BOOK III

I

Four miles from town, where a white pike crosses a mud road, is Lulu

Corners. There is little at this cross-roads to inspire a name less

frivolous, nothing indeed but a weather-beaten store, where the people

of the neighborhood wait for the big yellow trolley-cars that sweep

across the country hourly, sounding their musical air-whistles over the

fields. Half a mile from the Corners two unmarried sisters, Bridget and

Margaret Flanagan, for twenty years had lived alone in a hovel that was

invaded by pigs and chickens and geese. Together, these aged women,

tall, bony and masculine, lived their graceless, squalid lives,

untouched by romance or tragedy, working their few acres and selling

their pork, and eggs and feathers in the city. The nearest dwelling was

a quarter of a mile away, and the neighbors were still farther removed

by prejudices, religious and social. Thus the old women were left to

themselves. The report was that they were misers, and the miserable

manner of their lives supported rather than belied this theory; there

was a romantic impression in a country-side that knew so little romance,

that a large amount of money was hidden somewhere about the ugly

premises.

On an evening in late October, Bridget Flanagan was getting supper. The

meal was meager, and when she had made it ready she placed a lamp on the

table and waited for Margaret, who had gone out to fasten the shanty in

which the barn-yard animals slept. Margaret came in presently, locked

the door, and the sisters sat down to their supper. They had just

crossed themselves and heaped their plates with potatoes, when they

heard a knock at the door.

"Who can that be, sister?" said Bridget, looking up.

"I wonder now!" said Margaret in a surprise that was almost an alarm.

The knocking was repeated.

"Mary help us!" said Bridget, again making the sign of the cross. "No

one ever came at this hour before."

The knocking sounded again, louder, more insistent.

"You go on to the door, sister," said Bridget, "and let them

in,--whoever they may be, I dunno."

Margaret went to the door, shot back the bolt, and pulled on the knob.

And then she turned and cast a look of terror at her sister. Some one

was holding the door on the other side. The strange resistance of this

late and unknown visitor, who but a moment before had wanted to come in,

appalled her. She pressed her knee against the door, and tried to lock

it again. But now the door held against her; she strained and pushed,

then turned and beckoned her sister with frightened eyes. Bridget came,

and the two women, throwing their weight against the door, tried to

close it; but the unknown, silent and determined one was holding it on

the other side. This strange conflict continued. Presently the two old

women glanced up; in the crack, between the door and the jamb, they saw

a club. Slowly, slowly, it made way against them, twisting, turning,

pushing, forcing its way into the room. They looked in awful

fascination. The club grew, presently a foot of it was in the room;

then a hand appeared, a man's hand, gripping the club. They watched;

presently a wrist with a leather strap around it; then slowly and by

degrees, a forearm, bare, enormous, hard as the club, corded with heavy

muscles and covered with a thick fell of black hair, came after it. Then

there was a final push, an oath, the door flew open, and two masked men

burst into the room.

Three hours later, Perkins, a farmer who lived a quarter of a mile away,

hearing an unusual sound in his front yard, took a lantern and went out.

In the grass heavy with dew, just inside his gate, he saw a woman's

body, and going to it, he shed the rays of his lantern into the face of

Bridget Flanagan. Her gray hair was matted, and her face was stained

with blood; her clothes were torn and covered with the mud through which

she had dragged herself along the roadside from her home. Perkins

called and his wife came to the door, holding a lamp above her head,

shading her eyes with her hand, afraid to go out. When he had borne

Bridget indoors, Perkins took his two sons, his lantern and his

shot-gun, and went across the fields to the Flanagans'. In the kitchen,

bound and gagged, Margaret lay quite dead, her head beaten in by a club.

The two old women must have fought desperately for their lives. The

robbers, for all their work, as Perkins learned when Bridget almost

miraculously recovered, had secured twenty-three silver dollars, which

the sisters had kept hidden in a tin can--the fatal fortune which rumor

had swelled to such a size.

Perkins roused the neighborhood, and all night long men were riding to

and fro between Lulu Corners and the city. A calm Sunday morning

followed, and then came the coroner, the reporters and the crowds.

While the bell of the little Methodist church a mile away on the Gilboa

Pike was ringing, Mark Bentley, the sheriff, dashed up behind a team of

lean horses, sweating and splashed with mud from their mad gallop.

Behind him came his deputies and the special deputies he had sworn in,

and, sitting in his buggy, holding his whip in a gloved hand, waving and

flourishing it like a baton, Bentley divided into posses the farmers who

had gathered with shot-guns, rifles, pitchforks, axes, clubs, anything,

placed a deputy at the head of each posse and sent them forth.

Detectives and policemen came, and all that Sunday mobs of angry men

were beating up the whole country for miles. Some were mounted, and

these flew down the roads, spreading the alarm, leaving women standing

horror-stricken in doorways with children whimpering in their skirts;

others went in buggies, others plodded on foot. And all day long crowds

of women and children pressed about the little house, peering into the

kitchen with morbid curiosity. The crowd swelled, then shrank, then

swelled again. The newspapers made the most of the tragedy, and under

head-lines of bold type, in black ink and in red, they told the story of

the crime with all the details the boyish imaginations of their

reporters could invent; they printed pictures of the shanty, and

diagrams of the kitchen, with crosses to indicate where Margaret had

fallen, where Bridget had been left for dead, where the table and the

stove had stood, where the door was; and by the time the world had begun

a new week, the whole city was in the same state of horror and fear, and

breathed the same rage and lust of vengeance that had fallen on Lulu

Corners.

II

Four days before the Sunday of the tragedy Archie Koerner finished his

year's imprisonment and passed from the prison within the walls to the

larger prison that awaited him in the world outside. The same day was

released another convict, a man aged at fifty, who had entered the

prison twenty years before. The judge who had sentenced him was a young

man, just elevated to the bench, and, intoxicated by the power that had

come to him so early in life, had read the words, "twenty years," in the

statute book, and, assuming as axiomatic that the words were the

atonement for the crime the man had committed, without thinking, had

pronounced these words aloud, and then written them in a large book.

From there a clerk copied them on to a blank form, sealed it with a gilt

seal, and, like the young judge, forgot the incident. The day the man

was released he could no longer remember what crime he had committed.

He was old and shattered, and had looked forward to freedom with terror.

Time and again he had asked his guard to report him, so that he might be

deprived of his good time and have the day of release postponed. The

guard, however, knowing that the man's mind was gone, had refused to do

this, and the man was forced out into the world. Having no family, no

friends and no home, he clung to Archie as to the last tie that bound

him to the only life he knew. Archie, of course, considered him an

incubus, but he pitied him, and when they had sold their railroad

tickets to a scalper, they beat their way back to the city on a

freight-train, Archie showing the old man how it was done.

At eleven o'clock on Friday morning they entered Danny Gibbs's saloon.

Archie was glad to find the place unchanged--the same whisky barrels

along the wall, the opium pipe above the bar, the old gray cat sleeping

in the sun. All was familiar, save the bartender, who, in fresh white

jacket, leaned against the bar, a newspaper spread before him, and

studied the form sheets that were published daily to instruct men how to

gamble on the races.

"Where's Dan?" asked Archie.

The bartender looked at him superciliously, and then concluded to say:

"He's not here."

"Not down yet, heh?" said Archie. "Do you know a certain party

called--" Archie glanced about cautiously and leaned over the bar,

"--called Curly?"

The bartender looked at him blankly.

"He's a friend of mine--it's all right. If he comes in, just tell him a

certain party was asking for him. Tell Dan, too. I've just got

home--just done my bit."

But even this distinction, all he had to show for his year in prison,

did not impress the bartender as Archie thought it should. He drew from

his waistcoat pocket a dollar bill, carefully smoothed it out, and

tossed it on to the bar.

