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[Illustration: "_Warren--don't call me Highness!... my name is Maria_"]
THE GHOST BREAKER
A NOVEL BASED UPON THE PLAY
By
CHARLES GODDARD
AND
PAUL DICKEY
HEARST'S INTERNATIONAL LIBRARY COMPANY
NEW YORK 1915
Copyright, 1915, by
HEARST'S INTERNATIONAL LIBRARY CO., INC.
_All rights reserved, including that of translation into the foreign
languages, including the Scandinavian_
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. JARVIS OF KENTUCKY 1
II. THE BLIND PURSUIT 18
III. IN THE ROYAL SUITE 35
IV. AN OATH OF ALLEGIANCE 47
V. EXIT JARVIS, LAUGHING 59
VI. OVER THE SEA AND FAR AWAY 74
VII. THE ROMANCE OF THE CASTLE 87
VIII. THE NEW PROFESSION 105
IX. CHECKMATE THE FIRST 125
X. A WAGER WITH THE DUKE 140
XI. WHEN THE SHIP COMES IN 161
XII. WELCOME TO SEGURO! 181
XIII. "GENTLEMEN, A MAN!" 198
XIV. MORE OBSTACLES 217
XV. MYSTERIOUS INFLUENCES 239
XVI. AS IN DAYS OF OLD 250
XVII. CONCLUSION 267
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
"Warren--don't call me Highness!... my name is
Maria" _Frontispiece_
FACING PAGE
It was Jarvis of Kentucky 38
--"and to faithfully fight in my lady's cause" 56
"Just a minute. How did that lock get broken?" 70
"I am known from Bowling Green to the Golden Gate, as
Warren the Ghost Breaker" 106
"Gentlemen--a man" 212
"So, you are the brave American, are you?" 214
"Ah, senor, in all my experience I have never seen
such an adventurous palm...." 222
"Ah, Mr. Warren, looking for an honest man, like
old Socrates?" 232
Rusty caught him by the arm 262
His next weapon was a chair 270
"Don't shoot!" 278
I
JARVIS OF KENTUCKY
Down the winding roadway came the thunder of hoofbeats!
As the two horsemen approached through the deepening twilight a sobbing
negro woman peered timidly through the doorway of the old Southern
manor house. There was a call from within.
"Put out this light, Mandy," were the words of the weak voice. "Hurry,
Mandy. Maybe it's the Marcums coming back."
"Yas, Cunnel; yassir." She obediently retreated, and the dim light
within was suddenly extinguished.
The two riders turned in from the thoroughfare, speeding past the
half-swung gate up the drive toward the broad portico. The foremost
slid from his saddle before his horse had come to a stop.
"Hold her, Rusty!" And then he leaped up the steps, to dash into the
dark entry.
"Who is it? Stop!"
There was no weakness of spirit in the tremulous tones from the room
within.
"Dad! dad! I've come!"
"Oh, my boy! You're just in time," and the speech ended in a sigh which
sent a thrill of horror through the newcomer. "Just ... in ... time!"
"Lawd be praised, Marse Warren," sobbed the negress, as she sank to her
knees before the table, where she fumbled with the lamp.
"Light the lamp ... why, it's Mandy!" and the young man ran a nervous
hand across his forehead as the wick caught the flame. "Dad! What's the
trouble? Where's mother? Why were the lights all out?"
In the corner of the room, on an antique "settle," was stretched the
form of old Colonel Jarvis of Meadow Green.
"It's the end, Warren. I stood off Yankee charges and artillery, but a
sneaking hound from the hills has put the finish on it all--and sent it
in a bullet through my back, without giving me the chance to fight
back, as the Yanks did."
Warren Jarvis dropped to his knees beside his father. His pleasant,
youthful face was drawn to mummy-like wanness. His eyes glowed with
curious intensity, as they devoured the beloved features of the old
man. The rays from the oil lamp cast a melancholy glow over the
furniture of a bygone society, in this characteristic parlor of an old
Southern mansion. But their effect upon the ghastly features of Colonel
Henderson Jarvis presaged only too well the tragedy which was to come.
The aged man raised a weak arm, to encircle the shoulders of his son.
His eyes closed in exhaustion, and for a full moment the lips moved
without the emanation of a word.
Warren Jarvis turned toward the panic-stricken Mandy.
"Quick! What is the trouble? Where is mother? Speak up, Mandy.... I've
come all the way from New York in answer to father's telegram. What's
the trouble?"
Mandy became more disconsolate, and, with the hysterical sorrow of a
Southern family servant, the more incapable of expression.
"Warren ... Warren, my boy!" were the words which at last came from the
white lips of his father. "I am going to leave you soon.... I kept up
until you arrived, for I must give the honor of the family into your
keeping, before it is all over.... Are you prepared to take it up where
I stand now?"
The young man nodded. He beckoned to the servant woman, with an
eloquent pantomimic command, to bring his sire a drink. The girl
silently obeyed, leaving the room for the moment.
"Father, I've come back from the East to do anything, everything. Tell
me--what happened, and where is mother? I am frantic!" His shoulders
shook as though from a chill. His face was close to his father's, as
the colonel's gray eyes opened upon him.
"Your mother passed away last night--it was too much for her poor weak,
aching heart, Warren," and his voice sank again to a whisper, as he
added, "Your first duty will be to lay us away together, and then to
avenge this double murder."
