"Uptown," said Graham to the taxi driver. "I'll tell you where when I
know myself."
A knowing and sympathetic grin covered the big Irish face and a raucous
yell came from the hard-used engine, and the taxi went forward with a
huge jerk.
The little girl turned her large eyes on Graham. "You do not know vhere
you take me?" she asked.
"No, by thunder, I don't. I can't drive you like this to a hotel, you've
got no baggage. Most of my friends live in bachelor apartments, and the
women I know,--well, I would like to see their faces if I turned up with
you--and _this_ story."
The girl's foreign gesture was eloquent of despair. She heaved a deep
sigh and drew into the corner of the cab. The passing lights shone
intermittently on her little white face. How small and pitiful and
helpless she looked.
The sight of her set Graham's brain working again. In getting her out of
the Papowsky's poisonous place and leading her step by step down the
winding fire-escape and, when it ceased abruptly in mid-air, into the
window of a restaurant, he had been brought to the end of one line of
thought,--that of getting the girl safely out of her prison. He now
started on another, while the cab rocked along the trolley lines beneath
the elevated railway, sometimes swerving dangerously out and round the
iron supports.
Suddenly Graham was seized with an idea. He put his head out of the cab
window and shouted to the driver: "Fifty-five East Fifty-second Street."
The girl turned to him hopefully. "What ees zat?" she asked.
"My home."
"Your 'ome? You take me to your 'ome?"
"Why no, not exactly. I'm going in to get a bag for you. It won't have
much in it except a brush and comb and a pair of my pajamas, but with
them we can drive to any quiet hotel and I'll get a room for you. In the
morning I'll find a little furnished apartment and you can go out and
buy some clothes and the other things that you need. How's that?"
Ita caught up his hand and held it against her heart. "But you are not
going to leave me?"
"Yes, I must," said Graham. "I shall have to register you as my sister.
You've just come off the train and I've met you at the station. Oh,
don't cry! It's the best I can do. It's only just for one night. I'll
fix things to-morrow and you'll be very happy in a little apartment of
your own, won't you? I'll see you every day there."
With a sudden and almost painfully touching abandon of gratitude the
girl flung herself on the floor of the cab and put her head on Graham's
knees, calling on God to bless him. Something came into the boy's
throat.
The taxi crossed Fifth Avenue behind a motor-car that was also going
towards Madison Avenue. It looked very familiar to Graham. Supposing it
was his father returning from one of his medical meetings! He put his
head out again, sharply: "Stop at the first house on East Fifty-second
Street!" he shouted. Almost before the cab had stopped he leaped out.
"Wait for me here," he added.
"Sure an' I will." The driver threw a glance at his taxi-meter. Not for
him to care how long he waited.
Graham darted along the street and up the steps of Number fifty-five,
and just as he had the key in the door he heard his father's voice.
"No, no. Let my car take you home. Yes, a wonderful evening. Most
inspiring. Good night! Let's meet again soon!"
Graham made up his mind what to do. He held the door open for the Doctor
and stood waiting for him, with the bored look of one who has had a
rather dull evening. "Oh, thank you, Graham," said Dr. Guthrie. "Have
you just got back?"
"Yes; I thought I'd get to bed early to-night."
"You look as though you needed sleep," said the Doctor. "But--but don't
go up at once. Please come and have a cigarette in my room. I've--I've
been speaking at the Academy of Medicine,--explaining a new discovery. A
great triumph, Graham, a great triumph. I would like to tell one of my
sons about it. Won't you come?"
There was an unwonted look of excitement on his father's thin face and a
ring in his voice which made it almost youthful. It was the first time
that Graham had ever received such an invitation. He was surprised, and
if he had not been so desperately anxious to slip up-stairs, lay quick
hands on the bag and get away again he would have accepted it gladly.
For a reason that he could not explain he felt at that instant an almost
unbearable desire to find his father, to get in touch with him, to give
something and receive something that he seemed to yearn for and need
more urgently than at any other moment in his life. As it was, he was
obliged to back out. "I'm frightfully tired to-night," he said, yawning.
"Oh, are you? I'm sorry," said the Doctor apologetically. "Some other
night perhaps--some other night."
The two men stood facing each other uncomfortably. Exhilaration had for
a moment broken down the Doctor's shyness. It all came back to him when
he found his son's eyes upon him like those of a stranger. He took off
his coat and hat, said "Good-night" nervously and went quickly across
the hall and into his library.
He was deeply hurt. He stood among those priceless books with a curious
pain running through his veins. "What's the matter with me?" he asked
himself. "Why do I chill my children and make them draw back?"
Graham shut the door, and then as quickly as an eel ran up-stairs to his
bedroom, turned on the light, opened the door of the closet and pulled
out a large suit-case. Then he began to hunt among the drawers of his
wardrobe for some pajamas. He threw these in. From his bathroom he
caught up a brush and comb and some bedroom slippers. These followed the
pajamas. Then he shut the case, picked it up, crept quietly down-stairs,
across the hall and out into the street, shutting the door softly behind
him. He gave the taxi-driver the name of a small hotel frequented by
actors, and jumped into the cab.
Ita Strabosck welcomed him as though he had been gone a week. "'Ow good
you are to me!" she cried. "Eef you never do anysing else een your life,
zis that you 'ave done for me vill be written down by zee angels een
your book."