"Give us a little drink. Here, Dad," he said to the old convict, "have

one." The old man grinned and approached the bar. "Never mind him,"

said Archie in a confidential undertone, "he's an old-timer."

The old convict had lost the middle finger of his right hand in a

machine in the prison years before, and now, in his imbecility, he

claimed the one compensation imaginable; he used this mutilation for the

entertainment of his fellows. If any one looked at him, he would spread

the fingers of his right hand over his face, the stub of the middle

finger held against his nose, his first and third fingers drawing down

the lower lids of his eyes until their whites showed, and then wiggle

his thumb and little finger and look, now gravely, now with a grin, into

the eyes of the observer. The old convict, across whose sodden brain

must have glimmered a vague notion that something was required of him,

was practising his one accomplishment, his silly gaze fixed on the

bartender.

When the bartender saw this his face set in a kind of superstitious

terror.

"Don't mind him," said Archie; "He's stir simple."

The bartender, as he set out the whisky, was reassured, not so much by

the patronage as by Archie's explanation that he had just come from

prison. He had been at Danny Gibbs's long enough to know that a man is

not to be judged solely by his clothes, and Archie, as a man reduced to

the extremity of the garb the state supplied, might still be of

importance in their world. While they were drinking, another man

entered the saloon, a short, heavy man, and, standing across the room,

looked, not at Archie and Dad, but at their reflections in the mirror

behind the bar. Archie, recognizing a trick of detectives, turned

slightly away. The man went out.

"Elbow, eh?" said Archie.

"Yep," said the bartender. "Cunningham."

"A new one on me. Kouka here yet?"

"Oh, yes."

"Flyin'?"

"Yep."

"Well," said Archie, "give 's another. I got a thirst in the big house

anyway--and these rum turns." He smiled an apology for his clothes.

They drank again; then Archie said:

"Tell Dan I was here."

"Who shall I say?" inquired the bartender.

"Dutch."

"Oh, yes! All right. He'll be down about one o'clock."

"All right. Come on, Dad," said Archie, and he went out, towing his

battered hulk of humanity behind him. At the corner he saw Cunningham

with another man, whom he recognized as Quinn. When they met, as was

inevitable, Quinn smiled and said:

"Hello, Archie! Back again?"

"Yes," said Archie. He would have kept on, but Quinn laid a hand on his

arm.

"Hold on a minute," he said.

"What's the rap?" asked Archie.

"Well, you'd better come down to the front office a minute."

Cunningham had seized the old man, and the two were taken to the Central

Police Station. They were charged with being "suspicious persons," and

spent the night in prison. The next morning, when they were arraigned

before Bostwick, the old man surprised every one by pleading guilty, and

Bostwick sentenced him to the workhouse for thirty days. But Archie

demanded a jury and asked that word be sent to his attorney.

"Your attorney!" sneered Bostwick, "and who's your attorney?"

"Mr. Marriott," said Archie.

The suggestion of a jury trial maddened Bostwick. He seemed, indeed, to

take it almost as a personal insult. He whispered with Quinn, and then

said:

"I'll give you till evening to get out of town--you hear?"

Archie, standing at attention in the old military way, said:

"Yes, sir."

"You've got to clear out; we don't want you around, you understand?"

"I understand, sir."

"All right," said Bostwick.

After Archie had bidden good-by to the old convict, who was relieved to

get back to prison again, and after he had been photographed for the

rogues' gallery--for his confinement and his torture had made him thin

and so changed his appearance and his figure that his Bertillon

measurements were even more worthless than ever--he was turned out.

Archie, thus officially ordered on, was afraid to go back to Gibbs's,

and when he went out of the Central Station that Saturday morning he

turned southward into the tenderloin. He thought it possible that he

might find Curly at some of the old haunts; at any rate, he might get

some word of him.

The morning was brilliant, the autumnal sun lay hot and comforting on

his back, and there was a friendliness in the hazy mellow air that was

like a welcome to Archie, the first the world had had for him. Though

man had cast him out, nature still owned him, and a kind of joy filled

his breast. This feeling was intensified by the friendly, familiar

faces of the low, decrepit buildings. Two blocks away, he was glad to

see the old sign of Cliff Decker's saloon, with the name painted on the

window in crude blue letters, and, pictured above it, a preposterous

glass of beer foaming like the sea. More familiar than ever, was old

man Pepper, the one-eyed, sitting on the doorstep as if it were summer,

his lame leg flung aside, as it were, on the walk before him, his square

wrinkled face presenting a horrid aspect, with its red and empty socket

scarcely less sinister than the remaining eye that swept three quarters

of the world in its fierce glance. On another step two doors away,

before a house of indulgence frequented only by white men, sat a mulatto

girl, in a clean white muslin dress, her kinky hair revealing a wide

part from its careful combing. The girl was showing her perfect teeth

in her laugh and playing with a white poodle that had a great bow of

pink ribbon at its neck. Across the street was Wing Tu's chop-suey

joint, deserted thus early in the day, suggesting oriental calm and

serenity.

On the other corner was Eva Clason's place, and thither Archie went. He

had some vague notion of finding Curly there, for it was Eva who, on

that morning, now more than a year ago, in some impotent, puny human

effort to stay the fate that had decreed him as the slayer of Benny

Moon, had tried to give Curly a refuge.

The place wore its morning quiet. The young bartender, with a stupid,

pimpled face, was moping sleepily at the end of the bar; at Archie's

step, he looked up. The step was heard also in the "parlor" behind the

bar, revealing through chenille portieres its cheap and gaudy rugs and

its coarse-grained oaken furniture, upholstered in plush of brilliant

reds and blues. One of the two girls who now appeared had yellow hair

and wore a skirt of solid pink gingham that came to her knees; her thin

legs wore open-work stockings, her feet bulged in high-heeled, much-worn

shoes. She wore a blouse of the same pink stuff, cut low, with a sailor

collar, baring her scrawny neck and the deep hollows behind her collar

bones. In her yellow fingers, with a slip of rice paper, she was

rolling a cigarette. The other girl, who wore a dress of the same

fashion, but of solid blue gingham, splotched here and there with

starch, was dark and buxom, and her low collar displayed the coarse skin

of full breasts and round, firm neck. The thin blonde came languidly,

pasting her cigarette with her tongue and lighting it; but the buxom

brunette came forward with a perfunctory smile of welcome.

"Where's Miss Clason?" Archie asked.

"She's gone out to Steve's," said the brunette. The thin girl sank into

a chair beside the portieres and smoked her cigarette. The brunette,

divining that there was no significance in Archie's visit, and feeling a

temporary self-respect, dismissed her professional smile and became

simple, natural and human.

"Did you want to see her?" she asked.

"Yes, I'm looking for a certain party."

"Who?"

"Well, you know him, maybe--they call him Curly; Jackson's his name."

The girl looked at Archie, exchanged glances with the bartender; and

then asked:

"You a friend o' hisn?"

"Yes, I just got home, and I must find him."

"Oh," said the girl, wholly satisfied. She turned to the bartender.

"Was Mr. Jackson in to-day, Lew? He's around, in and out, you know.

Comes in to use the telephone now and then."

Archie was relieved.

"Tell him Dutch was in, will you?" he said.

"Sure," replied the girl.

"Maybe he's in at Hunt's," said the thin girl, speaking for the first

time.

"I was going there," said Archie.

"I can run in and ask for you," said the brunette, in the kindly

willingness of the helpless to help others. "Or, hold on,--maybe Teddy

would know."

"Never mind," said Archie, "I'll go in to Hunt's myself."

"I'll tell Mr. Jackson when he comes in," said the brunette, going to

the door with Archie. "Who did you say?"--she looked up into Archie's

face with her feminine curiosity all alive.

"Dutch."

"Dutch who?"

"Oh, just Dutch," said Archie, smiling at her insistence. "He'll know."

"Oh, hell!" said the girl, "what's your name?"

