VII

They turned west at Eighth Street and crossed Sixth Avenue at a slow

trot. Ralston had surrendered the reins to the driver and was now

racking his brains for a solution of his extraordinary and sensational

predicament. The girl had taken Sullivan's motionless head into her lap.

"Where to, sir?" inquired the cabby through the manhole.

"I don't know," answered Ralston. "Lose us if you can, that's all. Lose

us so we won't be able to find our own way back."

They continued west, following narrow, dimly lit streets, under the

shadow of high warehouses. Sullivan had given as yet no sign of life and

the girl had not spoken since Twenty-third Street. The strain of the

situation began to tell.

"Well, what are we going to do now?" inquired Ralston with an attempt at

jocularity. The girl did not reply, and as he heard her sobbing softly a

pang of remorse touched him. What business had he to force this young

woman into being an accessory after the fact in what might be heralded

as a crime?

"Miss Davenport," he said, "I'm awfully sorry to have dragged you into

this. Indeed, I am. Let me drive you home. I'll look after Sullivan, and

if necessary take him to a hospital."

"And leave you to stick this out by yourself? Not on your life!" she

replied. "It's a bad mix-up, but we've got to pull it off somehow. But

first we've got to do something for Jim. Look, there's a drug store over

there and a night light."

"But that won't do," expostulated Ralston. "We never could explain to

the officer on post. We'll have to go somewhere else. You know about

these things. Where?"

"Yes, yes--I know."

"Well, quickly!"

The cabman was peering down through the manhole.

"Do you know Commerce Street?" asked the girl.

"Sure I do," said the cabby.

"Well, go to No. 589."

The cabman jerked around his horse. They were in Greenwich Village now,

and not far from the old New York Central freight depot. Trim little

brick houses with white portals and tiny eves lined the streets. Slender

lanes led away into black distances. The night was silent save for the

rush and roar of the elevated and the clack of their own horse's hoofs.

Not a window was agleam. In this respectable neighborhood folks went to

bed betimes, and got up early.

The cool night air soothed Ralston's nerves, but with it he felt limp

and tired. The excitement at the restaurant, the wild dash down Fifth

Avenue, the presence with them of a man who might perhaps be dead, the

fear of pursuit, the extraordinary situation in which he, a man of so

much recent prominence, found himself, the strange way in which this

girl had become a partner in his fortunes, dazed and bewildered him.

"He can't be dead," muttered Ralston. "He can't be dead!"

The cab turned into a little street lined with irregularly shaped

houses. A few gnarled and distorted trees, whose trunks burst out of the

concrete pavement, raised their dust-laden branches, prehensile and

unnatural, into the starlight. A hundred feet from where the street

began it turned sharply to the left, forming a right angle, and

debouched again into another thoroughfare. Had one of the ends of it

been closed it would have formed a natural _cul-de-sac_--an appendix to

one of the great canals of the city. And with curious impropriety the

city fathers had named this "accidental" Commerce Street, leaving it to

the imagination as to what sort of commerce had been intended. A rickety

gas lamp leaned dangerously toward a flight of high wooden steps in the

angle of the street. Strangely enough, when the street turned the house

turned, too, so that half its front faced north and half east. The

natural inference was that the inside of the house was shaped like a

piece of pie, with its partially bitten point abutting on the corner.

Ralston took charge of Sullivan and the girl sprang down and stepped

into the area. Somewhere at a great distance a bell rang once, and then,

more faintly, a second time. They waited in silence. On the main

thoroughfare beyond the gnarled trees a policeman slowly sauntered

across the street. At the top of one of the opposite houses a window was

raised cautiously and voices could be heard whispering. Again the bell

jangled loosely in the distance, then came the sound of iron bars

rattling and bolts being shot back. A grating creaked rustily.

"It's me--Floss. Let me in."

The girl ran back to the cab and a match flared in the grating. Ralston

thought he saw a wrinkled face behind the light.

"All right. Bring him in," said the girl.

