Outside the Moonshine Ralston found the usual congestion of cabs,
landaus, and wagons. He had delayed to exchange a few reminiscences with
old Vincent, and it was fully ten minutes before he could find his cabby
in the tangle of vehicles. As he stepped into the street, to save the
time requisite for the man to draw to the curb, an omnibus was vainly
trying to force its way through the side street. It had paused for an
instant in front of the stage entrance, and Ralston had caught a glimpse
of Ellen's face inside.
A momentary impulse had seized him to stop the coach and tell her of the
hopelessness of the task upon which she had sent him, but in the instant
of his uncertainty the way had cleared and they had driven on. He had
climbed into his own hansom, little the wiser for his experience at the
Moonshine.
The sidewalks were jammed with the usual after-theater crowd hurrying
either to get home as quickly as possible or to secure seats in
restaurants which pandered less to the taste of the _gourmet_ than to
those of the _roué_. For a solid mile on either side of Broadway
stretched house after house of entertainment, any one of which could
harbor a hundred Steadmans, and for a quarter of a mile on either hand
lay twenty streets, lined with places of a character vastly more likely
to do so. He followed the crowd slowly northward, wondering why so few
of them walked in the opposite direction. Whenever he came to a
well-known hostelry he went in and eagerly scanned the tables, but,
although he recognized many he knew and who knew him, he found naught of
Steadman.
Having visited five "chophouses," a "rathskeller," two "hofbraus," and
several more pretentious places, he abandoned the idea of trying to
stumble upon his man, and returned to his original belief that only by
following some sort of a clew could he succeed. Somewhere in the hot
clasp of the city lay the miserable youth he had promised to find. For a
moment he regretted the answer which he had just sent to Ellen's
apartment--the four words that had pledged him to a fool's errand, the
absurdity of which was now apparent. Then came a realizing sense of the
importance to Ellen of his mission, and a grim determination to find
this man wherever he might be.
He had now reached Forty-second Street, and the crowd divided into two
streams, one moving eastward and the other northward, a part of the
latter to plunge beneath the Times Building into the subway, and the
remainder to add to the already existing congestion in front of the
Hotel Astor, Rector's, Shanley's, and the New York Theater. Longacre
Square boiled with life--a life garish, tawdry, sensual and vulgar,
unlike that of any other city or generation.
The restaurants could seat no more, and a bejeweled, scented throng
stood in the doorways and struggled for the vacant tables. The night
hawks lining the curb peered eagerly at every passer-by to note signs of
intoxication or indecision. Tiny newsboys thrust their bundles of papers
against dress waistcoats and felt for loose watches, ready to dart into
the throng at the first move of suspicion on the part of their victims.
Clerks with their best girls pointed out these and made witticisms upon
them, hoping thus to divert attention from the attractions of the
restaurants, for whose splendors they intended later to substitute the
more substantial, if more economical, pleasures of the dairy lunch.
Automobiles, in which sat supercilious foreign chauffeurs, blocked the
entrances of the pleasure palaces. Streams of country folk poured in and
out of hotels which made a specialty of rural trade, promising to their
patrons, in widely distributed circulars, easy access to everything
"worth seeing." These came, were relieved of their money, and, after
fervid correspondence on the hotel stationery, went home to poison the
minds of their townfolk with descriptions of scenes which existed only
in their imaginations.
For every person on Longacre Square after midnight who is there for an
honest purpose, there are three who are there either to do that which
they should not do or to see that which they should not see. It is the
white light in which the New York moth plays before he plunges into the
withering flame. It was here Steadman had begun, and like enough he was
not far off.
The electric clock above the roof tops moved to a quarter before one as
Ralston turned into Forty-sixth Street, and he looked both ways before
springing from his hansom and dashing up the steps of the number to
which he had been directed. After some time a mulatto maid opened the
door and asked his business. Miss Davenport was out, she said. Ralston
stretched the truth far enough to say that he was a friend. The girl had
no idea where she could be found. Then Ralston also volunteered that he
was a friend of Mr. Steadman's. Still the maid remained imperturbable.
The sight of a bill, however, led to an immediate change of demeanor.
Yes, Miss Davenport had gone out with a gentleman--not Mr.
Steadman--early in the evening. Did she know Mr. Steadman? Yes, she
thought she knew Mr. Steadman--a dark gentleman. She seemed anxious to
help Ralston, but doubtful of success.