Archie looked down into her brown eyes and smiled mockingly; then he

relented.

"Well, it's Archie Koerner. Ever hear of me before?"

The girl's black brows, which already met across her nose, thickened in

the effort to recall him.

"You're no more wiser than you was; are you, little one?" said Archie,

and walked away.

He had reserved Hunt's as a last resort, for there, in a saloon which

was a meeting place for yeggs, Hunt himself being an old yegg man who

had stolen enough to retire on, Archie was sure of a welcome and of a

refuge where he could hide from the police for a day, at least, or until

he could form some plan for the future.

Hunt was not in, but Archie found King's wife, Bertha Shanteaux, in the

back room. She was a woman of thirty-five, very fleshy, and it seemed

that she must crush the low lounge on which she sat, her legs far apart,

the calico wrapper she wore for comfort stretching between her knees.

She was smoking a cigar, and she breathed heavily with asthma, and, when

she welcomed Archie, she spoke in a voice so hoarse and of so deep a

bass that she might well have been taken for a man in woman's attire.

"Why, Dutch!" she said, taking her cigar from her lips in surprise.

"When did you get home?"

"Yesterday morning," said Archie. "I landed in with an old con, went up

to Dan's--then I got pinched, and this morning Bostwick gave me the

run."

"Who made the pinch?"

"Quinn and some new gendy."

"Suspicion?"

"Yes."

"Huh," said Bertha, beginning to pull at her cigar again.

"Where's John?"

"Oh, he went up town a while ago."

"Is Curly here?"

"Yes, he's around. Just got in the other day. What you goin' to do?"

"Oh, I'm waiting to see Curly. I've got to get to work and see if I

can't make a dollar or two. I want to frame in with some good tribe."

"Well, Curly hasn't been out for a while. He'll be glad to see you."

"Is Gus with him?"

"Oh, no. Gus got settled over in Illinois somewhere--didn't you hear?

The boys say he's in wrong. But wait! Curly'll show up after a while."

"Well, I'm hipped, and I don't want to get you in trouble, Mrs.

Shanteaux, but if Kouka gets a flash at me, it's all off."

"Oh, you plant here, my boy," she said in a motherly way, "till Curly

comes."

The tenderloin awoke earlier than usual that day, for it was Saturday,

and the farmers were in town. In the morning they would be busy in

Market Place, but by afternoon, their work done, their money in their

pockets, they would be free, and beginning at the cheap music halls,

they, especially the younger ones, would drift gradually down the line,

and by night they would be drinking and carousing in the dives.

Children, pale and hollow-eyed, coming with pitchers and tin buckets to

get beer for their awaking elders, seemed to be the first heralds of the

day; then a thin woman, clutching her dirty calico wrapper to her

shrunken breast, and trying to hide a bruised, blue and swollen eye

behind a shawl, came shuffling into the saloon in unbuttoned shoes, and

hoarsely asked for some gin. A little later another woman came in to

borrow enough oil to fill the lamp she carried without its chimney, and

immediately after, a man, ragged, dirty, stepping in old worn shoes as

soft as moccasins, flung himself down in a chair and fell into a stupor,

his bloodless lips but a shade darker than his yellow face, his jaws set

in the rigidity of the opium smoker. Archie looked at him suspiciously

and shot a questioning glance at Bertha.

"The long draw?" he said in a low tone, as she passed him to go to the

woman who had the lamp.

"Umph huh," said Bertha.

"I thought maybe he might be--"

"No," she said readily. "He's right--he's been hanging around for a

month.--Some oil?" she was saying to the woman. "Certainly, my dear."

She took the lamp.

"Where's your husband now?" she asked.

"Oh, he's gone," the woman said simply. "When the coppers put the

Silver Moon Cafe"--she pronounced it "kafe"--"out of business and he

lost his job slinging beer, he dug out."

Archie, beginning to fear the publicity of midday, had gone into the

back room again. Presently Bertha joined him.

"Thought it was up to me to plant back here," he said, explaining his

withdrawal. "There might be an elbow."

"Oh, no," said Bertha, in her hoarse voice, picking up the cigar she had

laid on a clock-shelf and resuming her smoking, "we're running under

protection now. That dope fiend in there showed up two months ago with

his woman. They had a room in at Eva's for a while, but they stunk up

the place so with their hops that she cleaned 'em out--she had to have

the room papered again, but she says you can still smell it. They left

about five hundred paper-back novels behind 'em. My God! they were

readers! Nothing but read and suck the bamboo all the time; they were

fiends both ways. One's 'bout as bad as the other, I guess."

She smoked her cigar and ruminated on this excessive love of

romanticistic literature.

"When Eva gave 'em the run," she went on later, "the coppers flopped the

moll--she got thirty-sixty, and Bostwick copped the pipe to give to a

friend, who wanted a ornament for his den. Since then her husband comes

in here now and then--and--why, hello there! Here's some one to see

you, Curly!"

Archie sprang to his feet to greet Curly, who, checking the nervous

impulse that always bore him so energetically onward, suddenly halted in

the doorway. The low-crowned felt hat he wore shaded his eyes; he wore

it, as always, a little to one side; his curls, in the mortification

they had caused him since the mates of his school-days had teased him

about them, were cropped closely; his cheeks were pink from the razor,

and Archie, looking at him, felt an obscure envy of that air of Curly's

which always attracted. Curly looked a moment, and then, with a smile,

strode across the room and took Archie's hand. Archie was embarrassed,

and his face, white with the prison pallor, flushed--he thought of his

clothes, quite as degrading as the hideous stripes he had exchanged for

them, and of his hair, a yellow stubble, from the shaving that had been

part of his punishment. But the grip in which Curly held his hand while

he wrung his greeting into it, made him glad, and Bertha, going out of

the room, left them alone. The strangeness there is in all meetings

after absence wore away. Curly sat there, his hat tilted back from his

brow, leaned forward, and said:

"Well, how are you, anyway? When did you land in?"

"Yesterday morning."

"Been out home yet?"

Archie's eyes fell.

"No," he said, his eyes fixed on the cigarette he had just rolled with

Curly's tobacco and paper. "I was pinched the minute I got here; Quinn

and some flatty--and I fed the crummers all last night in the boob. This

morning Bostwick give me orders."

"Well, you can't stay here," said Curly.

"No, I was waiting to see you. I've got to get to work. Got anything

now?"

"Well, Ted and me have a couple of marks--a jug and a p. o."

"Where?"

"Oh, out in the jungle--several of the tribes have filled it out."

"Well, I'm ready."

"Not now," Curly said, shaking his head; "the old stool-pigeon's

out--she's a mile high these nights."

A reminiscent smile passed lightly over Curly's face, and he flecked the

ash from his cigarette.

"Phillie Dave's out,"--and then he remembered that Archie had never

known the thief who had been proselyted by the police and been one of a

numerous company of such men to turn detective, and so had bequeathed

his name as a synonym for the moon. "But you never knew him, did you?"

"Who?"

"Dave--Phillie Dave we call him; he really belonged to the cat--he's

become a copper. He was before your time."

They chatted a little while, and as the noise in the bar-room increased,

Curly said:

"You can't hang out here. Those hoosiers are likely to start something

any minute--we'll have to lam."

"Where to?"

"We'll go over to old Sam Gray's."

They did not show themselves in the bar-room again. Some young smart

Alecks from the country were there, flushed with beer and showing off.

Curly and Archie left by a side door, walked hurriedly to the canal,

dodged along its edges to the river, then along the wharves to the long

bridge up stream, and over to the west side, and at four o'clock, after

a wide detour through quiet streets, they gained Sam Gray's at last.

Sam Gray kept a quiet saloon, with a few rooms upstairs for lodgers.