Ralston and the cabman lifted the lank form of Sullivan to the sidewalk

and half carried, half dragged him into the area. At their feet lay a

small flight of steps upon which played a feeble light from the inside.

Down this they pulled the victim of Ralston's strange quest. A passage

opened before them, in the middle of which stood a tiny, wrinkled Jewish

woman, who watched them with snapping, restless eyes, like those of a

blackbird.

The girl pushed by them and, taking the candle from the woman, opened a

door leading to the right. The air was close and unwholesome. A bed with

only a mattress covering the springs stood in the corner, and upon this

Ralston and the cabman placed the still unconscious form of Mr.

Sullivan.

"That'll do for the present," said the girl. "Now you" (addressing the

cabman) "wait outside. If the cop asks what you are doin', you're

waiting for a fare in another house, see?"

The cabman retired, and the Jewish woman lit a kerosene lamp. The girl

disappeared and returned with a wet sponge and a bottle of ammonia. She

now opened Sullivan's shirt and sponged his face with perfect

confidence. Then she poured some ammonia upon the sponge and applied it

to his nostrils. Ralston, leaning over the bed, coughed in spite of

himself.

Sullivan opened his eyes a little; the girl removed the sponge and put

her head close to his face.

"He's breathing--he'll come round all right," she said. "He stays 'out'

an awful long time."

She gave him the ammonia again and the patient gasped audibly. Ralston

heaved a great sigh of relief. Although he had known himself to be

absolutely in the right he was aware that this body-snatching was, to

say the least, irregular. Had the fellow died it would have made a nasty

story for the papers. He sank back on a horsehair rocking chair and the

room grew black with little pricking stars. The next moment he felt the

sponge thrust in his face.

"You're almost out yourself, Mr. Ralston. I'll have a cup of coffee

ready for you in a minute. Lie down on the sofa."

Ralston indeed felt sick and faint, the lids of his eyes seemed like

lead, pulled down by invisible but powerful strings. The man was not

dead! But Steadman--he'd think of Steadman in a moment, after he had

rested his eyes a little----

He leaned back his head--and slept. A light touch on his forehead

awakened him half an hour later, and he opened his eyes upon a strange

picture. The room was stuffy and warm as ever. The lamp cast but an

uncertain light on the walls, which, he noticed, were quite bare of

ornament. Over the windows were heavy wooden shutters, bolted on the

inside. On the bed lay Sullivan, breathing heavily. The floor was

covered by a dirty rag carpet, and the only articles of furniture

besides the bed itself were a horsehair-covered lounge, a small table,

and two horsehair-covered chairs, and in the midst of these uncouth

surroundings stood a girl in shimmering evening dress, her white

shoulders shining in the lamplight, offering him a cup of hot and

fragrant coffee.

"You're a brick," said Ralston feebly.

The girl smiled.

"Kind of funny, ain't it? To think of you and me and him"--she pointed

over her shoulder--"being here. What a rumpus the police'll make when

they can't find him at any hospital. It's a queer mix-up, now, ain't

it?"

"I should say it _was_!" echoed Ralston. He gulped down the coffee. "Do

you live here?" he asked, sweeping the room again with his eyes. The

girl smiled.

"Not generally," she said.

"But this house--whose is it?"

The girl shrugged her shoulders.

"They've never been able to find out at the tax office," she said.

"You're a good girl," said Ralston inconsequently.

The smile on the girl's face changed. She started to speak. Then she

closed her eyes and covered them with her hands.

The figure in the bed gave vent to a long-drawn-out snort and tossed

heavily. The girl dabbed her eyes with her wrists and turned with an

anxious look.

"He's waking up," she whispered. "He'll be crazy when he sees you here."

"But I brought him here," said Ralston, "and it was his own fault.

Besides, he is going to find Steadman for me."

"Find Steadman for you?" she exclaimed.

"Why, certainly! Why not?"

The girl looked at him in amazement.

"And that's why you carried him off?"

"Yes--naturally--of course. What did you think?"