As was not unreasonable, Ralston was beginning to be quite disgusted at
the position in which he found himself, a condition which was by no
means relieved by the fact that, as he reached the bottom of the steps,
he found himself face to face with Colonel Duer and a somewhat elderly
lady companion. The new Assistant Secretary felt distinctly
uncomfortable. Another man might have turned away his face, but Ralston
looked steadily into the colonel's under the full light of the street
lamp. Simultaneously he raised his hand to his hat, then crossed the
sidewalk and jumped into the hansom. The cabby lifted the manhole and
looked down the air shaft.
"Huh?" said he. "Where'll I go now?"
"I don't know," said Ralston.
The cabby chuckled. He was satisfied one way quite as well as another.
From his seat of vantage he was able to look down critically upon
mankind in general, and had learned to distinguish "the real thing" when
he saw it. He had no doubts as to Ralston, and no misgivings at all as
to the latter's ability to pay and pay well, and he was as confident
that his tip would be in accordance with the most advanced ideas of
liberality as he was that this same fare of his was quite out of the
ordinary. He had sized Ralston for a thoroughbred from the moment that
he had come downstairs. For one thing he did not waste words, for
another he neither looked at his watch nor inquired the price; for
another--and you could always tell by that--he knew just what he was
doing. Moreover, he was perfectly sober. He belonged to that small and
distinguished body of midnight travelers who realize that they are in a
cab and not in a hammock. Hence Ralston's admission that he did not know
where to go to next struck upon the cabby intelligence in the light of a
joke.
"Huh?" said he again, removing his cigar.
"I said I didn't know," repeated Ralston.
"Up against it!" said cabby with divination.
"Exactly," returned his fare with a slight laugh. "You are a man of
perspicacity."
"Huh?" repeated the cabby.
"I said you were a mind reader," answered Ralston.
"I guess I can see furder'n most," admitted cabby complacently.
Ralston had struck a match and lit a fresh cigar. He was feeling very,
very tired. His watch showed that there were exactly six hours left
before the Twelfth would start--not a minute more.
The cabby was still peering down the manhole and dropping an occasional
sympathetic ash on Ralston's silk hat. His fare interested him--he was
beginning to have a notion that Ralston was somebody. Maybe a big
military gun. He had that clean, hard look those fellers have.
Suddenly the fare spoke again, in an even more amiable tone than before.
"My friend, how long have you been in this business?"
The cabby hesitated while he made an accurate mathematical computation.
"Five years on a percentage--ten years on my own--fifteen years, sir."
"You know the town pretty well, eh?"
"Fairly well, sir."
"Is there a _café_ somewhere a bit out of the way--something quiet, you
know?"
"Sure, across the square. Shall I drive you there?"
"Yes."
The cabby clucked to his horse, and they wheeled about and crossed the
White Way again. The pedestrians were thinning out. The rain had ceased,
the clouds had parted, and the sky was sprinkled with brightly burning
stars. Up in the Times Tower the afternoon before one of the editorial
writers had polished up a "war-whoop" such as, he had said to himself,
would make the Japanese emperor scratch his head. It was a half-column
"drip" in the nature of a "Godspeed" to the first volunteer regiment to
start for the front. He liked the Twelfth, and had been in it himself
under Ralston. The thought had reminded him that he ought to give his
old captain a bit of a send-off as well, and he had penned a dozen lines
to be inserted after the other, and headed "A Wise Appointment," ending
his short paragraph with the words: "The nation is to be sincerely
congratulated on the wisdom of the Executive's selection."
Twenty-five stories below, the subject of his encomium was now entering
the side door of a shabby _café_, followed by his cabby. They seated
themselves at a table in the corner of the sawdust-covered floor.
"The situation is this," began Ralston, after the waiter had picked up
his tip and retired. "I must, inside of six hours, turn up a man who is
somewhere in the city. He doesn't know enough to want to be found. He
must be located without outside help--quietly. The only clew I have to
his whereabouts is that he knows a young woman named Florence Davenport.
She lives in that house we stopped at. She has gone out with a man named
Sullivan. I don't know the fellow, but the chances are he won't help me.
But whether he will or not, I don't know where he is, and I must find
him in order to find her."
He looked at the cabby inquiringly.
"I know him, all right," said the cabby. "A big 'harp' with a sandy
mustache. I know her, too. I took 'em both out this very night."