Warren Jarvis lost his worldly-wise self-control, acquired through the
adventurous years since he had journeyed forth from the quaint old
Kentucky home. A sob broke from his lips, and his face sank on the arm
of the old aristocrat,--he was instinctively boyish in his grief,
returning once more to the shelter of that paternal shoulder.
Mandy had returned with a glass of stimulant, which she held to the
colonel's lips. The draught refreshed him immensely. He gently patted
the shoulders of his son, and continued with firmer tones:
"There, Warren boy, pull yourself together. The doctor will be along in
his buggy soon. He dressed my wound, two days ago, and he sat with your
dear mother ever since she received the shock of the shooting. I sent
the Marlowe girls back to their house just an hour ago to rest, because
they were worn out.... Everyone has been good and tried to help, but it
is no use.... Leave us alone, Mandy."
The woman stepped unsteadily through the door, her hands covering her
twitching face. There she bumped into a fat, coal-black darky, he who
had accompanied the son on the long ride. She drew him into the shelter
of the corridor, leaving father and son together for the final
confidences.
"But, father, it was all so sudden? Are you comfortable now? Where is
your wound?"
Warren rose more upright on his knees. He now observed the swathings
about the elder's breast, beneath the crumpled soft shirt. He caressed
the shattered frame with affectionate simplicity.
"I must speak quickly, Warren, for although I suffer no more pain, Dr.
Grayson told me the truth--my strength is going every hour. Your mother
had been in poor health, and I had ridden down to the village to see
the doctor, for a tonic for her. On the way out again, I passed
Henley's poolroom, where the cheap gamblers are still running their
crooked betting on the Louisville and Lexington races. Jim Marcum
crossed from the front of the saloon, and I had to rein in quickly to
keep from running him down. He looked up at me, with his hand on his
hip. 'Trying the same old trick on me that you did with my brother Ed?'
he called. I had nothing to say to Jim Marcum--you know, Warren, that
old feud was over these thirty years, as far as I was concerned. I
looked him in the eye, and he dropped his gaze, like a wolf which
daren't stare back at you. Then I rode on. As I turned the corner, past
the little church, I heard a shot and tumbled forward in the saddle."
Warren's hands clenched until the nails cut his palms.
"The cowardly hound!" he muttered.
"Just as my father was shot by Marcum's father, right after the War--in
the back, Warren. The horse knew enough to stop, and I rolled down to
the ground. Dr. Grayson ran down the street, carried me into the church
vestibule, and dressed my back. They wanted to keep me in the parson's
house--but I told them to bring me on home, for I wanted to be near
your mother. It was a mistake ... a grave mistake. For when they
brought me back in the doctor's buggy and called her to the portico,
she fainted, and never regained consciousness. That's all, Warren. The
end came last night for her--to-night I will join her."
He opened his eyes with ghastly intensity of expression. Then, to the
surprise of the younger man, he half raised himself on his elbow.
"Warren!" and the tones were almost shrill, "you must _get_ Jim Marcum
if it's the last act of your life. He broke the feud law when he killed
a woman, as he did with the death of your mother. My dying command is
that you end this old fight between our families: he is the last of his
line, and you the last of yours. The feud began nearly eighty years
ago. It is a different world then in that old Kentucky. I have tried to
live upright, God-fearing, and had supposed that time would efface the
old hatred. At least I ignored it. But Jim Marcum never forgot that
your Uncle Warren had killed his father in that stand-up battle in the
old tobacco warehouse; it is the curse of the Blue Grass State, this
feud law. But you must carry out the vengeance, Warren. When you scotch
that snake, there will be no more."
"Didn't they try to get Marcum, dad?" asked Warren slowly, trying to
realize it all.
"No. He disappeared--helped by some of those touts and gamblers. They
say he has gone to the mountains. But you follow him, after ... after
I...." He sank back again, groaning. "God bless you, boy. When you end
this bitter debt, you will have done everything in the world I ever
wanted,--what a fine son you have been through all the years!"
Warren rose to his feet, and with hands clasped tensely behind him
walked to the window. He heard a sound of buggy wheels and the trotting
of a horse; it neared the house.
"It must be the doctor, dad. I'm glad he is here again." He turned
about to look at the clear-cut face. He was horror-stricken: the eyes
were closed, the hand had dropped limply, and already the fine firm
mouth had opened weakly, with a piteous weakness. He rushed forward,
dropping again by the side of the couch.
A step behind him did not interrupt the soft pleadings of the tearful
voice.
"Dad, dad! Won't you speak to me? You _must_ hold out. The doctor has
come. Dad, old daddie mine. Speak! Speak!"
The eyes opened, but there was no expression in them. The mouth closed
convulsively, and as he leaned close he heard the last message: "God
bless you, boy!... Take ... care ... of ... yourself."
Warren's face was buried on the bosom as it ceased to breathe. A kindly
touch on his shoulder brought him to a knowledge of the doctor's
presence.
"It's so good that you arrived in time, Warren," was the soft-voiced
comment. "Your father passed away happy, I know--he had held himself to
this life by a marvelous will-power until you came. Steady yourself
now."
The doctor knelt by the couch and, with the manly tenderness of an old
family friend, crossed the tired patrician hands above that valiant
heart.
Warren Jarvis answered not. He walked toward the window again. He
peered out into the great, black, miserable, lonely void stretching
away toward the southeast. In those distant hills, beyond his vision
but familiar as the landmarks of his boyhood, he knew the cowardly
assassin of his parents was exulting over the cruel success.
