A NEW-FOUND THEORY
"No; the prince isn't coming back to America, and she--Miss
Dalrymple--isn't going to marry him!"
Jane's voice, running on rather at random, suddenly with unusual force
penetrated Mr. Heatherbloom's consciousness.
"Not going--isn't--What are you talking about?" The young man's wavering
attention focused itself on her now with swift completeness. He had
hardly heard her, until a few moments before, when her conversation had
first drifted to that ever fascinating feminine topic of foreign lords
and American heiresses, then narrowed down, much to his inward
disapproval, to one particular titled individual and one particular
heiress "But you are mistaken, of course!" he said bruskly.
"Oh, am I?" she retorted. "I suppose you believe everything you read in
the newspapers?"
Mr. Heatherbloom did not answer now; he was staring out of the window.
Against the sky the jutting lines of buildings seemed to waver; new
extraordinary angles and jogs seemed to assert themselves. His gaze had
a glittering brightness when it turned. "Have you any better authority?"
His tone was a challenge. "I heard her tell him so myself," she said
succinctly. "That she could never marry him and that he must never come
back."
Mr. Heatherbloom's hand crumpled the newspaper; then mechanically he
folded it and put it in his pocket. His look was once more bent outward;
tiny specks, that were big steamboats going very fast, seemed motionless
on the sparkling surface of the water afar. His thoughts scattered; he
tried to collect them, to realize where he was, how he happened to be
there; the identity of the speaker and what she had been saying! Certain
preconceived, fixed ideas and conclusions had been toppled over,
brushed aside in an instant. Was it possible?
"I was waiting to trim and fill the lamps," said Jane. (Miss Van Rolsen
clung to oil lamps for reading.) "The prince and she were in the
library. He has a loud voice, you know."
The young man did. "But why--"
"Search me!" Vivaciously. "He was the very pick of the whole cargo of
dukes and the like. There isn't another girl in New York would have done
it."
"But surely," scarcely hearing her last words, "no newspaper would dare
to announce such a thing without--"
"Oh, wouldn't it? When it called up the house every day, almost, and
got: 'There is nothing to say'? Didn't I answer the 'phone once or twice
myself? 'Miss Van Rolsen declines to be interviewed concerning her
niece. She has nothing to say.' I think I once giggled, the man's voice
at the other end was so aggressive. He said he was the city editor
himself. Is that very high up?"
Mr. Heatherbloom did not seem to hear. He scarcely saw his companion
now; nevertheless, he was conscious of a desire to be alone, in order to
concentrate, consider, reach for light and find it. But where could he
discover a safe spot; his problem was a dual one; primarily, he must
consider himself; he must not forget his own desperate situation and
danger. The train, beginning to slacken, brought the sense of it once
more poignantly to mind. His companion hadn't reached the station yet
but he suddenly rose. The car stopped with a jerk; Mr. Heatherbloom
murmured something hurriedly and dived for the door.
On the street he breathed deeply, standing as in a daze while the
thunder of iron-rimmed wheels surrounded him. He was cognizant
principally of certain words humming in his brain: The prince and she
were not engaged! The nobleman not returning to America in the fall!
Never coming back!
But that item in fine print in the newspaper he had in his pocket--what
did it mean? Nothing, of course, beyond what it said; still--
Some one bumped into Mr. Heatherbloom; whereupon he suddenly realized
that he was standing on one of the busiest corners and had been making
himself as conspicuous as possible. Hastily he moved on. To what
destination? He glanced toward a convenient saloon; it looked hospitable
and inviting. Then he remembered they--man-hunters, in general--always
searched the saloons first for criminals.
