"Shake hands with Mr. Dillingham, Quib," said Gottlieb as I one
day unexpectedly entered the latter's office. "We have a matter
on hand in which he is interested."
"Glad to know you, Mr. Quibble," quoth the client, extending a
rather soft hand. "Your name is well known to me, although I have
never personally had the pleasure of your acquaintance."
"The future will, I trust, remedy that," I replied, not particularly
impressed with the stranger's features or expression, but conscious
somehow of the smell of money about him. For he was short and fat
and wore a brown surtout and a black stovepipe hat, and his little
gray eyes peeped out of full, round, red cheeks. On his lower lip
he wore a tiny goatee.
"As I was saying," he continued, turning again to my partner, "we
all of us make mistakes and I made the biggest one when I annexed
the present Mrs. D. I was a young fool hardly out of my teens,
and the sight of a pretty face and a tearful story of woe were too
much for me. She was an actress. _Comprenez?_ A sort of Lydia
Languish, la-de-da kind of a girl. Oh, she caught me fast enough,
and it was only after I had swallowed the hook, sinker and all,
that I found out she was married."
"Ho-ho!" remarked Gottlieb. "The old story."
"The same little old story," assented Dillingham. "Take a cigar?"
He produced a well-filled case.
I dropped into a chair and hitched it toward them.
"Now, the fact of the matter is," continued he, "she wouldn't look
at me as long as she was tied to her husband, miserable rat though
he was; and he was and is a rat! I could call and take her out to
dinner, and all that, but--pst! nothing more! and she was always
telling me how I was her good angel and inspired her to higher
things! Gad! even then it bored me! But I could see nothing but
her face. You know how it is. I was twenty-six and a clerk in a
hardware house."
He laughed grimly.
"Well, as luck would have it, my Uncle John died just about that
time and left me ten thousand dollars and I started in to make her
my own by getting her a divorce. Now, this husband of hers was a
wretched fellow--the son of a neighbor--who never got beyond being
a waiter in a railroad station. Say, it is rather rough, eh? To
think of me, Dillingham, of Dillingham, Hodges & Flynn, the biggest
independent steel man in the State, tied up to a pale-faced woman
who can't speak the King's English properly and whose first husband
is a waiter--yes, a waiter to-day, understand, in a railroad
restaurant at Baltimore! It makes me sick every time I go to
Washington. I can't eat--fact! So I hired a lawyer for her--you
know him, I guess--Bunce. Oscar Willoughby Bunce! And he prepared
divorce papers--Oh, we had cause enough! And the next time Hawkins
--that was the husband's name, Arthur P. Hawkins--came over to New
York, to borrow some money from his wife, Bunce slapped a summons
on him. It makes me squirm to think how delighted I was to know
we had actually begun our case. Hawkins hired a lawyer, I believe,
and pretended he was going to put up a defence, but I bought him
off and we got our decree by default. Then, gentlemen"--Dillingham
paused with a wry face--"I had the inestimable privilege of marrying
my present wife!"
He sucked meditatively on his cigar for a few moments before resuming
his narrative.
"Curious, isn't it--the fascination of the stage? You, gentlemen,
probably have observed it even more than I have; but when he sees
a slim girl with yellow curls capering around in tights behind the
footlights, a young man's imagination runs riot and he fancies her
the incarnation of coquetry and the personification of vivacious
loveliness. I admit it--the present Mrs. Dillingham was a dancer.
On the stage she used to ogle me out of my shoes and off it she'd
help me spend my money and drink my wine and jolly me up to beat
the cars; but once I'd married her she changed completely. Instead
of a dashing, snappy, tantalizing sort of a little Yum-Yum, she
turned religious and settled down so you wouldn't have known her.
There was nothing in it. Instead of a peach I had acquired a lemon.
I expected champagne and found I was drinking buttermilk. Get me?
You would never have guessed she'd been inside a theatre in her
life. Well, we got along the best we could and she made a hit at
the church, as a brand plucked from the burning. Used to tell her
experiences Friday nights and have all the parsons up to five-
o'clock tea. Meanwhile I forgot my romantic dreams of flashing
eyes and twinkling feet and began to get interested in business.