Not a tear came to his relief. His pleasant face hardened to the
rigidity of a stone image. The sinews of his athletic frame thrilled
with a new emotion--the feud hatred inherited through generations of
Kentucky fighters. He would have gladly given his own life for the
sublime pleasure of throttling with his bare hands the scoundrel who
had wiped out all that was fine and sweet in his life.
Behind him the doctor gave whispered orders to Mandy and two tearful
women neighbors who had quietly slipped into the house. Warren did not
notice them in his abstraction; they respected his suffering by leaving
the room without a greeting.
As he stood there the soft spring breeze fluttered the curtains of the
broad parlor windows, bearing in the fragrance of the vines on the
portico outside. It was all so silent and different from the brilliant
social life he had left behind in New York. Warren's whole life seemed
to flit past him, as he stood there now, with the impersonality of a
kaleidoscope.
He remembered the early years on this beautiful Blue Grass estate of
his father's ... the romantic boyhood of the South, enlivened by
horseback rides, hunting trips, boating, fishing--those elemental
country sports so sadly lacking in the life of the city youth, ... the
faithful, admiring negro servants to whom young "Marse Warren" had been
a veritable Sir Galahad--the flower of the neighborhood chivalry.
Indeed, in this portion of the States still glows the tradition of the
ancient knighthood: the gallantry to women, the reverence for family
honor, the bravery in men, the loyalty to neighborhood, commonwealth,
and nation,--in verity, the spirit of ideal citizenship.
Warren saw once more the gentle face of his mother, as she worked in
her old-fashioned garden of rosemary, hollyhocks, larkspur, iris, rue,
... heard the soft dialect of quaint old ladies gossiping on the broad,
shaded portico ... listened again to the laughter of neighboring
judges, colonels, majors--his father's old cronies--as they
good-naturedly wrangled and bantered over the battles of the War, the
merits of their respective thoroughbreds, or the correct manner in
which to concoct that nectarian classic of the Southland, the mint
julep!
To Warren's retrospection came the vision of his departure for the
famous college in the East, the joyful vacation times, and finally his
decision to seek adventure far, far to the south--in Brazil, Guatemala,
Panama, where he had developed his own executive caliber as a commander
of men, in the great construction work on the Big Ditch.... Then came
the sorrowful day when he had returned from his travels, to behold the
ravages of time on his mother's aging face and his father's stooping
shoulders. Even the servants were changed, and it had been to keep a
closer bond with the dear old estate that he had taken faithful Rusty
Snow as his manservant when he went on to New York again to pursue his
profession.
Warren's mind burrowed in the memories of the feudism of the
countryside, the sole blot on its simple yet aristocratic modes. He
remembered the fragmentary stories of the ancient Marcum-Jarvis quarrel
... this had cost the lives of men for three generations, in an equity
of vengeful settlement based strictly on the Mosaic law of "an eye for
an eye--a tooth for a tooth." The Marcum family fortunes had been
dissipated, those of the Jarvis clan ascending--yet still the feud
continued, until the men of both families had paid for the bitterness
with their lives. Now his father had been the last Jarvis to go--after
a lull of many years.
The sweetness of the old memories was swept by the maelstrom of hate
which surged through his heart. As a boy he hardly knew the meaning of
the word--the grim looks of the kinsmen, the tear-stained face of his
mother, had been little explanation--little had been said. But _now_
the iron of vengeance had entered his soul; and he turned about
suddenly, facing the body of the colonel.
Advancing toward the settle, he knelt by the body, even as a knight of
old, to take his vows. He raised his clenched right hand.
"Father! I swear by my love for you and my mother that I will wipe out
the Marcums, cost what it may. I will devote my life to settling the
score Jim Marcum has made. I swear it to you, father!"
It seemed to him as though a faint smile of approbation flitted across
the face despite the seal of the Great Calm. Even as he knelt there,
his quick brain began to lay the plans--and then ... then he remembered
what he must see upstairs! His brief moments in the old home had been
so absorbed by the dying words of his sire, by the engulfing flame of
hate which had burned away all the sweetness of the environment, that
he had selfishly forgotten everything but his own grief.
He staggered to his feet and walked slowly from the room.
Outside the door, on an old-fashioned chair in the long corridor
running from portico to kitchen, he found faithful Rusty, sobbing with
his face in his hands.
"Oh, Marse Warren! Oh, Marse Warren!"
"Rusty, call Mandy," was the simple answer.
Rusty hastened to obey. The woman was assisting the two neighbors in
some preparations on the floor above. She came down the stairs
tremulously, catching his outstretched hand and kissing it impetuously.
"Where is _she_, Mandy?" he asked, in a stifled voice.
Mandy spoke not, but ascended the stairway, as Warren followed with
bowed head. Each broad step seemed steeper than the one below. At last
he raised his eyes before the doorway of his parents' bedroom. Mandy
stepped aside.
Within, on a little mahogany sewing-table, burned a dozen candles in
his great-grandmother's Colonial candelabra. He turned unsteadily to
the right, and saw her!
"O mother, mother!..."
That was all.
II
THE BLIND PURSUIT
The sad days immediately following the double funeral were so filled
with visits from relatives and old friends, legal transactions
necessary for the transfer of the estate of the old colonel, a
successful tobacco factor in his time, and a hundred and one other
engrossments, that in the months afterward they were hazy as an
unpleasant dream.
With the newly acquired calm which surprised him, Warren Jarvis left no
stone unturned to ascertain, with quiet inquiries, the location of Jim
Marcum.
