Hawksley heard the panting of an engine and turned his head. Dimly he
saw a giant bridge and a long drab train moving across it. He picked up
the fallen man's cap and tried it on. Not a particularly good fit, but
it would serve. He then trotted round the deckhouse to the street side,
jumped to the wharf, and sucking the cracked knuckles of his right hand
fell into a steady dogtrot which carried him to the station he had left
so hopefully an hour and a half gone.
An accommodation train eventually deposited him in Poughkeepsie, where
he purchased a cap and a sturdy walking stick. The stubble on his chin
and cheeks began to irritate him intensely, but he could not rid himself
of the idea that a barber's chair would be inviting danger. He was now
tolerably certain that from one end of the continent to the other his
presence was known. His life and his property, they would be after both.
Even now there might be men in this strange town seeking him. The closer
he got to New York, the more active and wide-awake they would become.
He walked the streets, his glance constantly roving. But apparently no
one paid the least attention to him. Finally he returned to the railway
station; and at six o'clock that evening he left the platform of the
125th Street Station, and appraised covertly the men who accompanied him
to the street. He felt assured that they were all Americans. Probably
they were; but there are still some stray fools of American birth who
cannot accept the great American doctrine as the only Ararat visible
in this present flood. Perhaps one of these accompanied Hawksley to the
street. Whatever he was, one had upon order met every south-going train
since seven o'clock that morning, when Quasimodo, paying from the
gold hidden in his belt, had sent forth the telegraphic alarm. The man
hurried across the street and followed Hawksley by matching his steps.
His business was merely to learn the other's destination and then to
report.
Across the earth a tempest had been loosed; but Ariel did not ride
it, Caliban did. The scythe of terror was harvesting a type; and the
innocent were bending with the guilty.
Suddenly Hawksley felt young, revivified, free. He had arrived.
Surmounting indescribable hazards and hardships he walked the pavement
of New York. In an hour the mutable quicksands of a great city would
swallow him forever. Free! He wanted to stroll about, peer into shop
windows, watch the amazing electric signs, dally; but he still had much
to accomplish.
He searched for a telephone sign. It was necessary that he find one
immediately. He had once spent six weeks in and about this marvellous
city, and he had a vague recollection of the blue-and-white enamel
signs. Shortly he found one. It was a pay station in the rear of a news
and tobacco shop.
He entered a booth, but discovered that he had no five-cent pieces in
his purse. He hurried out to the girl behind the cigar stand. She was
exhibiting a box of cigars to a customer, who selected three, paid for
them, and walked away. Hawksley, boiling with haste to have his affair
done, flung a silver coin toward the girl.
“Five-cent pieces!”
“Will you take them with you or shall I send them?” asked the girl,
earnestly.
“I beg pardon!”
“Any particular kind of ribbon you want the box tied with?”
“I beg your pardon!” repeated Hawksley, harried and bewildered. “But I'm
in a hurry--”
“Too much of a hurry to leave out the bark when you ask a favour? I make
change out of courtesy. And you all bark at me Nickel! Nickel! as if
that was my job.”
“A thousand apologies!”--contritely.
“And don't make it any worse by suggesting a movie after supper. My
mother never lets me go out after dark.”
“I rather fancy she's quite sensible. Still, you seem able to take care
of yourself. I might suggest--”
“With that black eye? Nay, nay! I'll bet somebody's brother gave it to
you.”
“Venus was not on that occasion in ascendancy. Thank you for the
change.” Hawksley swung on his heel and reentered the booth.
A great weariness oppressed him. A longing, almost irresistible, came to
him to go out and cry aloud: “Here I am! Kill me! I am tired and done!”
For he had recognized the purchaser of the cigars as one of the men who
had left the 125th Street Station at the same time as he. He remembered
distinctly that this man had been in a hurry. Perhaps the whole dizzy
affair was reacting upon his imagination psychologically and turning
harmless individuals into enemies.
“Hello!” said a man's voice over the wire.
“Is Mr. Rathbone there?”
“Captain Rathbone is with his regiment at Coblenz, sir.”
“Coblenz?”
“Yes, sir. I do not expect his return until near midsummer, sir. Who is
this talking?”
“Have you opened a cable from Yokohama?”
“This is Mr. Hawksley!” The voice became excited.
“Oh, sir! You will come right away. I alone understand, sir. You will
remember me when you see me. I'm the captain's butler, sir--Jenkins.
He cabled back to give you the entire run of the house as long as you
desired it. He advised me to notify you that he had also prepared his
banker against your arrival. Have your luggage sent here at once, sir.
Dinner will be at your convenience.”
Hawksley's body relaxed. A lump came into his throat. Here was a friend,
anyhow, ready to serve him though he was thousands of miles away.
When he could trust himself to speak he said: “Sorry. It will be
impossible to accept the hospitality at present. I shall call in a few
days, however, to establish my identity. Thank you. Good evening.”
“Just a moment, sir. I may have an important cable to transmit to you.
It would be wise to leave me your address, sir.”
Hawksley hesitated a moment. After all, he could trust this perfect old
servant, whom he remembered. He gave the address.
As he came out of the booth the girl stretched forth an arm to detain
him. He stopped.
“I'm sorry I spoke like that,” she said. “But I'm so tired! I've been on
my feet all day, and everybody's been barking and growling; and if I'd
taken in as many nickels as I've passed out in change the boss would be
rich.”
“Give me a dozen of those roses there.” She sold flowers also. “The pink
ones. How much?” he asked.
“Two-fifty.”
He laid down the money. “Never mind the box. They are for you. Good
evening.”
The girl stared at the flowers as Ali Baba must have stared at the cask
with rubies.
“For me!” she whispered. “For nothing!”