To-day I'm worth real money and am on top of the heap downtown;
but socially--Good Lord! the woman's a millstone! She's grown fat
and talks through her nose, and--"
"You want to get rid of her," finished Gottlieb.
"Exactly!" answered Dillingham. "How much will it cost?"
"I think you had better give me your check for ten thousand dollars
to begin with," replied my partner. "Such a case presents great
difficulties--almost insuperable without money. I am not even sure
that what you want can be accomplished without running grave personal
risks--not on your part, but on ours. Such risks must be compensated
for. What you desire, I take it, is to have your marriage annulled.
To do that it will be necessary to prove that the divorce procured
by Mrs. Dillingham from her former husband, Hawkins, was improperly
and illegally granted. We must knock out the decree in Hawkins
_versus_ Hawkins somehow or other. To be frank with you, it may
cost you a large sum."
"It is worth it," answered Dillingham. "Free me from this woman
and I'll give you twenty-five thousand dollars."
"Make it thirty-five thousand dollars," coaxed Gottlieb.
"Well, then, thirty-five thousand dollars," said Dillingham after
a pause.
"But you must promise to do exactly what we tell you!" continued
my partner.
"I expect to," replied the other.
"Very good, then," said Gottlieb. "In the first place, the original
decree is no good unless the summons actually was served on Hawkins
and the suit properly commenced. Now, perhaps Bunce served the
wrong man. He didn't know Hawkins. The latter was merely pointed
out to him. Already I begin to feel that there is grave doubt as
to whether the proceedings in Hawkins _versus_ Hawkins were ever
legally initiated."
"Hold on, Mr. Gottlieb!" remonstrated Dillingham. "You want to go
easy there. After Hawkins was served he retained a lawyer. I know
that, dammit, because it cost me twenty-five hundred dollars to
get rid of him."
"What was his name?" asked Gottlieb sharply.
"Crookshank--Walter E. Crookshank--down on Nassau Street."
Gottlieb gave a short, dry laugh.
"Luck's with you, Dillingham. Crookshank died three years ago."
None of us broke silence for the space of about two minutes.
"You see now why this sort of thing costs money?" finally remarked
my partner.
Dillingham wiped his forehead with his handkerchief nervously.
"Say," he began, "isn't that taking a pretty long chance? I--"
"It is taking no chance at all," retorted Gottlieb, his little eyes
glistening like a snake's. "You have simply retained us to see if
your wife's original divorce was regular--not to see if it was
irregular--catch on? You tell us nothing. We ask you nothing.
We make our investigation. Much to our surprise and horror, we
discover that the defendant never was served--perhaps that he never
even knew of the proceeding until years afterward. We don't know
what you know. We simply advise you the divorce is N. G. and you
ask no questions. We'll attend to all that--for our thirty-five
thousand dollars."
"Well, you know your business," responded Dillingham hesitantly,
"and I leave the matter in your hands. How long will it take?"
"Everything now depends on our friend Hawkins," replied Gottlieb.
"We may be able to hand you your manumission papers in three
months."
When Dillingham had written out his check and bade us good day I
no longer made any pretence of concealing from my partner my
perturbation. I had, of course, known that from time to time we
had skated on thin ice; but this was the first occasion upon which
Gottlieb had deliberately acknowledged to a client that he would
resort to perjury to accomplish his ends.
"Don't you think we're running entirely too close to the wind?" I
asked, pacing up and down the office.
"My dear Quib," answered Gottlieb soothingly, "don't agitate yourself
over so trifling a matter. The only living man who can prove that
Hawkins was served is Bunce--and Bunce is a fool. At best it would
simply be one swearing against the other. We have a perfect right
to believe Hawkins in preference to Bunce if we choose. Anyhow,
we're not the judge. All we have to do is to present the evidence
at our command--if we can get it. And, by God! we will get it if
it costs us ten thousand dollars! Why, Quib, the thing is a
windfall. Thirty-five thousand! Why, thirty-five _hundred_ for
such a case would be a big fee!"
"I don't know!" I answered, for I felt a curious premonition in
the matter. "Something tells me that we ought to take no chances."
"Come, come!" quoth Gottlieb, with a light show of irritation.
