"ONE WHO KNOWS"
Norvin Blake dined at his club that evening, returning to his office at
about half-past seven. He was relieved to find the place deserted, for
he desired an opportunity to think undisturbed. Although this
unforeseen twist of events had seemed remarkable, at first, he began to
feel that he had been unconsciously waiting for this very hour.
Something had always forewarned him that a time would come when he
would be forced to take a hand once more in that old affair. Nor was he
so much disturbed by the knowledge that Narcone, the butcher, was here
in New Orleans as by the memories and regrets which the news aroused.
Entering his private office, he lit the gas, and flinging himself into
an easy-chair, gave himself over to recollections of all that the last
four years had brought forth. It seemed only yesterday that he had
returned from Italy, hot upon the scent which Colonel Neri had
uncovered for him. He had been confident, eager, hopeful, yet he had
failed, signally, unaccountably. He had combed New York City for a
trace of Margherita Ginini with a thoroughness that left no possible
means untried. As he looked back upon it now, he wondered if he could
ever summon sufficient enthusiasm to attack any other project with a
similar determination. He doubted it. Later experience had bred in him
a peculiar caution, a shrinking hesitancy at exposing his true
feelings, due, no doubt, to that ever-present necessity of watching
himself.
Margherita had never written him after her first disappearance; his own
letters had been returned from Sicily; the police of New York had
failed as those of Rome and Naples and other cities had failed. He had
wasted a small fortune in the hire of private detectives. At last, when
it was too late to profit him, he had learned that the three women had
been in New York at the time of his arrival, but evidently they had
become alarmed at his pursuit and fled. It was this which had forced
him to give up--the certainty that Margherita knew the motive of his
search and resented it. He had never quite recovered from the sting of
that discovery, for he was proud, but he had grown too wise to cherish
unjust resentment. It merely struck him as a great pity that their
lives had fallen out in such unhappy fashion. He never tried to deceive
himself into believing that he could forget her, become a new man, and
banish the joy and the pain of his past, impartially. There were other
women, it is true, who attracted him strongly, aroused his tenderness
and appealed to his manhood--and among them Myra Nell Warren. His power
of feeling had not been atrophied, rather it had become deeper. Yet his
loyalty was never really impaired. In the bottom of his heart he knew
that that tawny, slumbrous yet passionate Sicilian girl was his first
and his most sacred love.
As he sat alone now, with the evidences of his accomplishment about
him, he realized that in spite of his material success, life, so far,
at least, had been just as stale and flat as it had promised to be on
that night when he and Martel had ridden away from the feast at
Terranova. He had made good, to his own satisfaction, in all respects
save one, and even in that he had gained the form if not the substance,
for the world regarded him as a man of proven courage. It seemed to him
a grim and hideous joke, and he wondered what his friends would think
if they knew that the very commonplace adventure planned for this
evening filled him with a cringing horror. The prospect of this trip
into the Italian quarter with the probability of encountering Narcone
turned him cold and sick. His hands were like ice and the muscles of
his back were twitching nervously; he could feel his heart pound as he
let his thoughts have free play. But these symptoms were only too
familiar; he had conquered them too many times to think of weakening.
After five years of intimate self-study he was still at a loss to
account for his phenomenal cowardice. He wondered again to-night if it
might not be the result of a too powerful imagination. Donnelly had no
imagination whatever, and the same seemed true of others whom he had
studied. As for himself, his fancies took alarm at the slightest hint
and went careering off into all the dark byways of supposition,
encountering impossible shapes and improbable dangers. Whatever the
cause, he had long since given up hope of ever winning a permanent
victory over himself and had learned that each trial meant a fresh
battle.
When he saw by the clock that the hour of his appointment had come, he
arose, although his body seemed to belong to some one else and his
spirit was crying out a mad, panicky warning. He opened the drawer of
his desk and, extracting a revolver, raised it at arm's-length. He drew
it down before his eye until the sights crept into alignment, and held
it there for a throbbing second. Then he smiled mirthlessly, for his
hand had not shown the slightest tremor.
Donnelly was waiting as Blake walked into headquarters, and, exhuming a
box of cigars from the remotest depths of a desk drawer, he offered
them, saying:
"I've sent O'Connell over to reconnoiter. There's no use of our
starting out until he locates Sabella. You needn't be so suspicious of
those perfectos; they won't bite you."
"The last one you gave me did precisely that."
"Must have been one of my cooking cigars. I keep two kinds, one for
callers and one for friends."
"Then if this is a Flor de Friendship I'll accept," Blake said with a
laugh.
"I see Mr. Dreux didn't change his mind and decide to join us."
"No, this is a little too rough for Bernie. He very cheerfully
acknowledged that he was afraid Narcone might recognize me and make
trouble."
"I thought of that," Donnelly acknowledged. "Is there any chance?"
In the depths of Blake's consciousness something cried out fearfully in
the affirmative, but he replied: "Hardly. He never saw me except
indistinctly, and that was nearly five years ago. He might recall my
name, but I dare say not without an introduction, which isn't
necessary."
"Do you think you will know him?"
"I-I have reason to think I will."
The Chief grunted with satisfaction.
"A funny little fellow, that Dreux!" he remarked. "Wasn't it his father
who fought a duel with Colonel Hammond from Baton Rouge?"
"The same. They used shotguns at forty yards. Colonel Hammond was
killed."
"Humph! And he was afraid to go with us to-night?"
"Oh, he makes no secret of his cowardice."
"Well, a mule is a mule, a coward is a coward, and a gambler is
a--son-of-a-gun," paraphrased the Chief. "If he hasn't any courage he
can't force it into himself."
"Do you think so?"
"I know so. I've seen it tried. Some people are born cowards and can't
help themselves. As for me, I was never troubled much that way. I
suppose you find it the same, too."
"No. My only consolation lies in thinking it's barely possible the
other fellow may be as badly frightened as I am."
Donnelly scoffed openly. "I never saw a man stand up better than you.
Why I've touted you as the gamest chap I ever saw. Do you remember that
dago Misetti who jumped from here into your parish when you were
sheriff?"