Gray was a member of a family noted in the under world; his brothers

kept similar places in other cities. His wife was a Rawson, a famous

family of thieves, at the head of which was old Scott Rawson, who owned

a farm and was then in hiding somewhere with an enormous reward hanging

over his head. Gray's wife was a sister of Rawson; and the sister, too,

of Nan Rawson, whom Snuffer Wilson had in mind when, on the scaffold, he

said, "Tell Nan good-by for me." And in these saloons, kept by the

Rawsons and the Grays, and at the Rawson farm, thieves in good standing

were always welcome; many a hunted man had found refuge there; the

Rawsons would have care of him, and nurse him back to health of the

wounds inflicted by official bullets.

When Curly and Archie entered, a man of sixty years with thick white

hair above a wide white brow, in shirt-sleeves, his waistcoat

unbuttoned, and his trousers girded tightly into the fat at his waist,

came out, treading softly in slippers.

"A friend of mine, Mr. Gray," said Curly. "He's right. He's just done

his bit; got home last night, and the bulls pinched him. He's got

orders and I'm going to take him out with me. But we can't go

yet--Phillie Dave's out."

The old man smiled vaguely at the mention of the old thief.

"All right," he said, taking Archie's hand.

Archie felt a glow of pride when Curly mentioned his having done his

bit; he was already conscious, now that he had a record, of improved

standing.

"Who's back there?" asked Curly, jerking his head toward a partition

from behind which voices came.

"A couple of the girls," said old Sam. "You know 'em, I guess."

The two women who sat at a table in the rear room looked up hastily when

the men appeared.

"Hello, Curly," they said, in surprise and relief.

They had passed thirty, were well dressed in street gowns, wore gloves,

and carried small shopping-bags. They had put their veils up over their

hats. Archie, thinking of his appearance, was more self-conscious than

ever, and his embarrassment did not diminish when one of the women,

after Curly had told them something of their plans, looked at the black

mark rubbed into Archie's neck by the prison clothes and said:

"You can't do nothin' in them stir clothes." Before he could reply, she

got up impulsively.

"Just wait here," she said. She was gone an hour. When she returned,

her cheeks were flushed, and with a smile she walked into the room with

a peculiar mincing gait that might have passed as some mode of fashion,

went to a corner, shook herself, and then, stepping aside, picked from

the floor a suit of clothes she had stolen in a store across the bridge

and carried in her skirts all the way back. Curly laughed, and the

other woman laughed, and they praised her, and then she said to Archie:

"Here, kid, these'll do. I don't know as they'll fit, but you can have

'em altered. They'll beat them stir rags, anyhow."

Archie tried to thank her, but she laughed his platitudes aside and

said:

"Come on, Sadie, we must get to work."

When they were away Archie looked at Curly in surprise. There were

things, evidently, he had not yet learned.

"The best lifter in the business," Curly said, but he added a

qualification that expressed a tardy loyalty, "except Jane."

Archie found he could wear the clothes, and he felt better when he had

them on.

"If I only had a rod now," he remarked. "I'll have to go out and boost

one, I guess."

"You can't show for a day," said Curly.

"I wish I had that gat of mine. I wouldn't mind doing time if I had

that to show for it!"

"I told you that gat would get you in trouble," said Curly, and then he

added peremptorily: "You'll stay here till to-morrow night; then you'll

go home and see your mother. Then you'll go to work."

They remained at Gray's all that Saturday night and all the following

day, spending the Sunday in reading such meager account of the murder of

the Flanagan sisters as the morning papers were able to get into extra

editions.

III

Sergeant Cragin, a short, red-haired Irishman with a snub nose that with

difficulty kept his steel-bowed spectacles before his small, rheumy

eyes, had just finished calling the roll of the night detail at the

Central Police Station when the superintendent of police, Michael

Cleary, unexpectedly appeared in the great drill hall. Cleary stood in

the doorway with Inspector McFee; his cap was drawn to his eyebrows,

revealing but a patch of his close-cut white hair; his cheeks were red

and freshly shaven, his small chin-whiskers newly trimmed. The velvet

collar and cuffs of his blue coat, as usual, were carefully brushed, the

diamonds on his big gold badge flashed in the dim, shifting light. The

men did not often see their chief; he appeared at the station but

seldom, spending most of his time, presumably, in his office at the City

Hall.

"Men," he said, "I want a word with you--about this Flanagan job. We've

got to get the murderers. They're somewhere in town right now. I want

you to keep a lookout; run in every suspicious character you see

to-night--no matter who he is--run him in. See what I mean? We're

going to have a cleaning up. I want you to pull every place that's open

after hours. I want you to pinch every crook and gun in town. See what

I mean? I won't stand for any nonsense! You fellows have been loafing

around now long enough; by God, if something isn't done before morning,

some of you'll lose your stars. You've heard me. You've got your

orders; now execute them. See what I mean?"

This proceeding was what Cleary called maintaining discipline on the

force, and, in delivering his harangue, he had worked himself into a

rage; his face was red, his cheeks puffed out. The line of policemen

shifted and shuffled; the red faces became still redder, deepening at

last to an angry blue.

Cleary, with their anger and resentment following him, left the drill

room, descended the stairs, and burst into the detective bureau. The

room, like all the rooms in the old building, was large, the ceiling

high, and in the shutters of the tall arched windows the dust of years

had settled; on the yellow walls were wire racks, in which were thrust

photographs of criminals, each card showing a full face, a profile, and

a number; there was little else, save some posters offering rewards for

fugitives.

The detectives who had been on duty all the day were preparing to leave;

those who were to be on duty that night were there; it was the hour when

the day force and the night force gathered for a moment, but this

evening the usual good nature, the rude joking and badinage were

missing; the men were morose and taciturn; in one corner Kouka and Quinn

were quarreling. When Cleary halted in the door, as if with some

difficulty he had brought himself to a stop, the detectives glanced up.

"Well," Cleary exploded, "that Flanagan job is twenty-four hours old,

and you fly cops haven't turned anything up yet. I want you to turn up

something. See what I mean? I want you to get busy, damn you, and get

busy right away. See what I mean?"

"But, Chief," one of the men began.

Cleary looked at him with an expression of unutterable scorn.

"G-e-t r-i-g-h-t!" he said, drawling out the words in the lowest

register of his harsh bass voice. "Get right! See what I mean? Come

to cases, you fellows; I want a show-down. You make some arrests before

morning or some of you'll quit flyin' and go back to wearin' the

clothes. See what I mean?"

He stood glowering a moment, then repeated all he had said, cursed them

all again, and left the room, swearing to himself.

Down-stairs, in the front office, the reporters were waiting. Cleary

stopped when he saw them, took off his cap, and wiped his forehead with

a large silk handkerchief.

"Do you care to give out anything, Chief, about the Flanagan job?" asked

one of the reporters timidly.

"No," said Cleary bluntly.

"Have you any clue?"

Cleary thought a moment.

"We'll have the men to-morrow."

The reporters stepped eagerly forward.

"Any details, Chief?"

"I'd be likely to give 'em to you fellows to print, wouldn't I?" said

Cleary sarcastically.

"But--"

"You heard what I said, didn't you? We'll have the men to-morrow. Roll

that up in your cigarette and smoke it. See what I mean?"

"Do you care to comment on what the _Post_ said this evening?" asked a

representative of that paper.

"What the hell do I care what your dirty, blackmailing sheet says? What

the hell do I care?"

Cleary left then, and a moment later they heard his heavy voice through

the open window, swearing at the horse as he drove away in his light

official wagon.

In truth, the police were wholly at sea. All day the newspapers had

been issuing extras giving new details, or repeating old details of the

crime. The hatred that had been loosened in the cottage of the Flanagan

sisters had, as it were, poured in black streams into the whole people,

and the newspapers had gathered up this stream, confined it, and then,

with demands for vengeance, poured it out again on the head of the

superintendent of police, and he, in turn, maddened and tortured by

criticism, had poured out this hatred on the men who were beneath him;

and now, at nightfall, they were going out into the dark city, maddened

and tormented themselves, ready to pour it on to any one they might

encounter. And it was this same hatred that had sickened the breasts of

Kouka and Quinn so that, after a friendship of years, they had

quarreled, and were quarreling even now up-stairs in the detectives'

office.