"Don't lose your nerve. You've done many a worse thing than this,
to my own knowledge!"
I do not pretend to any virtue in the matter and yet I must admit
to some feelings of compunction about Mrs. Dillingham. Truth to
tell, I had taken a strong dislike to her husband, with his sleek
confidence and cold-blooded selfishness. In addition, I was quite
sure that there was some other fell reason why he wished to divorce
her--probably he had another marriage in contemplation, even if he
had not admitted it.
"I wish we could make the beggar do his own dirty work," I
exclaimed.
"But what does he pay us for?" inquired Gottlieb innocently. "Quib,
just think of the money!"
I had, in fact, been thinking of the money, and it looked very good
to me. Since my days in Haight & Foster's law office, a great,
great change had come in my manner of life; and, though my friends
to a great extent remained among the theatrical and sporting class
to which I had received my first introduction on coming to New
York, I now occupied a large brick house with stone trimmings in
Washington Square, where I entertained in truly luxurious fashion.
I had a French cook and an English butler, and drove a pair of
trotters that were second to none except those of William H.
Vanderbilt, with whom I had many a fast brush on the speedways.
Though I had never allowed myself to be caught in the net of
matrimony, I had many friends among the fair sex, particularly
among those who graced the footlights; and some of my evening
parties did not break up until dawn was glinting over the roofs of
the respectable mansions round about me. It was a gay life, but
it cost money--almost more money than I could make; and my share
in the thirty-five thousand dollars offered by our friend Dillingham
would go a long way to keeping up my establishment for another
year. So I allowed my qualms to give me no further uneasiness and
told myself that Gottlieb was clever enough to manage the business
in such a fashion that there would be no "come-back."
A week or so later I encountered in our office a narrow-shouldered,
watery-eyed, reddish-nosed party that I instantly recognized for
Hawkins. There could be no doubt about the matter, for he had a
way of standing at attention and thrusting his head forward when
addressed that were unmistakable. He was waiting, it turned out,
for Gottlieb, who had sent for him to come on from Baltimore; and
the readiness with which he had responded could be better accounted
for by the five hundred dollars which he had received at the hands
of our emissary for travelling expenses than by any desire on his
part to regain the society of the present Mrs. Dillingham.
"I suppose," began Gottlieb when he had retired to the seclusion
of his inner office, "that you fully understand that the divorce
secured by your wife is inoperative--Tut! Tut! Don't interrupt
me!"--for Hawkins had opened his mouth in protest--"for the reason
--for the very good reason, I repeat--that you were never served
with any summons or notified that the proceeding had been commenced.
Am I correct?"
Hawkins grinned and turned his watery eyes from one of us to the
other.
"Quite so, sir!" he stuttered. "Exactly, sir!"
"Now, on the contrary, if any one says you were served with such
a paper, it was quite impossible for the reason--by the way, what
_was_ the reason?"
Hawkins dropped one eyelid to a narrow slit and pursed his lips.
"Quite impossible, sir! The fact is, sir, I was waitin' on a dinin'-
car that ran at the time between San Antonio and New Orleans, sir."
"You see, Quib?" exclaimed Gottlieb. "My suspicions in the matter
were quite correct. This gentleman has been most outrageously
treated! If you will kindly retire for a moment--as I have a matter
which I wish to discuss with him privately--I will turn him over
to you for the purpose of taking his affidavit."
A few moments thereafter Hawkins appeared in my office, apparently
in the act of stuffing something into his pocket, and announced
that he was ready to sign his "davy." Although I had no taste for
the business, there was nothing for it but to do my part; so I
called in a stenographer and dictated the following:
"SUPREME COURT--COUNTY OF NEW YORK
"RUFUS P. DILLINGHAM, Plaintiff )
_against_ ) _Action for Annulment of Marriage_
LILIAN DILLINGHAM, Defendant )
"CITY AND COUNTY OF NEW YORK, _ss_.:
"ARTHUR P. HAWKINS, being duly sworn, deposes and says: That he
is forty-three years old, a waiter by occupation, and resides in
the city of Baltimore, Maryland; that he was married to the defendant
herein on the eighteenth day of June, 187-, and thereafter lived
with her as man and wife until the month of December, 1882, when
for some reason unknown to deponent the defendant left his house
and did not thereafter return; that he has recently learned that
said defendant, in July, 1887, procured a decree of divorce against
him in the county and State of New York, upon grounds of which
deponent is totally ignorant, and that thereafter said defendant
contracted a marriage with one Rufus P. Dillingham, the plaintiff
therein; that deponent was never served with any summons or complaint
in said action of divorce and had no knowledge or information that
any such proceeding was pending against him; that he never appeared
in such proceeding and until recently always supposed that the
defendant was his lawful wife.
