AT THE BIDDING OF THE UNKNOWN
The windows of Borton's shone cheerfully, although it was past midnight.
At our cautious approach a signal was given, and with the answering word
a man appeared from the obscurity.
“All safe?” I inquired.
“It's all right,” said Barkhouse. “There's a dozen men in the bar-room,
and I'm not sure there ain't some of the hounds amongst them. But you're
to go in the side door, and right up stairs.”
“Two of you may keep at the foot of the stairs, just inside the door,” I
said. “You may stand watch outside, Barkhouse.”
There was sound of rude song, and the clink of glass and bottle in the
bar and dining-room, as I passed through the side hall. But the door
was closed, and I saw nothing of the late revelers. In the upper hallway
Mother Borton stood by an open door, silhouetted dark and threatening
against the dim flickerings that came from the candle in the room behind
her.
I had but opened my mouth to give her word of greeting when she raised
a warning claw, and then seizing me, drew me swiftly into the room and
closed and locked the door.
“How air ye, dearie?” she said, surveying me with some apparent pride.
“You're safe and whole, ain't ye?”
As the candlelight fell on her face, she seemed older and more like a
bird of prey than ever. The nose and chin had taken a sharper cast, the
lines of her face were deeper drawn with the marks of her evil life, and
her breath was strong with the strength of water-front whisky. But her
eyes burned bright and keen as ever in their sunken sockets, with the
fire of her fevered brain behind them.
“I am safe,” I said, “though I had a close shave in Chinatown.”
“I heerd of it,” said Mother Borton sourly. “I reckon it ain't much good
to sit up nights to tell you how to take keer of yourself. It's a
wonder you ever growed up. Your mammy must 'a' been mighty keerful about
herdin' ye under cover whenever it rained.”
“I _was_ a little to blame,” I admitted, “but your warning was not
thrown away. I thought I was well-guarded.”
Mother Borton sniffed contemptuously.
“I s'pose you come down here alone?”
“No.” And I explained the disposition of my forces.
“That's not so bad,” she said. “They could git up here soon enough, I
reckon, if there was a row. But I guess you didn't think I sent for ye
jest to tell ye you was a fool in Chinatown.”
I admitted that I should have expected to wait till morning for such a
piece of information.
“Well,” said Mother Borton, “that ain't it. Something's up.”
“And what might it be?” I inquired. “The moon?”
Mother Borton did not take this flippancy kindly. Her face grew darker
and more evil as it was framed in the dancing shadows behind her.
“You can git a knife in ye as easy as winking if I'll jest keep my mouth
shut,” she cried spitefully.
“Yes,” said I repentantly, putting my hand upon her arm. “But you are my
very good friend, and will tell me what I ought to know.”
The creature's face lighted at my tone and action, and her eyes melted
with a new feeling.
“That I will,” she said; “that I will, as if you were my own boy.”
She seized my hand and held it as she spoke, and looked intently, almost
lovingly, on my face. Elsewhere I could have shivered at the thought of
her touch. Here, with the bent figure amid the gloomy shadows of the
den in which we sat, with the atmosphere of danger heavy about us, I was
moved by a glow of kindly feeling.
“I was a-listening to 'em,” she continued in a low, earnest tone,
glancing around fearfully as if she had the thought that some one else
might be listening in turn. “I was a-listening, an' I heerd what they
says.”
“Who said?” I inquired.
“The ones you knows on,” she returned mysteriously.
“What ones?” I persisted, though I supposed she meant to indicate some
of my energetic enemies.
Mother Borton paid no attention to my question, and continued:
“I knowed they was a-talking about you, an' they says they would cut
your liver out if they found ye there.”
“And where is there?” I asked with growing interest.
“That's what I was listening to find out,” said Mother Borton. “I
couldn't hear much of what they says, but I hears enough to git an
idee.”
“Well?” I said inquiringly as she hesitated.
She bent forward and hissed rather than whispered:
“They've found out where the boy is!”
“Are you certain?” I asked in sudden alarm.
“Pretty sure,” she said, “pretty sure. Now you won't go near the place,
will ye, dearie?” she continued anxiously.
“You forget that I haven't the first idea where the boy is hidden,” I
returned.
“Oh, Lord, yes! I reckon my mind's going,” grunted Mother Borton. “But
I'm afeard of their knives for ye.”