She gave a low laugh and clapped her hands softly together.

"And I thought all along it was just to get yourself out of the mess you

were in--to avoid the publicity and all. I didn't see your game. I

thought it was all up for you--and the best you could do was to get out

of having to go to court! But they can't count you out, can they? My,

you _have_ got a nerve!" she finished enthusiastically.

Ralston shrugged his shoulders.

"I assure you it wasn't as clearly thought out as all that. It was like

clutching at whatever was left. Sullivan's my only clew. How can I force

a statement from this fellow? What has he done? What hold can I get on

him?"

The girl looked at him half frightened yet full of admiration.

"Don't try it, Mr. Ralston," she whispered. "Give it up. You can't do

it. It's too late. Besides, Sullivan's a dangerous man--a man who stands

in with all the politicians--a bad fellow to threaten. He's done things

enough, God knows, to send him to jail a dozen times--but leave him

alone! You've done enough for Steadman. If you try to monkey with

Sullivan _anything_ might happen to you. You mightn't leave this house

alive. Get away before it's too late. You're probably due in Washington

about now. This night's work will blow over, and Steadman isn't worth

the powder to blow his brains out." She clasped her hands with a gesture

of entreaty.

"No," said Ralston. "I've begun, and I must finish the job. I mightn't

have gone into it if I had known what it was going to cost, but it's too

late to back out now. Besides, I've nothing to lose. I'm done for. This

'Martin' business would kill the Administration if I didn't resign. In

fact, the public need never know that I have accepted. Fancy! The police

looking for the Second Assistant Secretary of the Navy as a fugitive

from justice! Why, the papers will be full of it. But that doesn't help

me with Steadman. I've got to force this fellow here to give up. Tell me

something to use as a lever."

The man on the bed groaned loudly and elevated one knee high in the air.

The girl hesitated, evidently torn between various conflicting claims of

loyalty.

"Tell him," she whispered after a moment--"tell him you know all about

Shackleton and the Mercantile bonds. If that isn't enough, say you'll

hand him over for the Masterson deal--that'll fetch him, but be careful

and don't get him angry. He may not know where Steadman is, after all.

But I heard him say that the gang had almost finished trimming Steadman

and were going to finish him up to-night--at cards I think. They've

gotten almost every cent he has already----"

Sullivan gave a harsh cough and arose to a sitting position.

"Shackleton--Mercantile bonds--Masterson deal," murmured Ralston to

himself.

"Huh! That you, Floss?" grunted Sullivan. "What are we doin' here?

Where's the old woman?"

"Sh-h! It's all right, Jim," said the girl. "We made a clean get-away.

You came near running in the lot of us."

"Whatcher talking about?" mumbled Sullivan. "'Bout 'getaways'?" Then he

caught sight of Ralston. "Who's this feller?"

"All right, Mr. Sullivan, I'm a friend of yours," said Ralston quietly.

Sullivan looked fixedly at him for a moment without speaking.

"I've seen you before," he muttered. "Somewheres."

"Sure," said Ralston with a laugh. "You tried to do me up at 'The

Martin' not over an hour ago."

Sullivan glared at him.

"You that feller?"

"I am."

"Whatcher doin' here?"

"Same thing I was going to do at 'The Martin' if you'd given me the

chance--have a talk with you."

Sullivan looked puzzled and rubbed the back of his head. He had none of

the resplendency of his earlier appearance.

"Must ha' fallen an' hit my head," said he in an explanatory manner.

"Say, did anyone _club_ me?"

"No," said Ralston. "But you got a pretty rough deal."

"Say," repeated Sullivan, "how'd you come to bring me to the old

woman's?"

"I had to take you somewhere," said Ralston. There was a pause of

several seconds, during which Sullivan endeavored to readjust himself.

"What's yer name?" he inquired.

"Sackett," said Ralston.

"Sackett," repeated Sullivan. "I don't know Sackett. What's yer

business?"

"Oh, I'm a detective," answered Ralston lightly.