"Sworn to before me this fourteenth )
day of September, 1894 ) ARTHUR P. HAWKINS
"ISAAC M. COHEN,
"Notary Public, New York County."
There was something about this seedy rascal that filled me with
disgust and suspicion, and he looked at me out of the corners of
his evil eyes as if he knew that by some trick of fate he had me
in his power and was gloating over it. Even while he was swearing
to the paper he had a sickly sneer on his pimply face that sickened
me, and when Cohen, my clerk, administered the oath to him he had
the audacity to wink in his face and answer:
"It's the truth--_not!_"
Cohen, who knew a thing or two and had taken affidavits before,
merely laughed, but the words sent a shiver down my spine and I
snarled out:
"Be careful what you're saying! Do you swear that this affidavit
of yours is true?"
"Yes, sir! Yes, sir!" he hastened to answer, somewhat chagrined
at my not taking as a joke what he had intended for one.
"Very well," I said to Cohen. "Show the gentleman out. I'm very
busy. Good-day."
Afterward I would have given all the money I possessed to undo what
I had done.
The case of Dillingham _versus_ Dillingham duly came on for trial,
with Oscar Willoughby Bunce as the chief witness for defendant.
He had visited our office several times in an attempt to convince
us that we were entirely misinformed in regard to the service of
the papers in the original action and had insisted vehemently that
he had personally delivered them to Hawkins in the office of the
Astor House. Gottlieb had gently assured him that he must be
mistaken and bowed him out, but Bunce for once in his little toy
career was "all up in the air." He felt that his own integrity
was, in some mysterious way, at stake, since it was upon his own
testimony to the effect that he had made the service of the papers
in question that the original decree had in part been granted.
The case was sent to a referee for hearing, and on the morning of
the day set Gottlieb called me into his office and said:
"Harkee, Quib! I've a plan that will put our little friend Bunce's
nose out of joint for good. It is nearly seven years now since he
has seen Hawkins and it was then only for a moment."
"Well," said I, "what is your game?"
"Come along to the hearing and you'll find out, my lad," answered
Gottlieb. "Don't fail if you want to see some fun."
Curious to discover what trick Gottlieb would be able to play, I
accordingly arranged my work so as to attend the hearing, which
was to be held in the referee's office in an old wooden building
on Broadway. As I climbed the stairs I caught sight of Hawkins
skulking on one of the landings, but he laid a finger on his lips
and I passed on and up to the attorney's office. The room, like
most old-fashioned lawyers' offices, was but dimly lighted, and on
entering I found the other side, with the exception of Mrs.
Dillingham, already there. The referee sat at one end of a large
table, surrounded by his books, with his stenographer beside him;
and to his left sat Bunce and a lawyer named Stires, the present
"attorney of record" for the defendant. I took my seat opposite
them, introduced myself to the referee and waited. In a few moments
the door opened noisily and Gottlieb entered with much bustle,
accompanied by a clerk carrying books and papers and by a perfectly
strange man, arrayed in very new clothes, who seemed much embarrassed
and doubtful as to what he should do.
"Good afternoon, gentlemen!" exclaimed Gottlieb breezily. "I regret
to have kept you waiting, but I was unavoidably detained. Shall
I sit down here? Yes? Very good. Please take your seat beside
me, Mr. Hawkins."
The stranger blushed, fumbled his hat, and sat down bashfully in
the place designated.
"Are you ready to proceed, gentlemen?" inquired the referee over
his spectacles. "Call your first witness."
Bunce, who had been fidgeting in his eagerness to tell what he
knew, instantly bobbed up and asked to be sworn.