"Took them out!" exclaimed Ralston. "Why, in Heaven's name, didn't you
say so before!" Then he remembered and laughed at the absurdity of his
question. The fatigue of a severe day was dissipated in a moment.
"Sure," continued the cabby, "I took 'em out just before I answered your
call. She uses the same stable."
"Where did they go?"
"Proctor's."
"Where do you suppose they are now?"
"You can search me!" responded the cabby, now thoroughly interested.
"The chances are about even between Shanley's and the Martin, but you
tried Shanley's. Better hike right down to the other place."
Ralston started swiftly to his feet, made his way to the cab, and in a
moment more they were galloping down Broadway.
The electric timepiece on the roofs marked four minutes past one as
they rattled past. What people were still awake were most of them
inside the shining windows of the restaurants, and the big porters
were leaning sleepily against the doorposts of their hostelries. In
the cab Ralston wondered what the President would say if he could see
him then, chasing all over the town after a young woman and her male
escort. He was dreadfully sleepy, and the cushions of the cab were so
soft--soft--sof----
He pulled himself together as the cab reined up sharply at the
Twenty-sixth Street entrance of the Café Martin. His driver did not need
to be told to wait, and Ralston hurriedly pushed his way through the
revolving doors into the hot, scented air of the waiting hall. If it was
late on Broadway, it was early enough inside the Martin.
On the right, in a crowded _café_, two hundred soldier boys and
civilians with their sweethearts sat noisily discussing broiled
lobsters, Welsh rarebits, caviare sandwiches, and such less important
matters as were suggested by the last news from Washington. The air
reeked with the fumes of hot food, cigarette smoke, and steam heat. When
the side door opened, and the draught pulled through from the main
dining room, one caught a whiff of rice powder and violets. The chatter
and clatter were deafening.
To Ralston the chances seemed in favor of the other and more conspicuous
company in the front room, so he turned back and crossed the hall. At
the door of the main dining room he paused. At fully eighteen out of the
twenty-five tables which were presented to his view sat an equal number
of young women who might have qualified as Miss Florence Davenport.
There was more room here, the music was louder, and the men had on
either uniforms or evening dress. The confusion was even greater than in
the _café_, due to the greater amount of light and music and the
variation of color. Here and there at the larger tables sat groups of
officers, indulging in pompous patriotic toasts.
Ralston moved toward the center of the room, eagerly scanning the tables
in search of a blond man with a light mustache, but he saw none to
correspond with the cabby's description. Then from behind him he heard
his name called, and he turned to be greeted by a chorus of
congratulatory welcome from a party of his old comrades of the Twelfth,
who crowded around him, drew him into a chair and ordered more bottles.
Ralston protested but feebly. He was out of sorts with the whole
miserable business.
"Here's to you, old man!" exclaimed Peyton, one of Duer's lieutenants.
"Boys, here's to the next Secretary of the Navy, and then, who
knows--well, here's to Dick Ralston, the best ever--bumpers!"
"Fellows," answered Ralston, "it's very good of you. It's very good of
the President. I hope I'll do him credit, but the best any of us can do
is the right way as each of us sees it at the moment--and no one knows
where it may lead us. Here's to being on the level--here's to the right
way and the _white_ way!" He started to drink off the toast when a man's
head and shoulders arose behind Peyton, and a thick voice cried:
"That for mine! Th' White Way--th' Great White Way!" and he raised a
goblet and drained it. The men in the group laughed, and the laugh was
echoed from several of the tables. As the fellow stumbled back into his
seat Ralston realized suddenly that he had found his man. A red face and
a blond mustache! The elusive Sullivan at last!
For a moment our hero chatted animatedly with his friends, while taking
note of the position of the table at which the fellow sat. As yet he
could not see whether Sullivan had a companion, for the table was in a
recess and behind a stand of artificial palms. Then he leaned across the
shoulder of the man next him and caught sight of a gray silk dress and a
rose-trimmed hat. Who the lady was it was impossible for him to
discover, as her head was completely hidden by the paper foliage toward
which her companion was bending. They were, apparently, by no means near
the end of their supper, so that there was time to consider the
situation and to decide upon a course of action. But the situation
itself was a novel one to Ralston.
