It was almost time for the theatres to be out. Indeed, the first few
men were coming out of one, hurriedly putting on their coats as they
came. As the doors swung open the beginnings of the subdued roar of a
slowly moving crowd came out. A man and a girl who were walking
briskly past heard it.
"Hurry, Jane!" exclaimed the girl anxiously. "I didn't know it was so
late."
Jane muttered something about crowds, but it was nothing very
articulate. To tell the truth, Jane was nervous and he did not know
just what he was saying. Neither did Sally. She did not listen, for
that matter, for she was wholly occupied with her errand. They
quickened their pace until they were almost running, and the noise was
gradually left behind. Neither of them spoke; and when they had turned
the first corner they both sighed and the pace slackened to that brisk
walk again.
Sally had not had to overcome her repugnance to asking Everett, and
Mr. Gilfeather's feeling of triumph was a little premature. When Jane
had overtaken her, a few steps from Mr. Gilfeather's door and had
asked whether he could not help her, she had yielded to her impulse
and had answered that he probably could if he would. And Jane had
confessed, getting a little red,--who would not have got a little red,
having to make such a confession to the girl he was in love with, even
yet?--he had confessed that he was qualified sufficiently for the
expedition, for he had been in number seven on two occasions, on the
first of which he had played. But, he added, he had not lost
much--fortunately for him, perhaps, he had not won--and he had had no
desire to play again, although he had felt some curiosity to see
others do it. It was worth while, for once, to see that side of human
nature. Sally began to tell him why she wanted to go, but he stopped
her.
"I know, Sally," he said gently. "You don't have to tell me. I am glad
to be of any assistance at all." And Sally had thanked him and had
liked him better at that moment than she ever had before. It was a
pity that Jane could not know that.
Two days later Harry Carling had telegraphed; and here they were, just
turning the last corner and finding themselves in the Street. I don't
give the name of the street for reasons which must be obvious enough,
but, irrespective of the name, Sally's heart beat a little faster when
they turned into it. Jane's heart would have beat faster if it had not
already accelerated its beat quite as much as it could with safety. He
was finding it in his mouth most of the time and had to swallow
frequently and hard to keep it down where it belonged. As for speaking
calmly and naturally, that was out of the question. That was enough to
account for his prolonged silence. When he did make the attempt his
voice was high and shrill and he hesitated and could not say what he
wanted to.
It was a quiet street, entirely deserted at that end, and it was lined
with dignified old houses which echoed the sound of their footfalls
until their coming seemed the invasion of an army.
"Mercy!" Sally cried nervously, under her breath. "What a racket we're
making!" And the sound of her voice reverberated from side to side.
The army had begun to talk. That would never do. "Silence in the
ranks!" thought Sally; and was surprised that her thought was not
echoed, too. Jane began to laugh excitedly, but stopped at once.
The street was very respectable, anybody would have said; eminently
respectable. It even seemed dignified. There is no doubt that there
had been a time when it had been both respectable and dignified and
had not contented itself with seeming so. The houses had been built at
that time and presented their rather severe brick fronts to the
street, giving an effect that was almost austere. They were absolutely
without ornament, excepting, perhaps, in their inconspicuous but
generous entrances. Altogether, Sally thought the effect was
distinctly pleasing. She would have been glad to live in one of these
houses; for example, in that one with the wide recessed doorway with
the fan over it. It was dark now; dark as a pocket. Not a light showed
at any of the windows, although a dim one--a very dim one--burned over
the door. The people must be all in bed at this seasonable hour, like
good custom-abiding people. There might have been a special curfew at
nine o'clock for this special street.
"That is the house," whispered Jane, pointing with a hand which was
not very steady to the very house that Sally had been contemplating
with admiration. It was not light enough for Sally to note the shaking
of his hand.
The announcement was a shock to Sally. "What?" she asked
incredulously. "You don't mean the house with the dim light over the
door--the one with the fan!" Jane nodded assent. "Why," Sally
continued, "there isn't a light in the house, so far as I can see."
Jane laughed. His laugh echoed strangely and he stopped suddenly.