After giving his name, age, and profession, he detailed how he had
prepared the papers in the original case of Hawkins _versus_ Hawkins
and served them upon the defendant personally at the Astor House.
"I handed them to Mr. Hawkins myself and explained them to him.
He was dressed very much as he is now," cried Bunce.
"Do you positively identify this gentleman on your oath as the
person you served with the summons and complaint?" inquired Gottlieb
as if the matter were merely one of routine.
"Absolutely!" retorted Bunce hotly. "I could identify him anywhere
by the shape of his nose. I took especial pains to remark his
appearance in case the service should ever be disputed."
"Thank you. That is all," said Gottlieb. Then turning to the
stranger he directed him to take the stand.
"What is your name?" he asked sternly.
"Aaron Finkelstein--as you know very well, Mr. Gottlieb," answered
the stranger.
"Do you recognize this gentleman who has just testified?" indicating
Bunce.
"As far as I know I never saw him in my life," answered Finkelstein.
"Did he ever serve you with any papers--in the Astor House or
anywhere else?"
"Never."
"What is your business?"
"I am an undertaker."
In an instant the room was in a turmoil, Bunce screaming out that
he had been tricked by a parcel of shysters, Gottlieb indignantly
defending his ruse as a perfectly proper method of discrediting
Bunce, and the referee vainly endeavoring to restore order. As
for myself, in spite of my anxiety over the whole affair, I could
not do otherwise than laugh heartily over Bunce's ludicrous mistake.
When Hawkins was brought in from outside, and, after proclaiming
his identity, denied ever being served in the original action, the
referee was but little inclined to listen to Lawyer Bunce, who now
corrected his testimony and swore just as insistently that the real
Hawkins was the person to whom he had given the papers in the case.
Here, then, was as pretty a trick as had ever been played upon an
unsuspecting and well-meaning lawyer; and by it Gottlieb had so
strengthened our position that, very likely, the referee would have
found for our side even had not Hawkins taken it upon himself to
swear the matter through. Moreover, the only person who could have
disproved the latter's testimony or given evidence that might have
militated against its probability--to wit, Crookshank, his former
attorney--was dead and buried, and it seemed as if truth were buried
with him. On the way back to our office I congratulated my partner
on the Napoleonic strategy which he had displayed and a few days
later a more substantial compliment followed, in the shape of an
unqualified finding in our favor on the part of the referee.
"Was ever thirty-five thousand dollars earned so easily!" laughed
Gottlieb over his cigar as we were dining at Delmonico's.
"So long as Hawkins stays bought--yes," I answered.
"Don't be a death's head, Quib!" he retorted. "Why, even if he
turned State's evidence, no one would believe him! Have another
glass of this vintage--we can drink it every night now for a year
at Dillingham's expense!"
"Well, here's to you, Gottlieb!" I answered, filling my goblet with
creaming wine; "and here's to crime--whereby we live and move and
have our being!"
And we clinked our glasses and drained them with a laugh.
I had now been a resident of New York for upward of twenty years
and had acquired, as the junior member of the firm of Gottlieb &
Quibble, an international reputation. It is true that my partner
and I felt it to be beneath our dignity to advertise in the newspapers
--and, indeed, advertising in New York City was for us entirely
unnecessary--but we carried a card regularly in the English journals
and received many retainers from across the water; in fact, we
controlled practically all the theatrical business in the city,
drawing the contracts for the managers and being constantly engaged
in litigations on their behalf. We had long since abandoned as
trivial all my various profit-sharing schemes, and, with the
exception of carrying on our pay-rolls many of the attendants
attached to the police and other criminal courts, had practically
no "runners." We did not need any. There was no big criminal case
in which we were not retained for the defence and rarely a divorce
action of any notoriety where we did not appear for one of the
parties.
This matter of Hawkins's was the first in twenty years in which he
had ever deliberately faked an entire case! Yet, if ever there
was a safe opportunity to do so, this seemed the one, and I cannot
even now charge Gottlieb with recklessness in taking the chances
that he did; but, as luck would have it, there were two facts
connected with the Dillingham annulment the significance of which
we totally overlooked--one, that Bunce was not so much of a fool
as he looked, and the other, that Mrs. Dillingham was a mother.