When he heard of the crime, Kouka realized that if he could discover the

murderers of Margaret Flanagan he might come into a notoriety that would

be the making of him. And he had wondered how he might achieve this.

He had visited Lulu Corners, and all day his mind had been at work,

incessantly revolving the subject; he had recalled all the criminals he

knew, trying to imagine which of them might have done the deed, trying

to decide on which of them he might fasten the crime. For his mind

worked like the minds of most policemen--the problem was not necessarily

to discover who had committed the crime, but who might have committed

it, and this night, with the criticism of the newspapers, and with the

abuse of the superintendent, he felt himself more and more driven to the

necessity of doing something in order to show that the police were

active. And when he heard from Quinn that he had arrested Archie

Koerner on Friday, and that Bostwick had ordered him out of the city, he

instantly suspected that it was Archie who had murdered Margaret

Flanagan. Quinn had laughed at the notion, but this only served to

convince Kouka and make him stubborn. The problem then was to find

Archie. When Inspector McFee made his details for that night, all with

special reference to the Flanagan murder, Kouka asked for a special

detail, intimating that he had some clue which he wished to follow

alone, and McFee, who was at his wits' end, was willing enough to let

Kouka follow his own leading.

The night detail tramped heavily down the dark halls and out into Market

Place; the detectives left the building and separated, stealing off in

different directions. An hour later, patrol wagons began to roll up to

the station; the tenderloin was in a turmoil; saloons, brothels and

dives were raided, the night was not half gone before the prison was

crowded with miserable men and women, charged with all sorts of crimes,

and, when no other charge could be imagined, with suspicion.

Meanwhile, Archie and Curly were trudging through dark side-streets and

friendly alleys on their way to Archie's home; for Archie had determined

to see his father and his mother once more before he left the city.

Archie was armed with a revolver he had procured from Gray.

IV

Kouka visited the tenderloin and learned that Archie had not left town.

He learned, too, that he had a companion, and though he could follow the

trail no farther, he had decided to watch Archie's home in the chance

that the boy might visit it some time during the night. And now, for

two hours, in the patience that was part of his stupidity, he had lurked

in the black doorway of the grocery. Bolt Street was dark and still.

Overhead, low clouds were flying; and the old stool-pigeon, coming later

and later each night, as if bad habits were growing on it, had not yet

appeared. Now and then, hearing footsteps, Kouka would shrink into the

darkest corner of the doorway; the steps would sound louder and louder

on the wooden sidewalk, some one would pass, and the steps would

gradually fade from his hearing. All this had a curious effect on

Kouka's mind. In some doubt at first, the waiting, the watching with

one object in view, more and more convinced him that he was right, and

in time the idea that Archie was the murderer he sought became

definitely fixed. The little house across the street gradually, through

the slowly moving hours, took on an aspect that confirmed Kouka's

theory; it seemed to be waiting for Archie's coming as expectantly as

the detective. During the first hour of his vigil, a shaft of yellow

light had streamed out of the kitchen window into the side yard, and

Kouka watched this light intently. Finally, at nine o'clock, it was

suddenly drawn in, as it were, and the house became dark. After this,

the house seemed to enshroud itself with some mysterious tragic

apprehension; and Kouka waited, stolidly, patiently, possessed by his

theory.

And then, it must have been after ten o'clock, Kouka, who had heard no

footsteps and no sound whatever, suddenly, across the street, saw two

figures. They stopped, opened the low gate, stepped on to the stoop and

knocked. Their summons was answered almost immediately; the door

opened, and, in the light that suddenly filled the door-frame, Kouka

recognized Archie Koerner; a woman, his mother, doubtless, stood just

inside; he heard her give a little cry, then Archie put out his arms and

bent toward her; then he went in, his companion following, and the door

was closed. In another moment the shaft of light shot out into the side

yard again.

Kouka was exultant, happy; he experienced an intense satisfaction;

already he realized something of the distinction that would be his the

next morning, when the little world he knew would hail him as the man

who, all alone, had brought the murderers of that poor old Flanagan

woman to the vengeance of the people's law.

And yet, he must be cautious; he knew what yeggs were; he knew how

readily they would shoot and how well, and he did not care to risk his

own body, and the chance of missing his prey besides, by engaging two

bad men alone. Bad men they were, to Kouka, and nothing else; they had

come suddenly to impersonate to him all the evil in the world, just as,

though unknown, they or some two men impersonated all evil to all the

people of the city and the county, whereas Kouka felt himself to be a

good man whose mission it was to crush this badness out of the world. He

must preserve himself, as must all good men, and he ran down the street,

opened a patrolmen's box, called up the precinct station, and gave the

alarm. Then he hurried back; the shaft of light was still streaming out

into the side yard, its rays, like some luminous vapor, flowing palpably

from the small window and slanting downward to be absorbed in the dark

earth.

He heard the roll of wheels, the urge of straining horses; the patrol

wagon stopped at the corner; he heard the harness rattle and one of the

horses blow softly through its delicate fluttering nostrils; a moment

later, the squad of policemen came out of the gloom; three of the men

were in civilian attire, the other six were in uniform.

Kouka received his little command with his big, heavy hand upraised for

silence. It was a fine moment for him; he felt the glow of authority;

he felt like an inspector; perhaps this night's work would make an

inspector of him; he had never had such an opportunity before. He must

evolve a plan, and he paused, scowled, as he felt a commander should

who, confronted by a crisis, was thinking. Presently he laid his plan

before them; it was profound, strategical. The officers in uniform were

to surround the house, but in a certain way; he explained this way.

Three of them were to go to the right and cover the ground from the

corner of the house to the shaft of light that streamed from the window,

the others were to extend themselves around the other way, coming as far

as the lighted window; then no one would be exposed.

"You'll go with me," said Kouka to the plain-clothes men. He said it

darkly, with a sinister eye, implying that their work was to be heavy

and dangerous.

"Don't shoot until I give the command."

They went across the street, bending low, almost crouching, stealing as

softly as they could in their great heavy boots, gripping their

revolvers nervously, filled with fear. Inside the gate, they surrounded

the house.

Kouka led the way, motioning the others behind him with his hand. He

stepped on to the low stoop, but stood at one side lest Archie shoot

through the door. He stood as a reconnoitering burglar stands at one

side of a window, out of range; cautiously he put forth his hand,

knocked, and hastily jerked his hand away ... He knocked twice, three

times ... After a while the door opened slowly, and Kouka saw Mrs.

Koerner standing within, holding a lamp. Kouka instantly pushed his

knee inside the door, and shouldered his way into the room. The three

officers followed, displaying their revolvers.

"It's all off," said Kouka. "The house is surrounded. Where is he?"

Mrs. Koerner did not speak; she could not. Her face was white, the lamp

shook in her hand; its yellow flame licked the rattling chimney, the

reek of the oil filled the room. Finally she got to the table and with

relief set the lamp down among the trinkets Archie had brought from the

Philippines.

"Aw come, old woman!" said Kouka, seizing her by the arm fiercely.

"Come, don't give us any of the bull con. Where is he?"

Kouka held to her arm; he shook her and swore. Mrs. Koerner swallowed,

managed to say something, but in German. And then instantly the four

officers, as if seized by some savage, irresistible impulse, began to

rummage and ransack the house. They tore about the little parlor,

entered the little bedroom that had been Gusta's; they looked

everywhere, in the most unlikely places, turning up mats, chairs,

pulling off the bed-clothes. Then they burst into the room behind.

Suddenly they halted and huddled in a group.