"There are plenty of lights, just the same. What did you expect? A
general illumination--with a band?"
"Something more than a dark house," she replied, smiling a little. "It
looks as if they had all gone to bed."
He shook his head. "They haven't gone to bed." Their pace had
slackened and had become no more than an aimless saunter. Now they
stopped entirely, almost opposite the house.
"Well," said Sally inquiringly, "what now?"
Jane breathed a long sigh. "I--I suppose i--it's up to me," he replied
hesitatingly, "to go in." He spoke with very evident regret; then he
laughed shortly.
"Don't you want to?" asked Sally curiously.
"No, I don't, Sally," he rejoined decidedly. "I certainly don't. But
I want to help you, and therefore I do. It would be hard to make you
understand, perhaps, and--"
"I think I understand, Eugene," she interrupted gently, "and you
needn't think that I'm not grateful."
"I don't feel as confident as I ought," he said apologetically, "that
I shall be successful. What if Charlie won't come?"
"You can tell him," she replied firmly, "that I shall wait here until
he does come. It isn't likely that I shall be put off the street."
Spencer did not feel so sure of that as he would have liked to feel,
but he did not say so to Sally. "That brings up another question," he
said. "Where shall you wait? And what will you do--in case I am longer
than you expect? I confess that I am uneasy about you--waiting around
the streets--alone."
"You needn't be," she returned. "Of course," she admitted, "it won't
be pleasant. I don't expect it to be. But I shall be all right, I'm
sure."
He sighed once more and looked at her. "I wish I felt as sure of it as
you do. But I'll go in--or try to." He looked the street up and down.
"You'd better get in the shadow, somewhere; well in the shadow. Their
doorman has sharp eyes. That's what he's there for," he added in
response to her questioning look. "Perhaps you'd better not be within
view when I go in. We'll walk back a bit and I'll leave you there."
She assented and they walked back until they were out of sight from
the door with the dim light burning over it. Then Spencer left her and
walked rapidly toward the house. He looked back two or three times.
She was standing just where he had left her: close beside a woebegone
tree with an iron tree-guard around it. It was a forgotten relic of
other days. Her motionless figure could hardly be distinguished from
the tree as she leaned against the guard. He opened the outer door of
the vestibule. A second dim light was burning here, just enabling him
to see the push-button. With a heart palpitating somewhat and with
that horrible, gone feeling in the region of his diaphragm, he rang
the bell. The outer door closed noiselessly behind him and two
electric lights flashed out brilliantly before him. The inner door,
which gave entrance to the house, was a massive thing, studded with
iron bolts, like the gate of a castle; and at the level of his face
was a little grated window or door of solid wood within the larger,
iron-studded door. In response to his ring the inner door did not
open, but the little grated window did, framing, behind iron bars, the
impassive face of a gigantic negro, who scrutinized Spencer with the
eye of experience and, having completed his inspection, nodded
solemnly. The little grated window closed and the electric lights went
out suddenly; and the door opened before him and closed again behind
him, leaving everything in readiness for the next comer; and leaving
Sally standing alone beside that woebegone tree without.
There was nothing unusual about the appearance of the house if we
except the iron-studded door and its guardian. The negro, who was very
large and very black, had resumed his seat upon a stool by the door.
He glanced at Eugene without interest and immediately looked away
again and seemed to resume his thoughts about nothing at all. Eugene
glanced hastily about. The house might have served as a type of the
modest dwellings of the older school. The doors from the lower hall
were all shut and the rooms to which they led were empty, so far as he
knew, or were used as storerooms, perhaps. Everything was very quiet
and he and the gigantic negro might have been the only occupants of
the house. Before him was the staircase and he roused himself and
mounted to the floor above, walked a few steps along a hall exactly
similar to the first, parted the heavy double hangings over a doorway,
and entered.
He found himself in the front room of two which were connected by
folding doors, which were now rolled back. The room in the rear was
but dimly lighted, as no one seemed to be interested in the roulette
table which stood there, although several men stood about the
sideboard or were coming or going. The top of that sideboard held a
large variety of bottles and anybody present was at liberty to help
himself to whatever he preferred; but, although there was a good deal
of drinking, there was no drunkenness. Drinking to excess was not
conducive to success in play; and the men, most of them, seemed to be
regular patrons of the place. Eugene's gaze wandered back toward the
front of the house.