Once, however, judgment had been entered to the effect that Mrs.
Dillingham had never lawfully ceased to be Mrs. Hawkins, then the
real reason of our client's anxiety to be rid of his wife and her
child, a girl of six years, became apparent; for he instantly
announced his engagement to a fashionable widow, who lacked money
if not experience, and who needed the one as much as he had a super-
abundance of the other. He made a fairly liberal allowance for
his child and its mother, and since this was paid monthly through
our office, I had an opportunity of making their acquaintance; and
I confess that I had no sooner done so than I began to have a sort
of regret for my own part in the transaction. For Mrs. Dillingham
--Hawkins, or whatever she was--proved to be a rather sweet-faced
young woman, with great, sad blue eyes and a winsomely childish
innocence of expression that concealed, as I afterward found out,
a will of iron and a heart full of courage.
She used to come and wait for Gottlieb or me to pay over her money,
and while she waited she would sit there so helplessly, looking
withal so lovely, that the clerks cannot be blamed for having talked
to her. Incidentally she extracted from the susceptible Cohen
various trifles in the way of information which later proved highly
inconvenient. Yet she never asked me or my partner any questions
or showed the slightest resentment at the part we had played as
her husband's attorneys in ruining her life. Sometimes she brought
the little girl with her and I marvelled that Dillingham could have
sacrificed such a charming little daughter so easily.
Six months passed and the Dillingham scandal ceased to be a matter
of public or even of private interest. Other affairs, equally
profitable, engaged our attention, and the waiter, Hawkins, having
received a substantial honorarium from the firm's bank account,
had passed completely out of our minds. I had that winter been
giving a series of dinners at my house to actor clients and their
managers, and these had proved conspicuously successful for the
reason that my guests were of the sort who, after the wine had
begun to flow, had no hesitation in entertaining the rest of the
company by an exhibition of their talents. Occasionally, as part
of the fun, I would do a bit of a turn myself by way of reviving
old memories of the Cock and Spur and my Athenaeum days in Boston.
It was on one of these festive occasions--not unlike, my readers
may recall, my famous translation from college during my banquet
at the Cambridge Tavern--that Fate struck me my first severe blow.
My guests were still sitting at table while one of the ladies
executed a fantastic dance amid the wine-glasses, when my butler
touched me upon the arm and whispered that Mr. Gottlieb was outside
and desired to see me on urgent business. Excusing myself, I
hurried out, greeting my partner rather impatiently, as I disliked
to be interrupted by business details in my hours of relaxation;
but one sight of his weazened little hawk face sufficed to tell me
that no trifling matter was at stake. He was in his day clothes,
which were even more than ordinarily dishevelled, and his face,
usually pale, was chalklike.
"Quibble," he cried in a rasping voice as soon as my man had gone,
"our luck's turned! That woman has tricked us. She and Bunce went
down to Crookshank's office and, under the pretext of looking for
some deed or release, went through his papers and turned up some
letters from Hawkins in regard to the original divorce proceedings.
They've got one in which he admits being served by Bunce in the
Astor House and asks Crookshank to appear for him. They've got
another, written after Dillingham had fixed him, telling Crookshank
to put in no defence. Yesterday she and Bunce went before the
grand jury, who returned an indictment against Hawkins for perjury.
Then she telegraphed him to come on to New York and meet her to
arrange some money matters; and when he stepped off the train this
afternoon he was arrested and taken to police head-quarters."
"My God!" I cried, turning quite faint. "What's to be done?"
"Get him out of the way as soon as possible!" answered Gottlieb,
his lips trembling. "To-morrow morning he will be arraigned in
the General Sessions. They are going to ask for fifty thousand
dollars bail. We've got to have it. It's the only thing that
stands between us and State prison, for they've got the goods on
Hawkins and unless we see him safe he'll turn on us and help them
send us up!"
"Have you seen him?" I gasped.
"I've just come from head-quarters," he answered. "The fool had
been drinking and had given up a lot of information already. So
I frightened him until he agreed to shut up. They trouble is we
gave him too much money. He says now that unless we protect him
and keep him out of State prison he will give up the whole game to
the district attorney. That would be fun, wouldn't it? The district
attorney wouldn't waste much time on Arthur P. Hawkins if he could
land Gottlieb & Quibble in jail for subornation of perjury, would
he--eh? We've got to scratch gravel--and quick too!"