“I wish I could give warning,” said I, much disturbed by the
information. “The protector of the boy ought to know about this. I'm
afraid I have done wrong.”
Mother Borton looked at me fixedly.
“Don't you worry, my dear. She'll know about it all right.”
Again the feeling stole over me that this woman knew more than she told.
But I knew that it was useless to question her directly. I considered a
moment, and then decided to trust her with a secret which might surprise
her into admitting her knowledge.
“I suspect that she knows already. I got a note to-night,” said I,
drawing from my pocket the envelope I had received from the Unknown.
Mother Borton seized it, looked for a moment at the firm, delicate hand
of the address, and drew out the sheet that it inclosed.
“Read it, dearie,” she said, handing it back after a scrutiny. “I can't
tell anything but big print.”
I suspected that Mother Borton was trying to deceive me, but I repeated
the words of the note:
“Send six men to 8 o'clock boat. Come with one in hack to courtyard of
the Palace Hotel at 7:40.”
Mother Borton's face changed not a whit at the reading, but at the end
she nodded. “She knows,” she said.
“What does it mean?” I asked. “What is to happen?”
“Don't go, dearie--you won't go, will you?”
“Yes,” I said. “I must go.”
“Oh,” she wailed; “you may be killed. You may never come back.”
“Nonsense,” said I. “In broad daylight, at the Palace Hotel? I'm much
more likely to be killed before I get home to-night.”
Her earnestness impressed me, but my resolution was not shaken. Mother
Borton rested her head on the table in despair at my obstinacy.
“Well, if you will, you will,” she said at last; “and an old woman's
warnings are nothing to you. But if you will put your head in the traps,
I'll do my best to make it safe after you git it there. You jist sit
still, honey.” And she took the candle and went to a corner where she
seated herself at a stand.
Her shadow grew very large, and her straggling locks sent streamers of
blackness dancing on the grimy ceiling. The weird figure, thrown into
bold relief by the candle-lighted wall beyond it while all else was in
obscurity, gave an uncanny feeling that turned half to dread as I looked
upon her. What secret did she hold? What was the danger she feared?
Mother Borton appeared to have some difficulty in arranging her words to
her liking. She seemed to be writing, but the pen did not flow smoothly.
At last she was done, and, sealing her work in an envelope, she brought
the flickering light once more to the table.
“Take that,” she said, thrusting the envelope into my hand. “If you find
a one-eyed man when you git into trouble, give him that letter I've writ
ye, and it may do ye some good. It's the best I can do fer ye. You'd
better go now and git some sleep. You may need it.”
I thanked Mother Borton and pressed her hand, and she held the candle as
I tiptoed down the stairs, joined my waiting guards, and went out into
the night.
The fresh, cool air of the early morning hours was grateful after the
close and tainted atmosphere of the den we had left, but I had other
things to think of than the pleasure of once more filling my lungs.
“Where are Barkhouse and Phillips?” I asked, as we turned our faces
toward the west.
Porter gave a low whistle, and, as this failed to bring an answer,
followed it with one louder and more prolonged. We listened, but no
response came.
“We'd better get out of here,” said Wilson. “There's no telling what may
happen when they hear that whistle.”
“Hist! What's that?” said Porter, drawing me back into a doorway.
There were running steps on the block above us, and I thought a shadow
darted from one side of the street to the other.
“There seem to be friends waiting for us,” said I. “Just get a good grip
of your clubs, boys, and keep your revolvers handy in case they think
they have a call to stop us.”
“Hold on,” said Porter. “There's a gang of 'em there. I see a dozen of
'em, and if we're the ones they're after we had better cut for it.”
“I believe you are right,” said I, peering into the darkness. I could
see a confused mass, but whether of men or boxes I could only guess.
“We'll go up here, and you can cut around the other way,” said Porter.
“There's no need for you to risk it.”
“There's no need for any one to risk it. We'll cut together.”
“This way then,” said Wilson. “I know this part of town better than you
do. Run on your toes.” And he darted past Borton's, and plunged into an
alley that led toward the north. Porter and I followed, as quietly as
possible, through the dark and noisome cut-off to Pacific Street.
Wilson turned toward the bay, and crossing the street at the next corner
followed the main thoroughfare to Broadway.
“I guess we're all right now,” he gasped, as we turned again to the
west, “but we'd best keep to the middle of the street.”
And a little later we were in sight of the house of mystery which
fronted, forbidding and gloomy as ever, on Montgomery Street.