There, in the center of the room, stood old man Koerner, clad in his red

flannel underclothes, in which he must have slept. He had an air of

having just got out of bed; his white hair was tumbled, and he leaned on

one crutch, as if one crutch were all that was necessary in dishabille.

Below the stump of his amputated leg the red flannel leg of his drawers

was tied into a knot. He presented a grotesque appearance, like some

aged fiend. Under the white bush of his eyebrows, under his touseled

white hair, his eyes gleamed fiercely.

"Vat de hell ails you fellers?"

"We want Archie," said Kouka, "and, by God, we're going to have him,

dead or alive." He used the words of the advertised reward. "Where is

he?"

Kouka and the other officers glanced apprehensively about the room, as

if Archie and Curly might start out of some corner, or out of the floor,

but in the end their glances came always back to Koerner, standing there

in his red flannels, on one crutch and one leg, the red knot of the leg

of his drawers dangling between.

"You vant Archie, huh?" asked Koerner. "Dot's it, aind't it--Archie--my

poy Archie?"

"Yes, Archie, and we want him quick."

"Vat you want mit him, huh?"

"It's none of your business what we want with him," Kouka replied with

an oath. "Where is he? Hurry up!"

"You bin a detective, huh? Dot's it, a detective?"

"Yes."

"You got some bapers for him?"

"That's my business," said Kouka, advancing menacingly toward Koerner.

"You tell where he is or I'll run the whole family in. Here," he said

suddenly, a thought having occurred to him, "put 'em under arrest, both

of 'em!"

The old man shuffled backward, leaned against the table for support and

raised his crutch for protection.

"You better look oudt, Mis'er Detective," said Koerner. "You'd better

look oudt. Py Gott--"

Kouka stopped, considered, then changed his mind.

"Look here, Mr. Koerner," he said. "It's no use. We know Archie's here

and we want him."

"He's not here," suddenly spoke Mrs. Koerner beside him. "He's not

here!"

"The hell he ain't!" said Kouka. "I saw him come in--ten minutes ago.

Search the house, men." And the rummaging began again.

The men were about to enter the little room where Koerner slept: it was

dark in there and one of them took the lamp.

"Look oudt!" Koerner said suddenly. "Look oudt! You go in dere if you

vant to, but, py Gott, don't blame me if--"

The men suddenly halted and stepped back.

"Go on in!" commanded Kouka. "What do you want to stand there for? Are

you afraid?"

Then they went, ransacked that room, threw everything into disorder and

came out.

"No one there," they reported in relief.

They searched the whole house over again, and old man Koerner stood by

on one leg and his crutch, with a strange, amused smile on his yellow

face. At last, Kouka, lifting his black visage, looked at the ceiling,

sought some way as if to an upper story, found none, and then began to

swear again, cursing the old man and his wife. Finally he said to the

officers:

"He's been kidding us."

Then he called his men, dashed out of the house, and with a dark lantern

began seeking signs in the back yard. Near the rear fence he discovered

footprints in the soft earth; they climbed over and found other

footprints in the mud of the alley.

"Here they went!" cried Kouka.

V

Archie had stood for a moment in his mother's embrace; he had felt her

cheek against his; he had heard her voice again. He was forgetful of

everything--of Curly's presence, of all he had ever been made to suffer

by himself and by others. He knew that his mother's eyes were closed

and that tears were squeezing through the lids; he felt his own tears

coming, but it did not matter--in that moment he could cry without being

made ashamed. It was a supreme moment for him, a moment when all he had

been, all he had done, all he had not done, made no difference; no

questions now, no reproaches, no accusations, not even forgiveness, for

there was no need of forgiveness; a moment merely of love, an incredible

moment, working a miracle in which men would not believe, having lost

belief in Love. It was a moment that suffused his whole being with a

new, surging life, out of which--

But it was only a moment. Curly had turned away, effacing himself.

Presently he started, and cast about him that habitual backward glance;

he had heard a step. It was Koerner. The old man in his shirt-sleeves,

swinging heavily between his crutches, paused in the doorway, and then

seeing his boy, his face softened, and, balanced on his crutches, he

held out his arms and Archie strode toward him.

Curly waited another moment like the first, taking the chances, almost

cynically wondering how far he could brave this fate. It was still in

the little room. The words were few. The moment brought memories to him

as well,--but he could endure it no longer; the risk was enormous

already; they were losing time. For, just as they had entered the house,

in that habitual glance over the shoulder, Curly had seen the figure in

the dark doorway across the street--and he knew.

"Come on, Archie," he said.

Archie turned in surprise.

"It's all off," Curly said. "We're dogged."

"Why?"

"The bulls--"

"Where?"

"Across the street--an elbow."

"Him?"

"Yes."

"The hell!"

Curly glanced toward the back room. But Archie suddenly grew stubborn.

"No," he said. "Let's stick and slug."

"Don't be a chump," said Curly.

"We're heeled."

"Well, they'd settle you in a minute."

"They can't. We can bust the bulls."

"All right," said Curly. "Be the wise guy if you want to. I'll take it

on the lam for mine; they ain't going to bury me. Can I get out that

way?"

He brushed past them in the doorway, and called from the kitchen:

"Besides, you've got orders."

Then Archie remembered; he looked at his mother, at his father, glanced

about the little room, barren in the poverty that had entered the home,

hesitated, then turned and left them standing there. As he passed

through the kitchen he heard little Katie and little Jake breathing in

their sleep, and the sound tore his heart.

He was over the fence and in the alley just behind Curly. They ran for

a block, darted across a lighted street, then into the black alley

again. For several blocks they dashed along, getting on as fast as they

could. Then at length Archie, soft from his imprisonment, stopped in

the utter abandon of physical exhaustion and stood leaning against a

barn.

"God!" he said, "I hain't going another step! I'm all in!"

Curly had been leading the way in the tireless energy of the health his

out-of-door life gave him, but when Archie stopped, he paused and stood

attent, inclining his head and listening.

The night, almost half gone, was still; sounds that in the daytime and

in the earlier evening had been lost in the roar of the city became

distinct, trolley-cars sweeping along some distant street, the long and

lonesome whistles of railroad engines, now and then the ringing of a

bell; close by, the nocturnal movements of animals in the barns that

staggered grotesquely along the alley.

"It's all right," said Curly; "we've made a getaway."

He relaxed and slouched over to where Archie stood.

"Where are we, do you know?" he asked.

Archie thought. "That must be Fifteenth Street down there. Yes,

there's the gas house." He pointed to a dark mass looming in the night.

"And the canal--and yes, Maynard's lumber-yard's right beyond."

"How far from the spill?"

"About three blocks."

"Come on, we must get out on the main stem."

They went on, but in the security they felt at not being followed, they

ran no more, but paced rapidly along, side by side. They had not had

the time nor the breath for talk, but now suddenly, Archie, in a tone

that paid tribute to Curly's powers, expressed the subliminal surprise

he had had.

"How did you know the bulls was there?"

"I piked off the elbow just as we went in."

"I didn't see him," said Archie. "Where was he?"

"Right across the street, planted in a doorway."

"How do you suppose he'd spotted us?"

"Oh, he was layin' for you, that's all. He had it all framed up. He

thought he'd job you and swell himself."

"What do you think of that now!"

They reached the yard where the black shadows cast by the tall leaning

piles of lumber welcomed them like friends, and through this they

passed, coming out at length on the railroad. They reconnoitered. The

sky of the October night was overcast by thin clouds which, gray at

first, turned bright silver as they flew beneath the risen moon.

"The dog's out," said Curly, who had almost as many names for the moon

as a poet.