"But where can we raise fifty thousand dollars?" I groaned
helplessly.
"Dillingham," he retorted without hesitation. "He's our only hope.
He's in as bad as the rest of us. If we go we can pull him along
too. I understand that the woman is prepared to swear not only
that Hawkins admitted to her that he was properly served, but that
she told this to Dillingham, and that he and Hawkins talked the
thing over in her presence. Besides, Cohen confessed to me to-day
that she had pumped him all about Hawkins's coming over to New York
and signing papers; and, although he swears he didn't tell her
anything in particular, yet I don't trust the idiot. No, Quib;
it's bad business and we've got to get Hawkins out of the way at
any cost."
It was not until nearly three o'clock in the morning that I discovered
Dillingham's whereabouts, which happened to be at the Fifth Avenue
house of a fashionable friend, where he was playing draw poker.
He greeted me in much the same inhospitable fashion that I had
accorded to Gottlieb, but only a few words were needed to convince
him of the gravity of the case. I had never loathed the man more
than I did at that instant when, with a cigar stuffed in his fat
face, he came out of the card-room, dressed in his white waistcoat
and pearl studs, and with a half-drunken leer asked what I wanted.
"I want fifty thousand dollars to keep you and me out of State
prison!" I cried.
He turned a sickly yellow and gave a sort of choking gasp.
"Hawkins!" he muttered. "Damn him!"
Then Dillingham had a sort of fit, due no doubt partly to the fact
that he had drunk more champagne than was good for him; for he
trembled with a kind of ague and then broke out in a sweat and
blubbered, and uttered incoherent oaths, until I was half beside
myself lest he should keep it up all night and I should not get
the money from him. But at last he regained control of himself
and promised to borrow the fifty thousand dollars the first thing
in the morning and to have it at my office at ten o'clock. Yet,
as I bade him good night, he had another turn of terror and his
teeth chattered in his head as he stammered out that he was a ruined
man, that he had cast off a good wife for a deceitful hussy who
only wanted his money, that he had lost his child, that now his
career was over, and that, unless I stood by him, he would end his
days in prison. This was hardly the sort of encouragement I wanted;
and though his words brought the cold sweat out upon my back, I
told him pretty sharply that he had better pull himself together
and not be any more of a fool than he could help, that all we needed
was enough money to whip Hawkins out of the way, and that if he
would "come up" with the needful we would look out for him. I left
him a disgusting sight, sitting in a red plush armchair, with his
face in his hands, his hair streaking down across his forehead,
moaning and mumbling to himself.
Outside, the city slept the prenatal sleep of dawn. A pale greenish
veil hung over the roofs, through which day must peer before
awakening those who slept beneath. I had often noticed this greenish
color in the sky, made doubtless by the flare of gas and electricity
against the blue-black zenith, yet never before had I felt its
depressing character. It was the green of jealousy, of disappointment,
of envy, hatred, and malice and all uncharitableness! The city
trembled in its sleep and the throbbing of its mighty pulse beat
evilly upon my ears with distant hostile rumblings. I was alone
in it and in danger. Disaster and ruin were looking for me around
the corner. I was like a child, helpless and homeless. I could
not call upon God, for I did not believe in Him.
It came home to me, as I stood there in the night upon the open
street, that there was not one soul among all the city's sleeping
millions who owed me aught but harm, and that even those who had
drunk the wine of my hospitality had done so more in fear than in
friendship. I had no friends but those who were bound to me in
some devil's bargain--no kith, no kin, nor the memory of a mother's
love. As I lingered there, like some outcast beast waiting for
day to drive me to my lair, I envied, with a fierce hatred and with
a bitter and passionate pity for myself, those to whom Fate had
been more kind and given home and wife and children, or at least
the affection of their fellow men, and I envied the lads I had
known in college who led clean lives and who had shunned me--they
knew not why--and the happy-go-lucky Quirk and his busy wife; and
even old Tuckerman Toddleham, in his dingy office in Barristers'
Hall.