He started toward a side street but paused, reasoning that he was more
prominent on comparatively isolated thoroughfares than on the swarming
ones. A stream of women flowing into a big department store, exercised
an odd attraction for him. Safety lay, perhaps, among numbers; at least,
for the time, until he could devise a course of action. If he could
conceive of one! If--
He must; he would. Every nerve in his body seemed to respond. Had he not
embarked before this on desperate adventures; had he not fought in the
face of overwhelming odds, and managed to hold his head up? A peculiar
little smile played around the corner of his thin lips; it was like the
flash of light on a blade. He joined the inflowing eddy.
Bargain day! He was crushed and crumpled but found himself ultimately on
a stool in the rear of the store. No; he didn't want any marked-down
collars or cuffs; he conveyed an impression to the solicitous clerk of
some one waiting for some one. Patiently, uncomplainingly! With an
unseeing eye for the hurrying and scurrying myriads! Time passed; he
remained oblivious to the babble of voices. Timon in the wilderness,
Diogenes in his tub, could not have been mentally more isolated from
annoying human consociation than was at the moment Mr. Heatherbloom,
perched on a rickety stool amid a conglomeration of females struggling
for lingerie.
Suddenly he stirred. "Have you a book department?" he asked an employee.
"Straight across; last aisle to the left."
Mr. Heatherbloom got up; his tread was slow; a somnambulistic gleam
appeared in his eye. Yet he was very much awake; he had never felt more
keenly alert. He reached the book section.
Did they have any Russian fiction? Oh, yes; what kind did he want,
nihilistic or psychological? _The Fire and Sword_ kind, whatever that
was; the second volume of the trilogy, if they had it in stock? Sure
they had; but had he read the first volume? No; he didn't want that; he
would begin in the middle of the trilogy. He always read trilogies that
way.
The young lady in charge looked what she thought as she handed him the
book. He paid her; unfortunately it cost more than the popular novels of
the day. He rather gravely contemplated the few small bills he had left;
the amount of his capital would not carry him very far, especially if
unusual expenses should occur. Miss Van Rolsen still owed him a little
money but he didn't see how he could collect that now.
Mr. Heatherbloom, armed with his book, sought a different part of the
store--- a small reception-room, where customers of both sexes were at
liberty to read, write, or indulge in mental rest-cure, after bargain
purchases. There he perused hurriedly, and by snatches, the volume;
there was plenty of fire and plenty of sword in it; human passions
bubbled and seethed. Suddenly he sat up straight and a suppressed
exclamation fell from his lips; he closed the book sharply.
One or two old ladies looked at him but he did not see them. His vision,
clairvoyant-like, seemed to have lifted, to traverse broad seas,
limitless steppes. His hands opened and closed, as if striving to reach
and clutch something beyond flame of battle, scenes of rapine.
He got up dizzily. As he stepped once more into the street, the shadows
had lengthened; twilight was falling. He stopped at a pawnbroker's,
purchased a revolver and cartridges. He might need the weapon now more
than ever. And money--he needed far more of that than he had. He spread
in his palm the little wad of greenbacks he took from his pocket;
counted them and a few silver pieces. Then seeking a ticket office, he
made a few casual inquiries; a shadow rested on his countenance as he
emerged from the place.
Next door to it a pile of gold pieces in a bank window shone mockingly
before his eyes. So near--with only the plate-glass between him and the
bright discs! Mechanically he began to count them, but suddenly turned
from that profitless occupation and stood with his back to the window.
What availed resolution without dollars? His purpose might be strong,
but poverty, a Brobdingnagian giant, laid its hand on his shoulder,
crushing him down, holding him there, impotent, until the stocky man and
his cohorts of the private detective office should come over and get
him--to send him to the little island he had thought of when crossing
the bridge to Brooklyn!
He fell back into a doorway. More money!--he must get it; must! He
folded his arms tight over his breast. To think that this should be his
one great, crying need--his!
Above, he heard footsteps descending the stairway at the foot of which
he stood; Mr. Heatherbloom slipped out of the passage to the sidewalk
and moved on. Chance took him back the way he had come; he had no choice
of direction. Now he looked once more at the window of the pawnbroker,
where he had stopped a short time before. He regarded the unredeemed
pledges; seal-rings, watches, flutes, old violins; what not? If he only
had something left; but all had gone--long ago.
