_Blind Man's Buff_
Wilson undoubtedly would have been stopped by the police within three
blocks had it not been for the seriousness of his lean face and the
evident earnestness with which he was hurrying about his business. As
it was, he gathered a goodly sized crowd of street gamins who hooted
at his heels until he was forced to take to the side streets. Here for
a few squares he was not annoyed. The thing that was most disturbing
him was the realization that he knew neither the name of the street
nor the number of the house into which he had so strangely come last
night. He knew its general direction--it lay beyond the Public Gardens
and backed upon the water front, but that was all. With only this
vague description he could not ask for help without exciting all
manner of suspicion. He must depend upon his instinct. The situation
seemed to him like one of those grotesque predicaments of a dream. Had
his brain been less intently occupied than it was with the urgency of
his mission, he would have suffered acutely.
He could not have had a worse section of the city to traverse--his
course led him through the business district, where he passed oddly
enough as a fantastic advertisement for a tea house,--but he kept
doggedly on until he reached Tremont Street. Here he was beset by a
fresh crowd of urchins from the Common who surrounded him until they
formed the nucleus of a crowd. For the first time, his progress was
actually checked. This roused within him the same dormant, savage man
who had grasped the joist--he turned upon the group. He didn't do
much, his eyes had been upon the ground and he raised them, throwing
back his head quickly.
"Let me through," he said.
A few, even at that, shifted to one side, but a half dozen larger boys
pressed in more closely, baiting him on. They had not seen in his eyes
what the others saw.
"I'm in a hurry," he said. "Let me through."
Some of the crowd laughed; some jeered. All of them waited expectantly.
Wilson took a short, quick breath. His frame stiffened, and then
without a word he hurled himself forward. He must have been half
mad, for as he bored a passage through, striking to the right and
left, he saw nothing, heard nothing, felt nothing. His teeth
together, his mind once again centered with burning intensity upon the
solitary fact that he must get back to the girl who had sent him out
to protect her. He was at this moment no more the man who crammed
Hebrew verbs in the confines of that small, whitewashed room at the
theological school than as though born of a different mother. He was
more like that Wilson who in the days of Miles Standish was thought to
be possessed of devils for the fierceness with which he fought
Indians. It would have taken a half dozen strong men to stop him, and
no one ventured to do more than strike at him.
Once he was free of them, he started on, hoping to get across Park
Street and into the Common. But the pack was instantly at his heels
again after the manner of their kind. He glanced about him baffled,
realizing that with the increasing excitement his chances of pulling
clear of them lessened. He dreaded the arrival of the police--that
would mean questioning, and he could give no satisfactory explanation
of his condition. To tell the truth would be to incriminate himself,
compromise the girl, and bring about no end of a complication. He
turned sharply and made up the hill at a run. He was a grotesque
enough figure with the long robe streaming at his heels, his head
surmounted by the fantastic turban, and his face roughened with two
days' beard, but he made something of a pathetic appeal, too. He was
putting up a good fight. It took only half an eye to see that he was
running on his nerve and that in his eagerness to get clear, there was
nothing of cowardice. Even now there was not one of the rabble who
dared come within fighting distance of him. It was the harrying they
enjoyed--the sight of a man tormented. A policeman elbowed his way
through the crowd and instead of clubbing back the aggressors, pushed
on to the young man who was tottering near his finish.
Wilson saw him. He gave one last hurried look about on the chance of
finding some loophole of escape from that which was worse than the
crowd. His eyes fell upon the face of a young man in an automobile
which was moving slowly up the hill. It took the latter but a glance
to see that Wilson was a gentleman hard pushed. The appeal in the eyes
was enough. He ordered the machine stopped and threw open the door. As
Wilson reached it, he leaned forward and grasped his shoulders,
dragging him in. Then the driver threw back his lever and the machine
leaped forward like an unleashed dog. The officer ordered them to
stop, but they skimmed on up the hill and turning to the left found
Beacon Street a straight path before them.
"Narrow squeak that time, old man," smiled the stranger. "What the
devil was the trouble?"
"This, I suppose," answered Wilson, as soon as he had caught his
breath, lifting a corner of the elaborate gown. "And this," touching
the bandages on his head.
"But what in thunder did they chase you for?"
"I guess they thought I was crazy--or drunk."
"Well, it wasn't fair sport at a hundred to one. Where shall I land
you?"
Wilson pondered a second. He would only lose time if he got out and
attempted again to find the house in that rig.