To his right, as he entered, was the centre of interest. Indeed, it
seemed to be the only point of interest. The windows had heavy double
hangings before them, which accounted for Sally's impression of the
house. Directly before these windows and taking up almost the whole
width of the room stood a large table. About this table were seated a
dozen men or more, old, middle-aged, and young, every one of them so
intent on the play that they noticed nothing else. About the seated
men, in turn, were other men, two or three deep, equally intent,
standing and carefully noting upon large cards which they held every
card that the dealer exposed from the box before him. I regret that I
am unable to explain more fully the mysteries of this system of
scoring. In some way, which I do not understand, this method of
keeping score was supposed to give some clue to the way in which the
cards were running on that particular night and to aid each scorer in
the development of his "system," which, as the merest tyro knows, will
inevitably break the bank sooner or later;--usually later. The house
supplied the score cards. They found the method a very satisfactory
one.
By this time Eugene's heart had almost ceased its palpitation and he
could look about with some approach to calmness at the group around
the table. Curiously, he scanned the faces of the players. At the turn
of the table, to the right of the dealer, sat an elderly man, perhaps
nearing sixty, with a singularly peaceful countenance. He won or lost
with the same indifference, only putting up a hand, now and then, to
stroke his white mustache and glancing, sympathetically, Spencer
thought, at the only really young men playing. There were two of them
who were hardly more than boys, and this man seemed to be more
interested in their play than in his own. At the dealer's left sat a
man who might be anywhere from thirty-five to fifty, with a
clean-shaven and handsome clean cut face. He looked as distinguished
in his way as the elderly man of the white mustache and the peaceful
countenance did in his. He smiled as quietly when he lost as when he
won. Both men were very attractive and not the type of man you would
expect to find in such a place. The other men there were not
attractive. They were of no particular age and of no distinction
whatever; the type of man that you pass on the street a hundred times
a day without a second glance--if you have given the first. There was
a perennial frown upon their foreheads and their lips were tightly
closed and they were intent on nothing but their play. Altogether, the
less said about those men, the better.
The first of the two young men mentioned was sitting at the turn of
the table diagonally opposite the elderly man and nearest Eugene, so
that his face was not visible. But his shoulders were expressive and
he was beginning to fidget in his chair; and when, once or twice, he
half turned his head Eugene could see the growing expression of
disgust upon his face. As the young fellow looked more and more
disgusted, the elderly man smiled the more and stroked his white
mustache and gazed at him, to the neglect of his cards, and once in a
while he glanced at the other young fellow.
That other young fellow, as we know, was Charlie Ladue. He sat
directly opposite the dealer. His face was flushed with the excitement
of play, to which he was giving all his attention. Eugene could not
see his eyes, which never wandered from the straight line in front of
him, from his cards to the dealer; but he could imagine the feverish
brightness that shone from them. He wondered how the dealer liked the
constant contemplation of that sight; how it pleased him that he could
not look up without encountering those eyes of Charlie Ladue fixed
upon him.
The dealer seemed to like it well enough; he seemed to like it
uncommonly well. Spencer transferred his gaze from Charlie to the
dealer. There was nothing interesting about Charlie--to him, at least;
nothing sad in his present situation except as it concerned Sally. The
dealer was different, and Eugene found himself fascinated in watching
him.
It was impossible to guess his age. He might have been anywhere from
forty to sixty and must have been a handsome man when he was
young--whenever that was. He was a good-looking man yet, but there was
something sinister about him. His face was deeply lined, but not with
the lines of age or pain or of contentment or good nature. The lines
in a man's face will tell their story of his life to him who can read
them. Insensibly, they tell their story to him who cannot read them.