There was no clew. The man had mounted a horse on the day of the
shooting, to disappear down the dusty Kentucky road, leaving the
village far behind and ignoring the possible escape by railroad. His
simplicity was cunning, for the blue hills offered more avenues of
disappearance than the iron roadbed of the local transportation.
Equally cunning, however, was his determined pursuer. Warren Jarvis,
after burying his parents, and making the conventional round of
respectful ceremonies, started again for his neglected business in New
York. Here he planned to adjust his affairs, then to return to the
mountain country, by a roundabout route, to begin his man-hunt,
_incognito_ and unsuspected.
"I'll cover every mountain trail, every valley path until I find Jim
Marcum," he confided to Major Selby, his father's closest friend, as
they stood on the train platform waiting for the final minute of
departure. "When it happens I will let you know, Major. Until that
time, good-by, and God bless you."
The train had come, and unaccompanied by Rusty Snow this time, Jarvis
clambered up the steps to wave to the old Kentuckian. As the major
turned away, he stroked his snowy mustache with a shrewd twinkle in his
blue eyes, to soliloquize:
"I calculate the boy will make his father proud. The old feud blood
runs in the Jarvis veins, and even the North can't spoil him. I wonder
why Rusty didn't go along--that darky will be broken-hearted to be left
behind on the old place."
But Rusty knew very well why he had been left behind!
And with all his jolly laughter, plump complacency, and characteristic
African simplicity, Rusty Snow possessed an inherent faculty of subtle
concentration which had served the family of Jarvis since the days when
he had been a slave pickanninny.
A week or more he spent in the peaceful Southern hamlet of Meadow
Green, imbibing gin and ginger "pop" in the saloons frequented by those
walking bureaus of information, the negro barbers. He consorted with
darky jockeys and horse-trainers--this was the center of the great
thoroughbred breeding district--and everywhere he went, with glistening
smiles, laughing eyes, and infectious amiability, he bore one query in
his mind. Where was Jim Marcum?
The query seemed unanswerable.
Rusty confided his failure to Major Selby, who in turn sent a letter to
Warren Jarvis at his New York club. There the latter was hastening his
preparations for the great _trek_ through the mountains. Warren had
closed his office, where, profiting by his experiences in South and
Central America, he had maintained a successful exporting agency: all
his affairs were in hand, and that hand closed. All his outstanding
investments had been hypothecated, with shrewd advantage. At last he
was ready, certain that should he lose his life in the vengeful
venture, his kinsfolk would be taken care of, without legal
complications: with all his inherited romanticism, Jarvis of Kentucky
was a man of astuteness.
He was sitting in the grill of his club, brooding over a solitary
glass, unmindful of the friendly chatter of the members about him, when
a uniformed page brought him a yellow envelope. He tore open the
telegram, sensing important news. It was only from Meadow Green that he
received his club mail. And it was from Louisville that the message
came. It was simple, and yet it left him bewildered.
"WARREN JARVIS,
Export Club, N.Y.
Coming with Marcum. Buy supplies.
RUSTY."
At first Warren smiled, then he swore, as only a chivalrous Southron
can! Why should Rusty be coming with Marcum? He could not have arrested
or imprisoned him. What were the supplies? Evidently this was some
attempt at code which was beyond his ability to guess.
He spent the night and the next day in a perplexed mood.
A wire sent to Major Selby, inquiring as to the whereabouts of the
negro, brought back the simple reply, "Missing--no one knows."
Toward evening, after much perturbation, Warren decided upon a measure
of preparedness for whatever might happen. He had given up his bachelor
quarters on Madison Avenue two mornings previous, in expectation of the
long trip through Kentucky. One night he had spent at his club. Yet, if
Marcum were coming to New York, it were best to be located in some
place where he could cover his own identity without attracting
attention. Such a place would naturally be a large hotel. Accordingly
he registered at the Hotel Belmont under an alias. This was close to
the Grand Central Station--handy for a quick departure from town, if
such were necessary.
Jarvis packed two suitcases with his modest needs for the Southern
trip, and donned his evening clothes for dinner at the club. Several
telephone calls convinced him that Rusty had not made an appearance as
yet.
When he reached the club, the big building was swarming with men of his
acquaintance, yet he seemed curiously apart from them. Since his
father's murder and the death of his mother, he had proceeded under
what engineers call "forced draught." His nerves, like iron, had been
drawn tight--to the snapping point: only some great climax of relief
would disentangle the tense feelings which he now controlled with
external calmness, and sub-surface tremors which warned him of an
approaching catastrophe.
For an hour he sat brooding in the quiet library of the club. He had
tried to eat; but all the artistry of the famous French _chef_ could
not conjure up an appetite. Men passed by him, glancing curiously at
the usually jovial companion; the twisted, drawn expression surprised
them. He tried to read a magazine; the printed lines "pied" themselves
before his twitching eyes, blurring into a vision of that last bitter
scene in the room with his dying father. And even the vision had faded
now, to dissolve into one dull mass of color--a wavering, throbbing
field of _red_!
"Mr. Warren Jarvis! Mr. Warren Jarvis!"
The page stood by the library door, calling. He sprang to his feet,
brought back to a consciousness of the present with galvanic
suddenness. He turned, bewildered for an instant, and then walked
slowly toward the boy.
"What is it?" he asked.
"A man wants to see you, sir, down at the front door. A colored
man...."
Jarvis waited for no more. He hurried down the oaken stairway, out
through the vestibule, and hatless, breathless--relieved to a great
extent from his tension--he caught the hand of faithful Rusty Snow.