Now the mere accosting of a young lady in a public restaurant is not a
very serious matter, even if she be accompanied by a male escort, so
long as the matter be done decently and in order. But to suddenly burst
upon a _tête-à-tête_ couple from behind a bunch of palms, and demand
what has been done with a young man, especially if it be nearly three in
the morning, is somewhat different. One mistaken move, and the search
would have to be abandoned. How was he to introduce himself to a strange
woman and compel her to divulge information which she might have no
intention of disclosing, and how, moreover, could this be accomplished
in the presence of a person of the type of Mr. Sullivan? He had no claim
on either of them. Even assuming that the bounder did not object to his
having speech with the lady, it was unlikely that she would admit any
intimacy with Steadman in the presence of her companion. No, he must
speak to the girl by herself--that was clear enough. But how? Obviously,
he could not invite her escort to step out into the next room for a few
moments. Neither was it at all likely that she would accede to any
request of his (carried by a waiter) either to speak to him or to get
rid of her companion. Again he was, in the vernacular, "up against it"
as his cabby had suggested on a previous occasion.
Meantime the moments were slipping by, with Ralston trying hard to keep
up his end of the conversation. Ten minutes more, and he had determined
definitely that there was no course open but to trust to the girl
herself for a solution. All he could do was to throw his hand down, face
up, before her, and let her decide. In the event of his request being
ignored, he must face it boldly out with both of them.
Borrowing a pencil he wrote upon his visiting card: "Miss Davenport will
place the writer under the greatest possible obligation by allowing him
to speak to her privately upon a matter of the utmost importance. He is
in civilian dress at the next table." Underneath his name he wrote:
"Second Assistant Secretary of the Navy." Summoning the head waiter he
instructed the latter to carry it to the lady behind the palm in such a
manner that it should be unobserved by her companion.
He felt instantly relieved--the relief the rider feels the moment he has
decided to take the jump and his horse rises beneath him. He plunged
anew into the banter going on about him. He saw, out of the corner of
his eye, his messenger circle the room, approach the couple from the
other side, address Mr. Sullivan, call his attention to something behind
him, and slip the card into his companion's lap. Then the attendant
moved on.
Several moments passed. He began to feel that nothing had been
accomplished when there came a crash of glass, the palm rocked, and the
lady in some confusion sprang to her feet, shaking her dress. Her escort
arose more slowly, cursing the nearest waiters in a comprehensive
manner. The hubbub in the restaurant ceased momentarily, but quickly
began again as the manager and his aids hurried forward to offer their
assistance.
They had hard work to appease Mr. Sullivan, however. He wanted to see
the proprietor, and insisted loudly, although irrelevantly, that he was
an "American gentleman." The table was righted, and the head waiter
promised that a second supper should be instantly forthcoming, but
Sullivan remained in a state of defiance. He insisted on seeing "Monseer
Martin"--"my fren' Monseer Martin," and called loudly for a "garsoon" to
take him there.
Apparently the lady herself was indignant, and was not at all averse to
having her escort see his "fren' Monseer Martin." Then, with his head
high in air like a red harvest moon, the rampant Sullivan made his way
toward the main door of the dining room, followed by the apologetic and
deprecatory head waiter.
As the two passed out Ralston arose.
"Going?" inquired Peyton.
"Not very far. I'll be right back," replied our friend.
The others watched him curiously.
In a moment he was behind the palm, and had sunk into Sullivan's vacant
seat.
"How d'y do, Mr. Second Assistant Secretary of the Navy?" remarked the
young woman nonchalantly. "Glad to know you. Rather a noisy
introduction, eh?"
"I'm surprised you thought it worth while," answered Ralston. "Our
friend has probably polished off Martin by this time, and is already on
his way back. Then he'll be ready to polish off _me_!"
"I guess you're able to take care of yourself, all right," replied the
girl. "What is it you want?"
"I don't know that it's wise for me to tell you on this short
acquaintance."
"Short? Yes. I suppose it is. But, you see, I know _you_. And if I can
help Mr. Ralston, why I _will_."
"Thank you," said Ralston. The words sounded entirely _malapropos_ and
inadequate. "Tell me, then--tell me where to find John Steadman."
Instantly the girl's whole manner changed and she drew back.
"Steadman!" she exclaimed uneasily.
"Yes, Steadman! John Steadman. I must find him _to-night_!"
"You can't!" she cried in some agitation. "You can't. I've no business
to tell you even that, but you _can't_."
Ralston's face settled into a grim mask.
"I _will_!" he answered steadily. "And you're going to help me."
"I can't, Mr. Ralston. I can't. I don't know where he is."
Ralston's heart fell again.
"But you can _help_ me?" he asked.