"If--if I could only get some clothes."
"Where's your hotel or home? Take you anywhere you say."
"I haven't either a home or a hotel," answered Wilson, deliberately.
"And these are all the clothes I have in the world."
"Is that a dream?"
"It is the truth."
"But how----" exclaimed the other.
"I can't tell you now how it came about, but it is the truth that I am
without a cent, and that this is my entire wardrobe."
"Where did you come from this morning?" asked the other, still
incredulous.
"From the hospital."
Wilson hesitated just a second; he knew that in asking anything
further he ran the risk of being mistaken for a charlatan, but this
seemed now his only chance of getting back to her. They were speeding
out through the Fenway, but the driver had now slowed down to await
further orders. The man would drop him anywhere he said, but even
supposing he brought him back to the vicinity of the house, he could
not possibly escape observation long enough to locate that little door
in the rear--the only clue he had to identification of the house. If
ever a man's exterior gave promise of generous help, the features of
this fellow by his side did. He was of about his own age, smooth
shaven, with a frank, open face that gave him a clean and wholesome
appearance. He had the lithe frame and red cheeks of an athlete in
training--his eyes clear as night air, his teeth white as a hound's.
But it was a trick of the eyes which decided Wilson--a bright
eagerness tinged with humor and something of dreams, which suggested
that he himself was alert for just such adventures as this in which
Wilson found himself. He glanced up and found the other studying him
curiously as though trying to decide for himself just what sort of a
fellow he had rescued.
"I don't blame you for being suspicious," began Wilson, "but I've told
you only the truth. Furthermore, I've done nothing any decent fellow
wouldn't do. The police have no right to me, although they might make
a lot of trouble."
"That's all right, old man. You needn't feel obliged to 'fess up to
me."
"I wanted to tell you that much," answered Wilson, "because I want to
ask something of you; I want you to give me a suit of clothes and
enough money to keep me alive for a week."
Wilson saw the other's brows contract for a second as though in keen
annoyance or disappointment at this mediocre turn in a promising
situation. He added quickly:
"I'm not asking this altogether for myself; there's a girl involved--a
girl in great danger. If I get back to her soon, there is still hope
that I can be of some use."
The other's face brightened instantly.
"What's that you say? A girl in danger?"
"In serious danger. This----" he pointed at the linen turban, "this
ought to give you some idea of how serious; I was on my way to her
when I received this."
"But good Lord, man, why didn't you say so before? Home, Mike, and let
her out!"
The chauffeur leaned forward and once again the machine vibrated to
the call. They skimmed along the park roads and into the smooth roads
of Brookline. From here Wilson knew nothing of the direction or the
locality.
"My name is Danbury," his rescuer introduced himself, "and I'm glad to
be of help to you. We're about the same size and I guess you can get
into some of my clothes. But can't I send a wire or something to the
girl that you are coming?"
Wilson shook his head. "I don't know exactly where she is myself. You
see I--I found her in the dark and I lost her in the dark."
"Sort of a game of blind man's buff," broke in Danbury. "But how the
devil did you get that swipe in the head?"
"I don't know any more than you where that came from."
"You look as though you ought to be tucked away in bed on account of
it. You are still groggy."
Wilson tried to smile, but, truth to tell, his head was getting dizzy
again and he felt almost faint.
"Lie back and take it easy until we reach the house. I'll give you a
dose of brandy when we get there."
The machine slid through a stone gateway and stopped before a fine,
rambling white house set in the midst of green trees and with a wide
sweep of green lawn behind it. A butler hurried out and at a nod took
hold of one of Wilson's arms and helped him up the steps--though it
was clear the old fellow did not like the appearance of his master's
guest. Of late, however, the boy had brought home several of whom he
did not approve. One of them--quite the worst one to his mind--was
now waiting in the study. The butler had crossed himself after having
escorted him in. If ever the devil assumed human shape, he would say
that this was no other than his satanic majesty himself.
"A gentleman to see you, sir, in the study."
"The devil you say," snapped Danbury.
"I did not say it, sir."
"I wanted to take this gentleman in there. However, we will go to the
den."
Danbury led the way through a series of rooms to a smaller room which
opened upon the green lawn. It was furnished in mahogany with plenty
of large, leather-bottomed chairs and a huge sofa. The walls were
decorated with designs of yachts and pictures of dogs. This room
evidently was shut off from the main study by the folding doors which
were partly concealed by a large tapestry. Danbury poured out a stiff
drink of brandy and insisted upon Wilson's swallowing it, which he did
after considerable choking.