"Lawd be praised!" murmured that jubilant henchman. "I done thought he
might beat me to it!"
"What do you mean, Rusty? Why didn't you come inside?"
"Dat cop at de door wouldn't let no darky come in. I want to talk to
you right away, Marse Warren. Right away quick."
Jarvis turned about, with a direction to await him.
He hurried to the coat-room, caught up his light overcoat and hat, and
rushed out through the door. Rusty helped him into the garment, with
fingers tremulous with joy at the renewal of this familiar and loving
task.
"Come, we'll go down the side street. I've given up my apartment, and
there's no place to talk but the sidewalk. What did your telegram mean,
Rusty?"
"Well, sah, jest what it said. I done followed dat man all de way from
Meadow Green to de Manhattan Hotel, dat's what it mean."
Jarvis stopped and, with eyes dilating, looked Rusty full in the face.
"Jim Marcum in New York? What can he be doing here?"
Rusty chuckled.
"Me--oh--my, boss, but dat's jest what I thought at fust. But now I
knows. I spent all my time an' all de money I could beg offen de major
tryin' to snoop aroun' dem gin-mills down home to l'arn. An' it wasn't
ontel yestiddy afternoon dat I seen dis yere Marcum come galloping down
on hossback, wid some poh white trash moonshiner ridin' wid 'im. Dey
goes right to de depoh an' jumps offen de hosses. I wuz in Eph Black's
saloon, but dar ain't nuffin missin' me. I walks over to de station
agent's winder an' I sees dis Marcum wid a roll o' bills dat would
choke a hoss. He buys a ticket, an' den he goes down de patform. I axes
Hen Barrows, de agent, where dat man goin'. He says Noo York. Den I is
satisfied. I jest walks down de track to de junction, by de water
tank."
"Hurry up, Rusty. What about Marcum?" was Warren's impatient
interjection.
"Wall, I sees dis yere man with 'im watchin' de platform--an' wen de
train pull in, inter it Marcum goes. She alluz slows up at de
sidin'--cause dere's a junction, an' so I jumps 'er, at de hind
platform. Well, Marse Warren, dat man he's on de train. It's only day
coaches ontel we gets to Lueyville, an' I walks from de Jim Crow car
through de train just onct. Dis Marcum he don't recollect me,--I'm just
a darky to him. But I sees 'im a-workin' in his seat wid som'pin dat
shows he recollects you, sah."
"What was that, Rusty?"
"He was a-oilin' a gun--an' you know who dat gun is for. He'll be
a-lookin' for you, Marse Warren."
"What did you do then? How did you manage to stay on the train?"
"Oh, I jest stuck dere, Marse Warren. Dis nigger has had enough
'sperience in dis world to know dat he spends all he has w'en he has
it. So de day you left I takes de money you gives me for a railroad
ticket, an' buys one an' puts it inside my pocket. So, I was ready for
dis Marcum. I follows 'im to Lueyville, whar I telegram to you, and
keeps right on 'is trail w'en he changes cars for Cincinnati. He keeps
on comin' to Noo York, an' I am in de day coach all dat time. Den I
follows right to de Manhattan Hotel. He ain't nebber been in Noo York
befoh, because he walks all de way to de hotel instid o' takin' a
taxicab. Dat man ain't no _quality_!"
Warren was lost in thought. He stopped at the next corner.
"Listen, Rusty. You did good work. I wanted to have you find him, and
instead he came right to me. Now, we must end this whole thing
to-night." For an instant the Kentuckian was nonplused, and
instinctively turned to the old family servant with that curious trust
which the native Southerner instinctively places in the "family" negro.
"What shall I do now, Rusty?"
Rusty's usually big eyes narrowed to slits in which the whites were
hardly visible.
"Marse Warren, jest wait for dat man. He's here, you knows it, for your
life. Ef you cain't git him, _I can_. I got mah razor an' dat's a
better weepon dan any ole gun. You jest wait--an' let me do de rest."
Warren turned and started back toward the club.
"I'll be waiting at the Export Club, Rusty. If he hunts up my address
on Madison Avenue, the hall boy will send him there. If he wants to see
me, he already has my address--and everyone in Meadow Green knows the
club as my address. Now, you go up to the rooms I have taken in the
Belmont Hotel. The room number is 417--you just wait there until you
hear from me. What did you mean by 'supplies' in that telegram, Rusty?"
The darky chuckled.
"Lawsee, Marse Warren, I knows dat you is a reg'lar Noo Yorker by dis
time and don't carry de supplies of a gentlemen. I mean a .38-caliber!
Has you got one?"
Warren smiled for the first time since their surprising meeting.
"No, I guess I have become a victim of New York. The worst weapon I
have on me, Rusty, is a fountain pen--and I'm afraid Jim Marcum
couldn't read the ammunition!"
Rusty looked slyly about him. They were in a dark spot on Fifth Avenue,
the shop fronts deserted and not a pedestrian within a block. The darky
slipped his hand into his pocket, and surreptitiously handed his master
a heavy, portentous automatic which would have sent joy into the heart
of a Texas Ranger. There was a vibration of honest pride in his voice
as he explained:
"Dere, Marse Warren. I went widout po'k chops an' chicken all de way to
Noo York jest to lay in supplies while I was waitin' betwixt trains at
Lueyville! I 'lowed you all 'd be too wrapped up in yoh troubles ter
bother about dis, an' I recomembered dis here Noo York Sullivan Law
w'ich makes it a crime fer a decent citerzen ter carry a gun, so dat
the burglars kin work in peace. Take it, Marse Warren, an' plant every
seed in de right place!"