Her eyes blurred. She never saw Hawksley again; but that was of no
importance. She had a gentle deed to put away in the lavender of
recollection.
Outside Hawksley could see nothing of the man who had bought the cigars.
At any rate, further dodging would be useless. He would go directly
to his destination. Old Gregor had sent him a duplicate key to the
apartment. He could hide there for a day or two; then visit Rathbone's
banker at his residence in the night to establish his identity. Gregor
could be trusted to carry the wallet and the pouch to the bank. Once
these were walled in steel half the battle would be over. He would have
nothing to guard thereafter but his life. He laughed brokenly. Nothing
but the clothes he stood in. He never could claim the belongings he had
been forced to leave in that hotel back yonder. But there was loyal old
Gregor. Somebody would be honestly glad to see him. The poor old chap!
Astonishing, but of late he was always thinking in English.
He hailed the first free taxicab he saw, climbed in, and was driven
downtown. He looked back constantly. Was he followed? There was no way
of telling. The street was alive with vehicles tearing north and south,
with frequent stoppage for the passage of those racing east and west.
The destination of Hawksley's cab was an old-fashioned apartment house
in Eightieth Street.
Gregor would have a meal ready; and it struck Hawksley forcibly that he
was hungry, that he had not touched food since the night before. Gregor,
valeting in a hotel, pressing coats and trousers and sewing on buttons!
Groggy old world, wasn't it? Gregor, pressing the trousers of the
hoi polloi! Gregor, who could have sent New York mad with that old
Stradivarius of his! But Gregor was wise. Safety for him lay in
obscurity; and what was more obscure than a hotel valet?
He did not seek the elevator but mounted the first flight of stairs. He
saw two doors, one on each side of the landing. He sought one, stooped
and peered at the card over the bell. Conover. Gregor's was opposite.
Having a key he did not knock but unlocked the door and stepped into the
dark hall.
“Stefani Gregor?” he called, joyously. “Stefani, my old friend, it is
I!”
Silence. But that was understandable. Either Gregor had not returned
from his labours or he was out gathering the essentials for the evening
meal. Judging from the variety of odours that swam the halls of this
human warren many suppers were in the process of making, and the top
flavour was garlic. He sniffed pleasurably. Not that the smell of garlic
quickened his hunger. It merely sent his thought galloping backward
a score of years. He saw Stefani Gregor and a small boy in mountain
costume footing it sturdily along the dizzy goat paths of the rugged
hills; saw the two sitting on some ruddy promontory and munching black
bread rubbed with garlic. Ambrosia! His mother's horror, when she smelt
his breath--as if garlic had not been one of her birthrights! His uncle,
roaring out in his bull's voice that black bread and garlic were good
for little boys' stomachs, and made the stuff of soldiers. Black bread
and garlic and the Golden Age!
After he had flooded the hall with light he began a tour of inspection.
The rooms were rather bare but clean and orderly. Here and there were
items that kept the homeland green in the recollection. He came to the
bedroom last. He hesitated for a moment before opening the door. The
lights told him why Gregor had not greeted his entering hail.
The overturned reading lamp, the broken chair, the letters and papers
strewn about the floor, the rifled bureau drawers--these things spoke
plainly enough. Gregor was a prisoner somewhere in this vast city; or he
was dead.
Hawksley stood motionless for a space. And he must remain here at least
for a night and a day! He would not dare risk another hotel. He could,
of course, go to the splendid Rathbone place; but it would not be fair
to invite tragedy across that threshold.
A ball of crushed paper at his feet attracted his attention. He kicked
it absently, followed and picked it up, his thought on other things.
He was aimlessly smoothing it out when an English word caught his eye.
English! He smoothed the crumpled sheet and read:
If you find this it is the will of God. I have been watched
for several days, and am now convinced that they have always
known I was here but were leaving me alone for some unknown
purpose. I roll this ball because anything folded and left
in a conspicuous place would be useless should they come for
me. I understand. It is you, poor boy. They are watching
me in hopes of catching you, and I've no way to warn you not
to come here. It was after I sent you the key that I learned
the truth. God bless you and guard you!
STEFANI.
Hawksley tore the note into scraps. Food and sleep. He walked toward the
kitchen, musing. What an odd mixture he was! Superficially British, with
the British outlook; and yet filled with the dancing blood of the Latin
and the cold, phlegmatic blood of the Slav. He was like a schoolmaster
with two students too big for him to handle. Always the Latin was
dispossessing the Slav or the Slav was ousting the Latin. With
fatalistic confidence that nevermore would he look upon the kindly face
of Stefani Gregor, alive, he went in search of food.
Not a crust did he find. In the ice-chest there was a bottle of
milk--soured. Hungry; and not a crumb! And he dared not go out in search
of food. No one had observed his entrance to the apartment, but it was
improbable that such luck would attend him a second time.
He returned to the bedroom. He did not turn on the light because a novel
idea had blossomed unexpectedly--a Latin idea. There might be food on
some window ledge. He would leave payment. He proceeded to the window,
throwing up both it and the curtain, and looked out. Ripping! There was
a fire escape.
As he slipped a leg over the sill a golden square sprang into existence
across the way. Immediately he forgot his foraging instincts. In a
moment he was all Latin, always susceptible to the enchantment of
beauty.
The distance across the court was less than forty feet. He could see the
girl quite plainly as she set about the preparation of her evening meal.
He forgot his danger, his hunger, his code of ethics, which did not
permit him to gaze at a young woman through a window.
Alone. He was alone and she was alone. A novel idea popped into his
head. He chuckled; and the sound of that chuckle in his ears somehow
brought back his resolve to carry on, to pass out, if so he must,
fighting. He would knock on yonder window and ask the beautiful lady
slavey for a bit of her supper!