Sullivan started and clutched at the mattress.

"Detective!" he muttered. "What d'yer want?"

"I don't want anything," said Ralston. "I know quite a lot about you,

Mr. Sullivan, but it stays where it is. All I want is a little help."

"You go to hell!" growled Sullivan.

"No--no!" replied Ralston. "Not yet. I want you to tell me where I can

find Steadman. You see, his folks are anxious, and it's worth quite a

little to me to locate him. It needn't interfere with any of your

plans. Besides, I imagine you're about through with him, eh?"

The color returned to Sullivan's face and he snarled angrily.

"None of that to me, see? I am on to you, understand? You'd better get

out of here, while you're still able."

The girl, who had remained silent, now spoke again:

"Be careful, Jim; this man can make trouble for us."

Sullivan looked sharply at her, but evidently nothing about her

appearance or speech excited his suspicions.

"Mr. Sullivan," continued Ralston from his seat in the horsehair rocker,

"I don't mean you any harm. In fact, I can do you a good turn now and

then if you'll help me out. All I want is my coin for turning up this

chap Steadman. I know he's no good. He's anybody's money. He's nothing

to me. But it's all in my day's work. Now, don't think me disagreeable.

I want Steadman, you want--well, you don't want certain little incidents

of your career to get to the ears of the district attorney--the

Shackleton bonds, for example. Now, don't be alarmed. I haven't the

slightest intention of giving you away, but, come now, let's be on the

level with each other."

Sullivan cast an evil look at him.

"You think you've got something on me, eh? Prove it! What bonds did you

say?"

Ralston saw that he had nearly made a slip.

"Quite right," said he. "I said Shackleton bonds--I was _thinking_ of

Shackleton. Of course I meant the Mercantile bonds. But if you have any

doubt about my sincerity I might go into the Masterson matter----"

But Sullivan was on his feet, his eyes staring, and his face as pale as

it had been on the floor of "The Martin."

"For Heaven's sake!" he implored.

Ralston rose.

"Come! Come! Is it a bargain? You help me and I help you. Where is he?"

"I'll go with you," muttered Sullivan. "Where's my coat?" He looked

around anxiously. There was no doubt as to the effectiveness of the

reference to the Masterson case.

"Get me a coat," he ordered of the girl. Florence Davenport left the

room, leaving the two men facing one another--the criminal and the

gentleman. It would have been hard to say which looked the more haggard.

The light of the dim lamp made the rings around Ralston's eyes look like

huge horn-rimmed spectacles, and his mouth was drawn to a thin line.

Inside his head was beginning to sing and the corners of his lids to

twitch. He knew the symptoms. He was beginning to "fade out." But he was

getting warm now and he paid no heed to himself.

The girl returned, bringing in her arms a pile of new silk-lined black

overcoats. Ralston remembered the incident afterwards, but at the time

it did not impress him. It is doubtful whether he knew definitely the

meaning of the term--"a fence."

Mechanically he selected a coat to fit him and Sullivan did the same.

The Davenport girl put on the smallest.

"Gimme a hat," said Sullivan.

Again the girl departed and presently returned with an odd collection of

old felt hats of various styles. Now, fully arrayed, Sullivan felt his

way gingerly to the door. A pale gleam filtered through the grating. The

bolt was shot back and Ralston found himself in the fresh morning air.

A white, misty light filled the sky like a diaphanous, pulsating sheet.

If you looked for it it was gone, but as you watched the opposite houses

you knew it to be there. Night was struggling with the day, and the

cohorts of darkness were barely in the ascendant. The tang of the breeze

told the story, filtering in from the river. But the lamps showed

brighter than ever. On his box the cabman slumbered, while his steed did

likewise in cabhorse fashion.

Sullivan reached up and shook the man roughly. Across the end of the

street heavy vans were making their way eastward, filling the little

niche in which they stood with a deafening clatter.

"Drive up Broadway," ordered Sullivan.

The cabman removed his hat, ran his finger around the sweatband and

replaced it on his head.