The tears came into the eyes of the Kentuckian.
"Rusty, you're a jewel!"
"Yassir, in a ebony settin'! But, now, please git back to dat club
place, an' wait fer Jim Marcum. Dat man's mind was on his bizness when
I seen him in de smokin' cyar, an' he ain't thinkin' of nothin' else!"
They strolled down toward the club again. Warren gave a few parting
directions and handed Rusty a roll of bills for emergency.
"Remember, Rusty, when you hear from me by any message at all, you're
to come at once,--I'll just mention my first name. I'm registered at
the Belmont as John Kelly of New Orleans--I couldn't hide my Southern
accent. Tell them you're my valet, and show the key--I can trust you to
get up to the room. If I call for you, pay the bill from that change,
and don't let the grass grow under those number twelves!"
Rusty smirked happily.
"Hallelujah, Marse Warren, you'se jokin' agin--de fightin' blood of de
Jarvises is bilin'--I knows de signs. Why, Marse Warren, I recollects
yoh father when...."
But his master's face changed.
"Not now, Rusty. I'm thinking too much about my father. No more talk
for either of us. Just action."
He turned into the side street toward the Export Club. Rusty--fresh
from Kentucky psychology--doffed his cap and disappeared as Warren
entered the Grecian portal.
Inside the clubhouse he found a letter awaiting him. It was scrawled in
the bold, ungrammared style which might have been expected. He read it
standing tensely by the doorway, as dozens of men walked in and out,
little dreaming of the tragedy attached to that casual fragment of
white note-paper. It was written on the stationery of the Hotel
Manhattan--diagonally across the street from the hostelry where Warren
had inadvertently registered for his brief stay in the city.
He read the words again and again.
"DEAR JARVIS; export Club, new York.
am visiting in New York and would like to see you and call off our
kwarrel youre fathers death was misunderstandin and were last of
our families will be at Above hotel all evenin and tomorrow come
Around when you get chance and shake hands i Will prove I aint
meant no harm.
Friend JIM MARCUM."
The Kentuckian crumpled the note in his hand, and then walked toward
the fireplace of the grill. It had been weeks since any logs had been
burned there, but the flakes of soot still clung to the stone casement.
Warren struck a match, and a curious smile illumined his face as he
ignited the paper, holding its flaming fabric between his fingers until
the last half-inch had burned. He dropped the tiny fragment after
lighting his cigar with its flame.
One of his friends, a Brazilian coffee merchant, addressed him in the
native tongue, which Warren spoke as fluently as English.
"Ah, _senor_, you care not for your letter?"
"Oh, it's just a little invitation to a party to-night," laughed Jarvis
of Kentucky. "If anyone found it on my person, he might think I kept
late hours and associated with bad company. Let us have a drink to our
friendship in the club, for I may take a long journey to-night, and
never see you again!"
III
IN THE ROYAL SUITE
A beautiful young woman stirred uneasily in the early slumber of the
evening. Eleven floors below her, in the foyer of the Hotel Manhattan,
the after-theater crowd of visitors thronged and buzzed happily. But
the girl, after an unusual day of anxiety in a strange land, was ill at
ease, with fitful dreams.
The Paris clock of her Highness delicately struck two musical notes
upon the chimes, to indicate the half-hour; at the same instant, as
though by echo and vehement confirmation, two revolver shots resounded
in the corridor.
The girl shuddered as she opened her large dark eyes, sitting bolt
upright in bed. She heard a slamming of doors, a growing hubbub in the
usually decorous hallway outside, and her feminine curiosity almost
conquered the aristocratic reserve, to impel her to rise and discover
the origin of the hubbub.
She was spared the trouble, for suddenly the door of her boudoir
received a vigorous thump. The lock crashed and it swung open,
admitting the rays of a red electric lamp in the corridor outside. The
portal swung shut with even greater promptitude, as a dark body leaped
over the threshold.
"_Madre de Dios!_" she screamed. Then, after a gasp, "Who's there!"
The intruder backed against the door, working with the top bolt, which
was still intact. She could see the vague outline by the dim glow of
the moonlight which streamed into her room.
Then, as she seemed preparing for another cry, he turned toward her.
"Ssssh! Don't make any noise," he whispered vibrantly, audaciously.
The girl slipped from her bed and drew a flimsy dressing-gown about
her.
"What do you want?"
"Silence!"
She had reached the lamp on the small boudoir table near the bed. She
switched on the electric light. They stared at each other
wide-eyed--but stirred by different feelings. Hers was the fright of a
woman finding herself in the power of a strange and desperate man; his
the battling alertness of a man fighting for his own life against odds.
It was Jarvis of Kentucky!
[Illustration: It was Jarvis of Kentucky]
Despite his immaculate evening clothes, the blanched face, drawn mouth,
and the revolver in his hand made him appear to her as the
personification of that vague terror of the unfamiliar dark which all
women and children know so well. He crouched there, reading the
character in her haughtily tossed head and imperious eyes. The details
of her beauty he ignored, remembering only three important facts: "She
is young, she is frightened but has not lost control of herself." He
reached forward and touched the switch of the lamp. Again the moon was
the sole illumination of the room!
A voice outside in the corridor came to them.
"What's the row?"
"Somebody's shooting up the hotel!" was the reply, from another throat.