"Now," said Danbury, "you lie down while John is getting some clothes
together, and I'll just slip into the next room and see what my queer
friend wants."
Wilson stretched himself out and gave himself up to the warm influx of
life which came with the stimulation from the drink. Pound after pound
seemed to be lifting from his weary legs and cloud after cloud from
his dulled brain. He would soon be able to go back now. He felt a new
need for the sight of her, for the touch of her warm fingers, for the
smile of good fellowship from her dark eyes. In these last few hours
he felt that he had grown wonderfully in his intimacy with her and
this found expression in his need of her. Lying there, he felt a
craving that bit like thirst or hunger. It was something new to him
thus to yearn for another. The sentiment dormant within him had always
found its satisfaction in the impersonal in his vague and distant
dreams. Now it was as though all those fancies of the past had
suddenly been gathered together and embodied in this new-found
comrade.
The voices in the next room which had been subdued now rose to a point
where some phrases were audible. The younger man seemed to be getting
excited, for he kept exclaiming,
"Good. That's bully!"
Their words were lost once more, but Wilson soon heard the sentence,
"I'm with you--with you to the end. But what are _you_ going to get
out of this?"
Then for the first time he heard the voice of the other. There was
some quality in it that made him start. He could not analyze it, but
it had a haunting note as though it went back somewhere in his own
past. It made him--without any intention of overhearing the burden of
the talk--sit up and listen. It was decidedly the voice of an older
man--perhaps a foreigner. But if this were so, a foreigner who had
lived long in this country, for the accent consisted of a scarcely
perceptible blur. He spoke very slowly and with a cold deliberation
that was unpleasant. It was so a judge might pronounce sentence of
death. It was unemotional and forbidding. Yet there were little
catches in it that reminded Wilson of some other voice which he could
not place.
"My friend," came the voice more distinctly, as though the owner had
risen and now faced the closed doors between the two rooms, "my
friend, the interests I serve are truly different from yours; you
serve sentiment; I, justice and revenge. Yet we shall each receive our
reward in the same battle." He paused a moment. Then he added,
"A bit odd, isn't it, that such interests as yours and mine should
focus at a point ten thousand miles from here?"
"Odd? It's weird! But I'm getting used to such things. I picked up a
chap this morning whose story I wouldn't have believed a year ago. Now
I've learned that most anything is possible--even you."
"I?"
"Yes, you and your heathen army, and your good English, and your
golden idol."
"I object to your use of the word 'heathen,'" the other replied
sharply.
Wilson started from his couch, now genuinely interested. But the two
had apparently been moving out while this fag-end of the conversation
was going on, for their voices died down until they became but a hum.
He fell back again, and before he had time to ponder further Danbury
hurried in with a suit of clothes over his arm.
"Here," he cried excitedly, "try on these. I must be off again in a
hurry. I didn't mean to keep you waiting so long, but we'll make up
the time in the machine."
He tossed out a soft felt hat and blue serge suit. Wilson struggled
into the clothes. Save that the trousers were a bit short, the things
fitted well enough. At any rate, he looked more respectable than in a
lounging robe. The latter he cast aside, and as he did so something
fell from it. It was a roll of parchment. Wilson had forgotten all
about it, and now thrust it in an inside pocket. He would give it back
to Sorez, for very possibly it was of some value. He had not thought
of it since it had rolled out of the hollow image.
Danbury led the way out the door as soon as Wilson had finished
dressing. The latter felt in one of the vest pockets and drew out a
ten dollar bill. He stared from Danbury to the money.
"Tuck it away, man, tuck it away," said Danbury.
"I can't tell you----"
"Don't. Don't want to hear it. By the way, you'd better make a note of
the location of this house in case you need to find me again. Three
hundred and forty Bellevue,--remember it? Here, take my card and write
it down."
It took them twenty minutes to reach the foot of Beacon street, and
here Wilson asked him to stop.
"I've got to begin my hunt from here. I wish I could make you
understand how more than grateful I am."
"Don't waste the time. Here's wishing you luck and let me know how you
come out, will you?"
He reached forth his hand and Wilson grasped it.
"I will."
"Well, s'long, old man. Good luck again."
He spoke to the chauffeur. In less than a minute Wilson was alone
again on the street where he had stood the night before.