Before them the rails gleamed and glinted; over the yards myriads of

switch-lights glowed red and green, sinister and confusing. Not far

away a switch-engine stood, leisurely working the pump of its air-brake,

emitting steamy sighs, as if it were snatching a moment's rest from its

labors. On the damp and heavy air the voices of the engineer and

fireman were borne to them. At times other switch-engines slid up and

down the tracks. Curly and Archie sat down in the shadow of the lumber

and waited. After a while, down the rails a white light swung in an

arc, the resting switch-engine moved and began to make up a

freight-train.

"Now's our chance," said Curly.

The switch-engine went to and fro and up and down, whistling now and

then, ringing its bell constantly, drawing cars back and forth

interminably, pulling strings of them here and there, adding to and

taking from its train, stopping finally for a few minutes while a heavy

passenger-train swept by, its sleeping-cars all dark, rolling heavily,

mysteriously, their solid wheels clicking delicately over the joints of

the rails.

"I wish we were on that rattler," said Archie, with the longing a

departing train inspires, and more than the normal longing. Curly

laughed.

"The John O'Brien's good enough for us," he said.

The passenger-train, shrinking in size by swift perceptible degrees as

it lost itself in the darkness, soon was gone. The white lantern swung

again, and the switch-engine resumed its monotonous labors, confined to

the tedious limits of that yard, never allowed to go out into the larger

world. Gradually it worked the train it was patiently piecing together

over to the side of the yard where Archie and Curly waited. Then, at

last, watching their chance, they slipped out, found an open car, sprang

into it, slunk out of possible sight of conductor or switchman, and were

happy.

The car was bumped and buffeted up and down the yard for an hour; but

Archie and Curly within were laughing at having thus eluded the

officers. They sat against the wall of the car, their knees to their

chins, talking under cover of the noise the cars made. After a while

the engine whistled and the train moved.

When they awoke, the car was standing still and a gray light came

through the cracks of the door.

"I wonder where we are," said Archie, rubbing his eyes.

Curly got up, stretched, crept to the middle of the car and looked out.

Presently Archie heard him say:

"By God!"

He joined him. And there were the lumber piles. It was morning, the

city was awake, the grinding of its weary mills had begun. They were

just where they had been the night before.

"Marooned!" said Curly, and he laughed.

They decided, or Curly decided, that they must wait. Some of those

restless switch-engines would make up another train before long, and in

it they might leave the town, in which there was now no place of safety

for them. The morning was cold; the chill of the damp atmosphere

stiffened them. Just outside, in the lumber-yard, several men were

working, and the fugitives must not be seen by them, for they would be

as hostile as the whole world had suddenly become. They waited, but the

men did not leave. Their task seemed to be as endless as that of the

switch-engine. For a long while the railroad yards were strangely still.

Now and then Curly crept to the door and peeped out; the lumber-shovers

were not twenty feet away. The door on the opposite side of the car was

locked. Finally, they grew restless; they decided to go out anyhow.

"Hell!" said Archie. "There's nothing to it. Let's mope."

Something of Archie's recklessness and disregard of consequences

affected Curly.

"Well, all right," he said; "come on."

They went to the door of the car. And there, looking full in their

faces, was a switchman with a red, rough face and a stubble of reddish

beard. The switchman drew back with a curse to express his

astonishment, his surprise, the sudden fright that confused and angered

him.

"Come out o' that, you hobos," he called, stepping back. The men in the

lumber-yard heard his sudden cry, stopped and looked up. The switchman

cursed and called again.

Curly and Archie shrank into the darkness of the car. Archie had drawn

his revolver.

"Put it up," said Curly, with the anger of his disappointment.

They waited and listened; the switchman's voice was heard no more; he

must have gone away.

"He'll blow us to the railroad coppers. Now's our only chance!"

They went to the door, leaped out, bent their heads and ran. And

instantly, with the howl of the hunter, the men in the lumber-yard, not

knowing Archie or Curly or what they had done, or whether they had done

anything, left their work and ran after them, raising the old hue and

cry of English justice. Even the engines in the yards joined by

sounding sharp, angry blasts on their whistles, and behind the little

group that was rapidly becoming a mob, raced the switchman with two of

the railroad's detectives.

As swiftly as they could, in their stiffness and their hunger and their

cold, Archie and Curly ran down the long yards, over cinders and uneven

ties. They ran for a quarter of a mile and the yard narrowed, the

tracks began to converge, to unite, marking the beginning of the main

line. On either side rose the clayey banks, ahead there was a narrow

cut with an elevated crossing; near this was a switchman's shanty. Just

then something sang over their heads, a musical humming sound. They

knew the sound a bullet makes and dodged into the switchman's shanty,

slammed the door behind them, locked it and, a moment later, were at bay

with the mob. The crowd surged up to the very door, flung itself

against the shanty. Then Curly called:

"Stand back!"

The cry of the crowd was given in a lower, angrier tone; again it hurled

itself against the door, and the little shanty, painted in the yellow

and white of the railroad, rocked. Another shot pierced the shanty,

splintering the boards above their heads. Then Archie stepped to the

little window, thrust out his revolver. There was an angry cry outside,

then stillness; the crowd gave way, withdrew, and kept its distance.

"Don't push the rod!" Curly commanded. "What in hell ails you?"

"Oh, sin not leery! I'll plug 'em for keeps!"

Curly looked into Archie's white face.

"Are the bulls tailing on?" he asked.

"They're coming strong! Listen!"

"We'd better cave!" urged Curly.

"Like hell!" Archie replied. "They don't drop me without a muss now.

If you want to flunk--"

Curly's face flamed and his little eyes pierced Archie.

"Look out, young fellow!" he said, taking a sudden step toward him.

Archie looked at him with a sneer. Then Curly stopped.

"Look here, Dutch," he said. "Don't be a fool. We're--"

"I've told you what I'll do," said Archie, all the dogged stubbornness

of his nature aroused. Then Curly seemed to lose interest. Outside

they could hear the crowd again.

Half an hour passed. They heard the clang of a gong in the near-by

street.

"The pie wagon," said Curly.

Archie was quiet. There was a cheer, then a voice, deep, commanding and

official:

"Surrender in the name of the law!"

Curly looked a question at Archie.

"What ails you to-day?" asked Archie. "Lost your nerve?"

"I haven't lost my nut."

"We'll give you three minutes," said the voice, "then if you don't come

out, holding up your hands, we'll fire."

For what seemed a long time there was utter quiet, then bullets tore

through the pine boards of the little shanty and Archie sprang to the

window and fired. Curly was squatting on the floor. Archie fired again,

and again, and yet again.

"I've only got one left," he said, turning from the window.

"All right, then we'll cave."

Curly got up, went to the door, flung it open and held up his hands.

The mob cheered.

But Archie stayed. The officer called again, Curly called, the crowd

called; then the shooting began again. Presently Archie appeared in the

doorway and looked about with a white, defiant face. And there, before

him, a rod away, stood Kouka, revolver in hand. He saw Archie, his brow

wrinkled, and he smiled darkly.

[Illustration: Archie looked about with a white, defiant face]

"You might as well--" he began.

Archie looked at him an instant, slowly raised his revolver above his

head, lowered it in deliberate aim, fired, and Kouka fell to his knees,

toppled forward with a groan and collapsed in a heap on the ground,

dead.

The crowd was stricken still. Archie stood looking at Kouka, his eyes

burning, his face white, his smoking revolver lowered in his hand. A

smile came to his pale, tense lips. Then the crowd closed in on him;

the policemen, angry and ferocious, caught and pinioned him, began to

club him. The crowd pressed closer, growing savage, shaking fists at

him, trying to strike him. Suddenly some one began to call for a rope.

Then the policemen, so eager a moment before to wreak their own

vengeance on him, were now concerned for his safety. A sergeant gave a

command; they dragged Archie toward the patrol wagon. The crowd surged

that way, and Archie, bareheaded, his yellow hair disordered, his eyes

flashing, his white brow stained with blood, stared about on the

policemen and on the crowd with a look of hatred. Then he glanced back

to where some men were bending over Kouka, and he smiled again.