Eugene could not; but he felt the story and was at once fascinated and
repelled. He could not take his eyes off that dealer's face; and the
longer he looked the more strongly he was impressed with a vague
recollection. It might be only of a dream, or of a dim resemblance to
some one that he knew. He had the curious sense, which comes to all of
us on occasion, of having lived that very moment in some previous
incarnation, perhaps of knowing exactly what was going to happen next.
Not that anything in particular did happen. I would not willingly
raise expectations which must be disappointed.
The dealer had always seemed to look at Charlie Ladue with interest;
with as much interest as he ever showed in anything--much more,
indeed, than he showed in anything or in anybody else. Charlie himself
had noted that, and although he never spoke,--at least, Charlie had
never heard him utter a word beyond what were absolutely necessary to
his duties,--there was something compelling in his eye which always
met Charlie's look as it was raised slowly from his cards, as if there
were some mysterious bond of fellowship between them. Rarely he had
smiled. But that was a mistake. It always made Charlie wish that he
hadn't. Charlie had not noticed, perhaps, that it was always on the
rare occasions when he won that the dealer had ventured upon that
faint smile which was so disagreeable. When he lost, which happened
more frequently,--very much more frequently,--the dealer expressed no
emotion whatever, unless a slight compression of his thin lips could
be called an expression of emotion.
There was a stir among the persons about the table; among those
sitting and among those standing. The disgusted young fellow got up
quickly and one of the scorers as quickly took the chair he had left.
The boy breathed a deep sigh of relief as he passed close to Eugene.
"Hell!" he exclaimed under his breath. It was more to himself than to
anybody else, although, catching Eugene's eye, he smiled. "They call
that sport!"
The elderly man with the white mustache smiled peacefully and got up,
too, and joined the boy.
"Had enough, Harry?"
Harry turned a face filled with disgust. "Enough!" he said. "I should
think I had. It will last me all my life." He repressed his feelings
with an effort. "Did you win, Uncle Don?"
"I'm sure I don't know," Uncle Don replied quietly. "I didn't keep
track. Did you?"
"No, thank God!" he answered fervently. "I lost. And I feel as though
I had nearly lost my self-respect, too. I want a Turkish bath."
"All right," returned his uncle quickly. "So do I. And I've no doubt
that Frank does." He turned and beckoned to the man who had been
sitting at the dealer's left. He had already risen and was standing
behind his chair, idly watching the readjustment, and he came at once.
"We're going to Ben's, Frank. Harry wants a bath."
"Good!" said Frank with his ready smile. "Something that will get
right into your soul, eh, Harry? Come on, Don."
Uncle Don had turned for a last look at the players. "It was a
somewhat dangerous experiment," he remarked, "and one that I should
never dare to try with that other boy there. He ought to be hauled out
of the game by the collar and spanked and sent to bed without his
dinner--to say nothing of baths. Well, we can't meddle. Come on." And
Uncle Don took one of Harry's arms and Frank took the other and they
went out.
Eugene was reminded of his duty. If he was to haul Charlie out of the
game by the collar he must be quick about it. He wormed his way among
the scorers and touched Charlie on the shoulder. Charlie started and
looked up somewhat fearfully.
Spencer bent over him. "Come, Charlie," he said.
If either of them had noticed, they would have seen a faint flicker of
interest in the eyes of the dealer. But they were not looking at the
dealer. Charlie was relieved to see who it was. He had been afraid
that it was some one else--the police, perhaps.
"Let me alone, Spencer," he replied disdainfully. "If you think that
I'm coming now, you're greatly mistaken. In a couple of hours,
perhaps."
Eugene bent farther over. "Sally's waiting for you outside." He spoke
very low; it was scarcely more than a whisper. But the dealer must
have heard, for the interest in his eyes was more than a flicker now.
In Charlie's eyes there was a momentary fear. It was but momentary.
He laughed nervously. "I hope she won't get tired of waiting." He
shook his head. "I won't come now."
Eugene bent lower yet. "She told me to tell you that she should wait
until you did."
The dealer was waiting for them. There was a flash of irritation in
Charlie's eyes and he turned to the table. "Go to the devil!" he said.
There was a snicker from some of those seated about the table. Eugene
reddened and drew back and the game went on.