"I can't. I swear I can't," she replied almost hysterically, and Ralston
could see that she was speaking the truth.
"Tell me," he said, "tell me, and I'll give you anything you ask--does
_Sullivan_ know?"
As he spoke the girl's face turned pale under the electric light. She
nodded her head slightly, while at the same moment a thick hand
descended on Ralston's shoulder and a heavy, wine-laden voice growled in
his ear:
"Whatcher doin' in my seat?"
Ralston sprang to his feet and shook off the hand.
"Whatcher doin' talkin' to this lady?" inquired the other, his eyes
blazing with anger. His voice rang loudly above the roar of
conversation.
"Miss Davenport is a friend of mine," replied Ralston as quietly as he
could.
"Frien' nothin'!" cried Sullivan. "I'll teach you to mind your own
business." He took a step backward and began to pull off his dinner
jacket.
"Don't, Jim!" cried the girl. "Don't! Please! Please don't!"
"Shut up!" snarled Sullivan. "I'll attend to you later!"
There was a great uproar in the restaurant. At the same instant Sullivan
led heavily at Ralston's head. Almost automatically, with every ounce of
his body at the end of an arm trained into a steel rod, Ralston ducked
and countered. His fist caught Sullivan squarely on the chin, and the
man went down and backward like a duck shot on the wing. His head struck
on a corner of the table, and he lay motionless.
The next instant Ralston was the center of an excited, jostling crowd.
Peyton had his arm around him and was whispering: "Get out quick, old
man. Awfully unfortunate. Get out while there's time."
"Some one ring for an ambulance!" shouted a civilian at a nearby table.
"Is there a doctor here?" inquired the head waiter mechanically,
hurrying toward the door.
Ralston's head reeled. The President's latest appointee mixed up in a
drunken brawl at a public hostelry! Worse than that, if possible, he
had, perhaps, killed the only man who knew where Steadman could be
found. It had all happened so quickly that he saw it like the scenes of
a vitagraph, with little twinkles of light glinting all about. Then a
girl's voice whispered in his ear:
"Get away! You mustn't be mixed up in this. Get away while you can!"
Somebody began to fling water in Sullivan's face and to rip off his
collar. The crowd forced itself almost upon the prostrate man. "Get
away," he heard Peyton repeating. "Don't be a fool! Think of the
Administration!"
Men were climbing upon tables to see what was going on. There was a
deafening hubbub from the main hall, into which the crowd from the other
room was pouring. Ralston was thinking as quickly as he could. He saw
his whole public career shattered by a single blow. He saw Ellen's
anxious face and heard her words: "Please find Steadman." He ground his
teeth. The only clew to Steadman lay like a log before him, struck down
by his own hand.
Some one in the back of the room shouted: "Send for the police--a man
has been shot!" and he heard the silly cry repeated in the outer
corridor. Less than half a minute had passed, but to Ralston it had
already seemed twenty, when he decided upon the only course Fate had
left open to him.
How he managed to do it he never really knew. Afterwards it appeared
absurdly impossible, but Peyton said that at the time it seemed
reasonable enough. There had been a moment when, in the confusion, the
crowd had blocked its own efforts to get closer, a moment when no one
apparently had known what to do, a moment which Ralston, in his
businesslike and rather autocratic fashion, had turned to his own
advantage.
A hurried whisper to Peyton, and with the help of one of their brother
officers they had raised Sullivan from the floor and, followed by the
girl, had carried him to the Fifth Avenue entrance. "Keep back the
crowd!" Peyton had cried to the head waiter. "We must give this man
air," and in a moment more they had staggered with Sullivan's limp form
to the ever-ready hansom, which had wheeled quickly to their assistance,
and shoved him in.
In another moment there had appeared around the corner of the building a
throng of men and women in evening dress, among whom were mingled
waiters, pedestrians, and cabmen.
"To the hospital!" cried Ralston, and pushing in the girl, sprang after
her himself. The cabman cut furiously at his horse, the bystanders
parted, and the hansom leaped forward like a chariot in a Roman
amphitheater, with Ralston, who had snatched the reins from above his
head, guiding the excited animal down Fifth Avenue.
A policeman made an ineffectual attempt to stop them at Twenty-third
Street, but quickly stepped aside to avoid being run down.
"Hully gee!" shouted the cabman inconsequently, "Hully gee!" while the
girl, staring abstractedly at the motionless face beside her, murmured
excitedly, "A clean get-away! A clean get-away!"