All? He started slightly; considered; walked on. But he turned around,
hesitatingly, and came slowly back. As he approached the door, his step
grew more resolute. He walked briskly in. Without giving the proprietor
time to come to the front of the shop, Mr. Heatherbloom moved at once to
the back where the other sat behind his dusty glass cases.
"Here I am once more." He spoke with forced gaiety.
"What you want to buy now?"
"I don't want to buy anything; I want to sell something."
The pawnbroker's interest in the visitor at once departed.
"I have everythings! Everythings!" he grumbled. "Nearly every one wants
to sell. I have no room for noddings more. Good night!"
"But I've something special," said Mr. Heatherbloom. As he spoke he took
from an inner pocket a little parcel in pink tissue-paper; he fingered
it a moment, removing an ivory miniature from a frame, passed the paper
quickly about the picture once more, and returned it to his pocket. Then
he handed the frame, over the case, to the pawnbroker. "What do you
think of that, my Christian friend?" he said with a show of jocularity
that didn't ring quite true.
The pawnbroker bent his dull face close to the article; it was gold. A
pretty trinket, set with a number of brilliants, it might have come from
the Rue Royale or the Rue de la Paix.
"Cost about five hundred francs," observed Mr. Heatherbloom, watching
the other closely. "One hundred dollars, without the duty."
"Where'd you get it?"
"None of your business." With a smile.
The man moved toward a telephone at his back. "Do you know what I'm
going to do?"
"I am curious."
"'Phone the police."
"Is that an invitation for me to depart? If so--" Mr. Heatherbloom
reached for the little gold frame.
"Oh, no," said the man, retaining the graceful article. "The police will
find out who this belongs to."
"Tut! tut!" observed Mr. Heatherbloom lightly. Something on the edge of
the showcase pointed over it; the hand the proprietor professed to raise
toward the telephone fell to his side; he seemed about to call out.
"Don't!" said the visitor. "It's loaded; you saw me put in the
cartridges yourself. Your little game is very passe; I had it worked on
me once before, and placed you in your class--a fourth-rater, with a
crib for loot!"
The other considered; this customer's manner was ominously quiet and
easy; he didn't like it. A telepathic message that flashed from the
gleaming gaze above the shining tube suggested an utterly frivolous
indifference to tragic consequences. The proprietor moved away from the
telephone.
"Fifteen dollars," he said.
"Twenty," breathed Mr. Heatherbloom insinuatingly.
The man put his hand in his pocket and counted out the money. The caller
took it, said something in those same blithe significant accents about
what would happen if the other made a move in the next two or three
minutes, then vanished from the store. He did not keep to the busy
thoroughfare now, but shot into a side street. Would the pawnbroker hide
the frame and then call the police? It was quite possible he might thus
seek to get into their good graces and revenge himself at the same time.
Mr. Heatherbloom turned from dark byway to dark byway. He knew there was
a possibility that he might keep going throughout the night without
being taken; but what would he attain by so doing, how would that profit
him?
He had to get back to New York at once, and as speedily as possible!
The shining face of a street clock that a short time before he had
looked at, admonished him there were no moments to spare, if he would
carry out his plan, his headstrong purpose--to verify or disprove a
certain wild theory--which would take him where, lead to what? No
matter! Above, between black shadows of tall buildings, he saw a star,
bright, beautiful. Something in him seemed to leap up to it--to that
light as frostily clear as her eyes! A taxi passed; he hailed it.
"How much to Jersey City?" he asked in feverish tones.
The man approximated a figure; it was large, but Mr. Heatherbloom at
once got in.
"All right," he said. "Only let her go! I've a train to catch."
"You don't want to land us in the police court, do you?" asked the
chauffeur.
Mr. Heatherbloom devoutly hoped not.