“Where's Barkhouse?” I asked of Trent, who was on guard.
“He hasn't come in, sir. Phillips got here a bit ago, and I think he has
something to report.”
As Phillips had been sent scouting with Barkhouse I thought it likely,
and called him to my room.
“No, sir, I didn't see Bob for nigh on an hour before I came back. Not
after we got to Borton's.”
“I left him just outside the door,” I said.
“Then you seen him after I did. I was following two fellows down to the
Den, you know, and that was the last I seen of Bob.”
I understood that the Den was one of the meeting-places of the enemy.
“Did you find anything there?”
“Not a thing. The two fellows went in, but they didn't come out. Another
gang of three comes along and goes in, but none of 'em shows up again,
and I reckoned they'd gone to bed; so I takes it as a hint and comes up
here.”
“I suppose it would have done no good to wait.”
“You don't think Bob's been took, do you?”
I did feel uneasy over the absence of the stalwart scout, and but for
the orders I had received for the morning I should have had my forces
out to find him, or get a hostage in exchange. But as it was, I
dissembled my fears and made some reassuring reply.
At the earliest light of the morning I was once more astir, but
half-refreshed by my short and broken rest, and made my dispositions for
the day. I ordered Porter, Fitzhugh, Brown, Wilson, Lockhart and Abrams
to wait for me at the Oakland Ferry. Trent, who was still weak from
his wound, I put in charge of the home-guard, with Owens, Phillips and
Larson as his companions, and gave instructions to look for Barkhouse,
in case he did not return. Wainright I took with me, and hailing a hack
drove to the Palace Hotel.
There was a rattle of wagons and a bustle of departing guests as we
drove into the courtyard of the famous hostelry. The eight-o'clock boat
was to carry the passengers for the east-bound overland train, and the
outgoing travelers were filling the place with noise and confusion.
I stepped out of the hack, and looked about me anxiously. Was I to meet
the Unknown? or was I to take orders from some emissary of my hidden
employer? No answering eye met mine as I searched the place with eager
glance. Neither woman nor man of all the hurrying crowd had a thought
for me.
The hotel carriages rattled away, and comparative quiet once more fell
on the court. I looked impatiently about. Was there some mistake? Had
the plans been changed? But as I glanced at the clock that ticked the
seconds in the office of the hotel I saw that I had been early, and that
it was even now but twenty minutes to the hour.
The minute-hand had not swept past the figure VIII when the door opened,
there was a hurried step, and two women stood before me, leading a child
between them. Both women were closely veiled, and the child was muffled
and swathed till its features could not be seen.
One of the women was young, the other older--perhaps middle-aged. Both
were tall and well-made. I looked eagerly upon them, for one of them
must be the Unknown, the hidden employer whose task had carried Henry
Wilton to his death, who held my life in her hands, and who fought the
desperate battle with the power and hatred of Doddridge Knapp.
I was conscious of some disappointment, I could not say why. But neither
of the women filled the outline of the shadowy picture my fancy had
drawn of the Unknown. Neither gave impression of the force and decision
with which my fancy had endowed the woman who had challenged the
resources and defied the vengeance of the Wolf. So much I took to
my thoughts in the flash of an eye as they approached. It was to the
younger that I turned as the more likely to have the spirit of contest,
but it was the older who spoke.
“Here is your charge, Mr. Wilton,” she said in a low, agitated voice. As
she spoke, I felt the faint suggestion of the peculiar perfume that had
greeted me from the brief letters of the Unknown.
“I am ready for orders,” I said with a bow.
It was apparently a mere business matter between us. I had fancied
somehow that there had been a bond of friendship, as much as of
financial interest, between Henry Wilton and his employer, and felt the
sense of disappointment once more.
“Your orders are in this envelope,” said the Unknown, hurriedly
thrusting a paper into my hand. “Drive for the boat, and read them on
the way. You have no time to lose.”
The younger woman placed the child in the hack.
“Climb in, Wainwright,” said I, eying the youngster unfavorably. “Will
he travel with us, ma'am? He's rather young.”
“He'll go all right,” said the elder woman with some agitation. “He
knows that he must. But treat him carefully. Now good-by.”
“Oakland Ferry, driver,” I cried, as I stepped into the hack and slammed
the door. And in a moment we were dashing out into New Montgomery
Street, and with a turn were on Market Street, rolling over the rough
cobbles toward the bay.