"Hully gee!" he repeated reminiscently. Several yanks were required to

hoist the horse into a position appropriate to locomotion, and when

action was achieved the animal started as if walking on eggs. Sullivan

and Ralston took Miss Davenport in her black overcoat between them.

Ralston could not tell whether the sky above was white or blue.

Slowly they dragged out into Barrow Street and turned into Green Street.

Once or twice they passed a lonely pedestrian or a stray policeman. Soon

they saw the lights of the elevated structure at Jefferson Market and

caught the moving windows of the trains. A line of truck wagons was

moving slowly southward, the drivers sleeping, unmindful of their route.

Milk wagons jangling from Hudson Avenue added a livelier note. There was

a smell of morning everywhere.

Suddenly Ralston knew he saw white and not blue above the housetops.

The thought filled him with a nervous anxiety to lose no time, and he

pushed up the manhole and ordered the cabby to make haste.

"What do you think I am--a bloomin' steamboat?" inquired the cabby in

sleepy wrath.

They wheeled into Sixth Avenue and Ralston noticed that the surface cars

which passed already had some passengers. Men were standing in twos and

threes upon the street corners. Most of them were smoking clay pipes. He

wondered what manner of men went to work at this hour. They passed

Fourteenth Street and found many persons walking westward--at nightfall

they would plod back. It was a long, long way to go to work. No one had

spoken in the cab as yet.

"Funny how small the city seems at night," said the girl.

Although there was a germ of psychological truth in the remark, Ralston

could think of nothing in reply. He had often noticed the same

phenomenon. Of an afternoon, with Fifth Avenue crowded to the curbs, the

distance from his club to Forty-second Street appeared immense. By night

it seemed no more than a block or two. Now, as they rode northward in

the graying light, the distances which his mental cyclometer ticked off

seemed small and their pace inordinately slow.

Sullivan had maintained a consistent silence. The Masterson affair had

effectually put a quietus upon his belligerency. Ralston was overwhelmed

with sleep. There was a weight behind each of his eyeballs that seemed

forcing them downward and outward, and the humming in the back of his

head had returned. A faint odor of violets and rice powder emanated from

the overcoat beside him. Now and again the small head, with its piles

of brown hair and old slouch hat, would begin to incline gradually and

gently in his direction, only to be raised again when the brim of the

hat touched his shoulder. He leaned his own head in the corner and

closed his eyes.

Instantly a heavy curtain, warm, fragrant, deliciously soothing, seemed

drawn over him. He found himself talking to Ellen in Miss Evarts's

drawing-room. He felt again the elation of his appointment, the

gratefulness of appreciation. The man was painting in his name on the

blackboard--the man in the yellow-and-black sweater, and he heard the

crowd spelling it out and repeating it. Once again he experienced the

thrill it had occasioned him the night before. He realized anew the

extent to which his selection had brought him into the public eye--the

influence which the success or failure of his appointment would have

upon the Administration.

The President had been already severely criticised for giving important

places to comparatively young and untried men--men of the silk-stocking

class--and the President had but a doubtful hold upon the people.

Several canards had been started which, in the face of recent

socialistic propaganda, had made considerable headway. The yellow

journals were denouncing the war as imperialistic, as an excuse for an

ambitious executive to play the part of a Cæsar or a Napoleon. They

charged that he was surrounding himself with the rich and powerful, and

their sons. He was contrasted with Lincoln and Jefferson. In a word, the

Administration was in a ticklish position.

Then upon Ralston's wearied brain flashed the picture of his meeting

with Colonel Duer; the tawdry, tarnished environment of his search for

the worthless Steadman; his arrival at "The Martin" at two in the

morning; his open solicitation of a woman's acquaintance, and the

consequent free fight in which, so far as the onlookers knew, he might

have killed her companion; then, and most unpleasant of all, his flight,

bearing away his victim with him. How could he explain _that_? Why, the

thing must have been wired to every morning paper in the country. He

could see the headlines: