good heavens!” I cried. “Let her go, Barkhouse. It's Mother Borton.”
Mother Borton freed herself with a vicious shake, and called down the
wrath of Heaven and hell on the stalwart guard.
“You're the black-hearted spawn of the sewer rats, to take a respectable
woman like a bag of meal,” cried Mother Borton indignantly, with a fresh
string of oaths. “It's fire and brimstone you'll be tasting yet, and
you'd 'a' been there before now, you miserable gutter-picker, if it
wasn't for me. And this is the thanks I git from ye!”
“I'll apologize for his display of gallantry,” said I banteringly. “I've
always told him that he was too fond of the ladies.”
I was mistaken in judging that this tone would be the most effective to
restore her to good humor. Mother Borton turned on me furiously.
“Oh, it's you that would set him on a poor woman as comes to do you
a service. I was as wide-awake as any of ye. I never closed my eyes a
wink, and you has to come a-sneakin' up and settin' your dogs on me.”
Mother Borton again drew on an apparently inexhaustible vocabulary of
oaths. “Oh, you're as bad as him,” she shouted, “and I reckon you'd be
worse if you knowed how.” And she spat out more curses, and shook her
fist in impotent but verbose rage.
“Come in,” I said, unlocking the door and lighting up my room. “You can
be as angry as you like in here, and it won't hurt anything.”
Mother Borton stormed a bit, and then sullenly walked in and took
a chair. Silence fell on her as she crossed the threshold, but she
glowered on us with fierce eyes.
“It's quite an agreeable surprise to see you,” I ventured as cheerfully
as I could, as she made no move to speak. My followers looked awkward
and uncomfortable.
At the sound of my voice, Mother Borton's bent brows relaxed a little.
“If you'd send these fellows out, I reckon we could talk a bit better,”
she said sourly.
“Certainly. Just wait in the hall, boys; and close the door.”
Porter and Barkhouse ambled out, and Mother Borton gave her chair a
hitch that brought us face to face.
“You ain't so bad off here,” she said, looking around critically. “Can
any one git in them winders?”
I explained that the west window might be entered from the rear stairway
by the aid of the heavy shutter, if it were swung back and the window
were open. I added that we kept it closed and secured.
“And you say there's a thirty-foot drop from this winder?” she inquired,
pointing to the north.
I described the outlook on the alley.
She nodded as if satisfied.
“I reckon you don't think I come on a visit of perliteness?” she said
sharply, after a brief silence.
I murmured something about being glad to entertain her at any time.
“Nonsense!” she sniffed. “I'm a vile old woman that the likes of you
would never put eyes on twice if it wasn't for your business--none knows
it better than me. I don't know why I should put myself out to help ye.”
Her tone had a touch of pathos under its hardness.
“I know why,” I said, a little touched. “It's because you like me.”
She turned a softened eye on me.
“You're right,” she said almost tenderly, with a flash of womanly
feeling on her seamed and evil face. “I've took a fancy to ye and no
mistake, and I'd risk something to help ye.”
“I knew you would,” I said heartily.
“And that's what I come to do,” she said, with a sparkle of pleasure in
her eye. “I've come to warn ye.”
“New dangers?” I inquired cheerfully. My prudence suggested that I had
better omit any mention of the warning from Dicky Nahl.
“The same ones,” said Mother Borton shortly, “only more of 'em.”
Then she eyed me grimly, crouching in her chair with the appearance of
an evil bird of prey, and seemed to wait for me to speak.
“What is the latest plot?” I asked gravely, as I fancied that my light
manner grated on my strange guest.
“I don't know,” she said slowly.
“But you know something,” I argued.
“Maybe you know what I know better than I knows it myself,” growled
Mother Borton with a significant glance.
I resigned myself to await her humor.
“Not at all,” said I carelessly. “I only know that you've come to tell
me something, and that you'll tell it in your own good time.”
“It's fine to see that you've learned not to drive a woman,” she
returned with grim irony. “It's something to know at your age.”
I smiled sympathetically upon her, and she continued:
“I might as well tell ye the whole of it, though I reckon my throat's
jist as like to be slit over it as not.”
“I'll never breathe a word of it,” I replied fervently.
“I'd trust ye,” she said. “Well, there was a gang across the street
to-night--across from my place, I mean--and that sneaking Tom Terrill
and Darby Meeker, and I reckon all the rest of 'em, was there. And they
was runnin' back and forth to my place, and a-drinkin' a good deal, and
the more they drinks the louder they talks. And I hears Darby Meeker say
to one feller, 'We'll git him, sure!' and I listens with all my ears,
though pretendin' to see nothin'. 'We'll fix it this time,' he said;
'the Old Un's got his thinkin' cap on.' And I takes in every word, and
by one thing and another I picks up that there's new schemes afoot to
trap ye. They was a-sayin' as it might be an idee to take ye as you come
out of Knapp's to-night.”
“How did they know I was at Knapp's?” I asked, somewhat surprised,
though I had little reason to be when I remembered the number of spies
who might have watched me.
“Why, Dicky Nahl told 'em,” said Mother Borton. “He was with the gang,
and sings it out as pretty as you please.”
This gave me something new to think about, but I said nothing.
“Well,” she continued, “they says at last that won't do, fer it'll git
'em into trouble, and I reckon they're argyfying over their schemes yit.
But one thing I finds out.”
Mother Borton stopped and looked at me anxiously.
“Well,” I said impatiently, “what was it?”
“They're a-sayin' as how, if you're killed, the one as you knows on'll
have to git some one else to look after the boy, and mebbe he won't be
so smart about foolin' them.”
“That's an excellent idea,” said I. “If they only knew that I was the
other fellow they could see at once what a bright scheme they had hit
upon.”
“Maybe they ain't a-goin' to do it,” said Mother Borton. “There's a heap
o' things said over the liquor that don't git no further, but you'll be
a fool if you don't look out. Now, do as I tell you. You just keep
more men around you. Keep eyes in the back of your head, and if you see
there's a-goin' to be trouble, jest you shoot first and ax questions
about it afterward. They talked of getting you down on the water-front
or up in Chinatown with some bogus message and said how easy it would be
to dispose of you without leaving clues behind 'em. Now, don't you sleep
here without three or four men on guard, and don't you stir round nights
with less than four. Send Porter out to git two more men, and tell him
to look sharp and see if the coast's clear outside. I reckon I'll slide
out if no one's lookin'.”
“I've got some men on the next floor,” I said. “I thought it would be
just as well to have a few around in case of emergencies. I'll have two
of them out, and send Porter to reconnoiter.”
“Who told you to git your men together?”
“A little idea of my own.”
“You've got some sense, after all.”
The reinforcements were soon ready to take orders, and Porter returned
to bring word that no suspicious person was in sight in the street.
“I reckon I'd best go, then,” said Mother Borton. “I don't want no knife
in me jest yit, but if there's no one to see me I'm all right.”
I pressed Mother Borton to take two of my men as escort, but she
sturdily refused.
“They'd know something was up if I was to go around that way, and I'd be
a bloody ghost as soon as they could ketch me alone,” she said. “Well,
good night--or is it mornin'? And do take keer of yourself, dearie.”
And, so saying, Mother Borton muffled herself up till it was hard to
tell whether she was man or woman, and trudged away.
Whatever designs were brewing in the night-meeting of the conspirators,
they did not appear to concern my immediate peace of body. The two
following days were spent in quiet, and, in spite of warnings, I began
to believe that no new plan of action had been determined on.
“Don't you feel too sure of yourself,” said Dicky Nahl, to whom I
confided this view of the situation. “You won't feel so funny about it
if you get prodded in the ribs with a bowie some dark night, or find
your head wrapped up in a blanket when you think you're just taking a
'passy-ar' in Washington Square in the evening.”
Dicky looked very much in earnest, and his bright and airy manner was
gone for the moment.
“You seem to get along well enough with them,” I suggested tartly,
remembering Mother Borton's stories with some suspicion.
“Of course,” said Dicky. “Why shouldn't I? They're all right if you
don't rub the fur the wrong way. But I haven't got state secrets in my
pockets, so they know it's no use to pick 'em.”
I was not at all sure of Dicky's fidelity, in spite of his seeming
earnestness, but I forbore to mention my doubts, and left the garrulous
young man to go his way while I turned to the office that had been
furnished by Doddridge Knapp. I hardly expected to meet the King of
the Street. He had, I supposed, returned to the city, but he had set
Wednesday as the day for resuming operations in the market, and I did
not think that he would be found here on Monday.
The room was cold and cheerless, and the dingy books in law-calf
appeared to gaze at me in mute protest as I looked about me.
The doors that separated me from Doddridge Knapp's room were shut
and locked. What was behind them? I wondered. Was there anything in
Doddridge Knapp's room that bore on the mystery of the hidden boy, or
would give the clue to the murder of Henry Wilton? As I gazed on the
panels the questions became more and more insistent. Was it not my duty
to find the answer? The task brought my mind to revolt. Yet the thought
grew on me that it was necessary to my task. If vengeance was to be
mine; if Doddridge Knapp was to pay the penalty of the gallows for the
death of Henry Wilton, it must be by the evidence that I should wrest
from him and his tools. I must not stop at rummaging papers, nor at
listening at keyholes. I had just this morning secured the key that
would fit the first door. I had taken the impression of the lock and had
it made without definite purpose, but now I was ready to act.
With a sinking heart but a clear head I put the key cautiously to the
lock and gently turned it. The key fitted perfectly, and the bolt flew
back as it made the circle. I opened the door into the middle room.
The second door, as I expected, was closed. Would the same key fit the
second lock, or must I wait to have another made? I advanced to the
second door and was about to try the key when a sound from behind it
turned my blood to water.
Beyond that door, from the room I had supposed to be empty, I heard a
groan.
I stood as if petrified, and, in the broad daylight that streamed in at
the window, with the noise and rush of Clay Street ringing in my ears,
I felt my hair rise as though I had come on a ghost. I listened a minute
or more, but heard nothing.
“Nonsense!” I thought to myself; “it was a trick of the imagination.”
I raised my hand once more to the lock, when the sound broke again,
louder, unmistakable. It was the voice of one in distress of body or
mind.
What was it? Could it be some prisoner of Doddridge Knapp's, brought
hither by the desperate band that owned him as employer? Was it a man
whom I might succor? Or was it Doddridge Knapp himself, overwhelmed by
recollection and remorse, doing penance in solitude for the villainy he
had done and dared not confess? I listened with all my ears. Then there
came through the door the low, stern tones of a man's voice speaking
earnestly, pleadingly, threateningly, but in a suppressed monotone.
Then the groan broke forth again, and it was followed by sobs and choked
sounds, as of one who protested, yet, strangely, the voice was the same.
There was one man, not two. It was self-accusation, self-excuse, and the
sobs seemed to come in answer to self-reproaches.
Then there was sound as of a man praying, and the prayer was broken by
sobs; and again I thought there were two men. And then there was noise
of a man moving about, and a long smothered groan, as of one in agony of
spirit. Fearful that the door might be flung open in my face, I tiptoed
back to my room, and silently turned the key, as thoroughly mystified as
ever I had been in the strange events that had crowded my life since I
had entered the city.