"Not a sound ... do you understand?" whispered Jarvis, as he backed
toward the door again.
"What right...?" she began.
"Quiet!"
The voices in the corridor were closer now.
"Where'd he go? Look on the fire-escape."
"No use--he's on this floor, I tell you."
The girl advanced toward him, her own spirit asserting itself, as she
realized that help was within calling distance. Yet she did not call!
"What is it? What do you want? What have you done?"
Warren slipped the revolver into his pocket to reassure her.
"It's all right now. I'm not going to harm you, if you will just keep
quiet. Is that clear to you?"
"Is it money you want? All the money I have is on that dressing-table.
Take it and go."
He shook his head, now observing the wealth of hair, the healthy,
aristocratic poise of shoulders and arms, and the depths of her eyes.
"I'm not a burglar. I don't want your money."
"Well, then, what do you want?" She was beginning to be impatient.
There was a sound of rapid steps down the corridor. Jarvis sprang
toward the door, his eyes still intent on hers.
"Listen ... they're coming!... They mustn't search this room--do you
understand--you must put them off." He assured himself that the upper
bolt was intact and shot tightly. "I'm not what you think I am.... Is
there no way out that way, through the door over there behind you?"
She shook her head.
"No, that is my maid's room."
"The fire-escape--where is that?"
"In the hall opposite."
Jarvis snapped a finger, angry at his own mistake.
"I thought that red meant it was in this room. Oh, hell!... I beg your
pardon!"
A faint smile turned up the corner of the red lips, and she shrugged
her shoulders ever so lightly.
"Well, you know where it is now; why don't you go?"
Jarvis shook his head with determination: it was evident that this
surprised and surprising young person would be amenable to reason--he
had many logical reasons at his command.
"I can't go that way--they'll be waiting in the hall," he declared, as
he studied the windows and portals. "The red light in the corridor
fooled me--I thought the fire-escape would get me to the floor below,
where I could take an elevator down during the hubbub. There they come
again."
As the odd pair stood, with bated breath, quick steps and a running
fire of conversation could be heard in the hall. It was evident that
the chase was getting warm.
The girl studied the pose of her curious visitor--it was not the
cringing attitude of a criminal. In the lines of his well-built figure
there was the unmistakable grace of a gentleman to the manor born--the
fearless confidence, despite his predicament, of a man confident of his
own justification.
She was puzzled--her curiosity gradually overcoming her outraged
feelings and her natural resentment against his assured usurpation of
the situation.
This was a new experience for the lady of the lacy filaments and regal
poise; yet it was far from unpleasant to meet such calm masculinity.
She switched on the light once more, to feel a surprising satisfaction
in the impersonal, unabashed honesty of those steady blue eyes.
Jarvis became conscious of a twinge in his hand, and looking down at
his left hand, observed a little rivulet of blood dripping down to his
finger-tips. He quickly drew his handkerchief from his pocket, as
though to cover the wound before she saw it. The action and its motive
did not escape the observant dark eyes. Her sex asserted itself; she
advanced, nervous once more.
"You are wounded? What has really happened? You must dress that hand
..."
"I almost stopped one of the bullets--that's all. You see it was not
one-sided. But I am afraid it will be, if they get me now. I don't see
how the devil----" here he ran to the shaded window to peer at the
twinkling street lamps far below,----"Oh, damn!"
The girl's manner froze again. She stepped back instinctively; and yet
that bandaged hand compelled her eyes. She spoke slowly.
"You have evidently shot someone, and are making me shield you from
justice."
Warren Jarvis shook his head, with that straightforward look which was
so convincing.
"Not from justice, but from the law?
"I thought they were the same."
His smile was bitter, as he retorted: "No, not always. There would be
no justice for me at the hands of the law: justice was not accomplished
by the law in all these years."
She dropped a white hand to the table by which she stood.
"Well, that is not for me to decide. I must only...."
"You must only listen--you shall decide. At least you shall listen, in
order that you may forgive my intrusion, my selfishness in compromising
you as I have done." He hesitated, and for the first time color came
into the drawn cheeks; a softening echo was observable in her own. "If
you find me guilty, when I tell you, I'll--well--I'll take that door or
anything you say."
"Your presumption is ridiculous," were her words, and yet she did not
call for assistance. Jarvis realized that he had at least won a
foothold for his plea. And he had not given up his dogged hope.
"I wouldn't call it ridiculous--a man has a right to argue for his
life."
"But," she parried, "could any decision be more unjust than mine must
be, when delivered at the point of a pistol?"
Jarvis took the challenge. He laid the weapon upon the dressing-table
by her side and crossed the room, leaving her between himself and the
door.
"Now, my dear lady, there's nothing to prevent you from covering me,
calling for help, and solving the riddle as you please. After all, what
does it matter, whether the end comes to-day or to-morrow, for it would
be impossible to elude the police. You don't understand, I know--but I
am not flying from justice: it was a case of shoot or be shot. You will
notice that only one cartridge in that revolver has been used. But,
listen--they're on the right trail at last."
He noiselessly crossed to the door and listened to the renewed
excitement without. There was a triple knock, and the voice of a man,
evidently of authority, rang out.
"Open up here. Is there anybody in here? Open, I tell you."
Jarvis turned toward the girl, whose face reflected a dozen curious
emotions as she watched him. He made his last appeal.
"It's up to you to do with me as you like," he murmured.
Her mind was made up quickly, and she pointed toward a door to the
left--it led to her bath. Jarvis disappeared behind its shelter. At the
same instant the door of the maid's room opened, and a chic little
servant ran out chattering, clinging to her mistress' arm for
protection.
"Be silent," was the cool command. The knocking continued, with more
voices joining in the exhortations. The girl pointed to the door, and
the silent command was obeyed. Trembling like an aspen, the little maid
opened it, and the burly form of a house detective appeared at the
entrance.
"Are you all right in here?" he asked, and then observing the two
white-robed figures he doffed the conventional derby hat without which
no professional hotel detective would seem natural. "I beg your pardon,
ma'am. I just came to see if you had had any trouble."
"No," replied the mistress calmly. "What is the matter?"
"Mighty sorry to trouble you, but we're looking for a party and we
ain't goin' to stop till we find him. We just thought he might have
beat it into this room for a getaway. If you want anything, just call
us, for we'll be up and down these halls all night now."
As he shut the door, the unusual young woman waved toward it once more.
"Lock it well, Nita," she said in Spanish. "Control yourself, child.
You have a chill. Go to bed again. I will not want you again until six
o'clock in the morning."
As Nita retired she hesitated before her doorway. Her sharp black eyes
caught the glint of the bulky revolver upon the library table. Those
same black eyes dilated, her lips moved as though for another
frightened exclamation, but all she said was: "Thank you, madame! I
will not bother you again until six o'clock. Good-night, madame!"
Then she closed her door.
Nita was as discreet as she was faithful, in the service of her beloved
madame. And she was essentially Spanish in her appreciative grasp of a
romantic situation.
IV
AN OATH OF ALLEGIANCE
The bathroom door opened slowly, with the slightest perceptible knock.
"May I come in?" was the low and meek inquiry.
"You may, and then you may go out as soon as possible," was the
resolute response.
Warren's countenance was smiling again, and the smile was infectious.
So curious had been this burglarizing method of escape, so unusual the
imperturbable girl who had assisted him against all conventional
expectations, that the horror of the last half-hour was partially
dissipated. When a man meets a great crisis of his life and overcomes
it, there is a queer relaxation of strained nerves,--with a woman the
result would be hysteria; with a man of Warren Jarvis' type it was a
self-surprising amiability and calmness.
"Would you mind bolting the door again? He might return. And thank you
very much for delaying the death sentence--now I can explain."
The girl glided to the door and tested the lock. It was secure, and she
turned about to return that infectious smile of the eyes, albeit
grudgingly.
Warren, finally realizing that he was weak from strain, and aching in
every muscle from the ordeal of the past twenty-four hours, looked
appealing at the comfortable armchair.
"May I sit down for just a minute?" he pleaded. "I have not slept since
the night before last. I have not rested for a fortnight."
The girl nodded. He relaxed, and dropped into a blessed position of
comfort. He buried his face in his hands--how many times had he struck
this same attitude since the bitter days at Meadow Green, without
realizing the repetition!
For two minutes or an hour he sat there--he knew not which. His
companion, with sudden renewal of consciousness of the _deshabille_ of
her dressing-gown, retreated to the corner of the brass bed. She sat
down, to scrutinize the better this strange intruder. The moonlight
which fell in pale green bars across the Bokhara beneath her slippered
feet; the melodramatic situation which had brought them together; the
unmistakable gentility of this compelling intruder of her maidenly
domain; the curious collapse of his aggressiveness--all these things
united to cast a sympathetic spell over her. She was foolish--to the
extreme of placing herself in a ridiculous situation! She was
culpable--in protecting a self-confessed butcher! She was weak--in
yielding to girlish sentiment by permitting this man to shatter the
conventionalities,--she who had been accustomed, throughout her twenty
years of adulation and awe-inspiring respect, to a servile respect from
every man, woman, and child! And, worst of all to an essentially
feminine mind, she had allowed this presumptuous, calculating stranger
to override her better judgment, to subjugate her resistance, without a
visible tribute to the charms which had stirred the masculine souls of
a continent!
And yet, in spite of--perhaps, _because of_--all these illogical,
provoking, equilibrium-shattering irritants--she sat there, patiently,
eagerly awaiting an explanation. Consistency, thy name is not
Maidenhood!
Suddenly he looked at her.
"Do you know what a feud is?" was the curious prologue.
Her answer was apt and surprising.
"Feud? Spain is the garden of feuds."
"So is Kentucky. That's where I'm from. You're Spanish, then?"
"Yes!"
"Then you'll understand and sympathize.... Those shots you heard ended
a feud which has lived through three or four generations. They brought
me back to earth, to life, to a realization of things about me, after
the most horrible nightmare through which I've ever passed. I know my
own name now,--and I had almost forgotten it since I went back home--so
short a time, so many centuries ago!"
Then Warren Jarvis told her the story; his eyes were half closed, and
with his fingers clasped and intertwined beneath his square-chiseled
chin he recounted the steps of the recent event with the monotone of
one who chants a mechanically memorized tale. She understood at last.
"But what did he do when you went to his room in the hotel?"
"Just what I expected--in fact, what I prayed for! As the door opened
he fired his revolver--and I carry the witness inside this crimson
handkerchief. I had my own weapon in my coat pocket ... it's a trick I
learned in Central American revolutions. I fired from my waist, burned
a hole in my overcoat--and burned a hole in the heart of that murderous
hound."
Suddenly he sprang to his feet and walked to the window, just as he had
done back in Meadow Green so short a time before.
"Dad, dear old dad! I know you're satisfied. I let him take the first
chance, and it was his last."