"Well, I croaked him all right," he said.

A patrolman struck him with a club; and he staggered as the blow fell

with a sharp crash on his head.

"Get on there!" said the sergeant, cursing him. He was thrown into the

patrol wagon beside Curly, and he sat there, white, with the blood

trickling in two streams from his forehead, his eyes flashing, and the

strange smile on his lips whenever he looked back where Kouka lay. The

patrol wagon dashed away.

VI

Marriott was sensible of a hostile atmosphere the moment he entered the

police station. The desk sergeant glanced at him with disapproval, kept

him waiting, finally consulted an inspector, blew savagely into a

speaking tube, and said:

"Here's a young lawyer to see Koerner."

The contemptuous description, the tone, the attitude, all expressed the

hatred the police had for Archie, a hatred that Marriott realized would

extend itself to him for taking sides with Archie. The turnkey, a thin

German with cheek-bones that seemed about to perforate his sallow skin,

a black mustache, and two black, glossy curls plastered on his low

forehead, likewise scowled and showed reluctance.

"How many damned lawyers," he said, taking a corn-cob pipe from his

mouth, "is that feller going to have, anyway?"

"Why," asked Marriott in a sudden hope that ignored the man's insolence,

"have there been others?"

"Humph!" said the turnkey, jangling his heavy keys. "Only about a

dozen."

"Well, I'll see him anyway."

Marriott had waited thus for Archie and for other men who had done

crimes; but never for one who had killed a man. He felt a new,

unpleasant sensation, a nervous apprehension, just a faint sickness, and

then--Archie came.

The boy stepped into the turnkey's room with a certain air of relief; he

straightened himself, stretched, and within the flannel undershirt that

showed his white, muscular neck to its base, his chest expanded as he

filled his lungs with the welcome air. He threw away his cigarette,

came forward and pressed Marriott's hand, strongly, with hearty

gratitude.

The turnkey led them to a dingy room, and locked them in a closet used

as a consulting cabinet by those few prisoners who could secure lawyers.

The gloom was almost as thick as the dust in the closet. Marriott

thought of all the tragedies the black hole had known; and wondered if

Archie had any such thoughts. He could not see Archie's face clearly,

but it seemed to be clouded by too many realities to be conscious of the

romantic or the tragic side of things. It was essential to talk in low

tones, for they knew that the turnkey was listening through the thin,

wooden partition. Marriott waited for Archie to begin.

"Well?" he said presently.

"Got a match, Mr. Marriott?" Archie asked.

Marriott drew out his silver match-box, and then looked at Archie's face

glowing red in the tiny flame of the light he made for his cigarette.

The action calmed and reassured Marriott Archie's face wore no unwonted

or tragic expression; if his experience had changed him, it had not as

yet set its mark on him. Marriott lighted a cigarette himself.

"I was afraid you wouldn't come," said Archie, dropping to the floor the

match he economically shared with Marriott, and then solicitously

pressing out its little embers with his foot.

"I got your message only this morning."

"Humph!" sneered Archie. "That's the way of them coppers. I asked 'em

to 'phone you the morning they made the pinch."

"Well, they didn't."

"No, they've got it in for me, Mr. Marriott; they'll job me if they can.

I was worried and 'fraid I'd have to take some other lawyer."

"They told me you had seen others."

"Oh, some of them guys was here tryin' to tout out a case; you know the

kind. Frisby and Pennell, some of them dead ones. I s'pose they were

lookin' for a little notoriety."

The unpleasant sensation Marriott felt at Archie's recognition of his

own notoriety was lost in the greater disgust that he had for the

lawyers who were so anxious to share that notoriety. He knew how Frisby

solicited such cases, how the poor and friendless prisoners eagerly

grasped at the hopes he could so shamelessly hold out to them, how their

friends and relatives mortgaged their homes, when they had them, or

their furniture, or their labor in the future, to pay the fees he

extorted. And he knew Pennell, the youth just out of law-school, who

had the gift of the gab, and was an incorrigible spouter, having had the

misfortune while in college to win a debate and to obtain a prize for

oratory. His boundless conceit and assurance made up for his utter lack

of knowledge of law, or of human nature, his utter lack of experience,

or of sympathy. He had no principles, either, but merely a determination

to get on in the world; he was ever for sale, and Marriott knew how his

charlatanism would win, how soon he would be among the successful of the

city.

"I tell you, Archie," he was saying, "I can't consent to represent you

if either of these fellows is in the case."

"Who? Them guys? Not much!" Archie puffed at his cigarette. "Not for

me. I'm up against the real thing this time." He gave a little

sardonic laugh.

It was difficult to discuss the case to any purpose in that little

closet with its dirt and darkness, and the repressing knowledge that

some one was straining to hear what they would say. Marriott watched

the spark of Archie's cigarette glow and fade and glow and fade again.

"We can't talk here," said Archie. "You pull off my hearing as soon as

possible, and get me out of here. When I get over to the pogey I'll

have a chance to turn around, and we can talk. Bring it on as soon's

you can, Mr. Marriott. Won't you? God! It's hell in that crum box,

and those drunks snoring and snorting and havin' the willies all night.

Can't you get it on to-morrow morning?"

"Can we be ready by then?"

"Oh, there's nothin' to it down here. We'll waive."

"We'll see," said Marriott, with the professional dislike of permitting

clients to dictate how their desperate affairs should be managed. "You

see I don't know the circumstances of the affair yet. All I know is

what I've read in the papers."

"Oh, well, to hell with them," said Archie. "Never mind what they say.

They're tryin' to stick me for that Flanagan job. You know, Mr.

Marriott, I didn't have nothin' to do with that, don't you?"

Archie leaned forward in an appeal that was irresistible, convincing.

"Yes, I know that."

"All right, I want you to know that. I ain't that kind, you know. But

Kouka--well, I got him, but I had to, Mr. Marriott; I had to. You see

that, don't you? He agitated me to it; he agitated me to it."

He repeated the word thus strangely employed a number of times, as if it

gave him relief and comfort.

"Yes, sir, he agitated me to it. I had to; that's all. It was a case of

self-defense."

Marriott was silent for a few moments. Then he asked:

"Have you talked to the police?"

Archie laughed.

"They give me the third degree, but--there was nothin' doin'."

Marriott was relieved to find that he did not have to face the usual

admission the police wring from their subjects, but Archie went on:

"Of course, that don't make no difference. They can frame up a

confession all right."

"They'd hardly do anything that desperate," said Marriott, though not

with the greatest assurance.

"Well," said Archie, "I wouldn't put it past 'em."

Marriott finished his cigarette in a reflective silence, dropped it to

the floor and imitated Archie in the care with which he extinguished it.

Then he sighed, straightened up and said:

"Well, Archie, let's get down to business; tell me the particulars."

And Archie narrated the events that led up to the tragedy.

"I wanted to see the old people--and the kids--and Gus." He was silent

then, and Marriott did not break the silence.

"Say, Mr. Marriott," the boy suddenly asked, "where is Gus?"

"I don't know."

"What's become of her? Do you know that?"

"N-no--," said Marriott. He felt that Archie was eying him shrewdly.

"You know," said Archie in the lowest tone, "I'm afraid, I've got a kind

of hunch--that she's--gone wrong."

Marriott feared his own silence, but he could not speak.

"Hell!" Archie exclaimed, in a tone that dismissed the question. "Well,

I wanted to go home, and I goes, Curly and me. Kouka followed; he

plants himself across the street, gets the harness bulls, and they goes

gunning. Curly, he sees him--Curly can see anything. We lammed. The

coppers misses us; and we gets on a freight-car. They cuts that car

out, and we stays in it all night. Damn it! Did you ever hear o' such

luck? Now did you, Mr. Marriott?"

Marriott owned that he had not.

"In the morning," Archie went on, "they lagged us and we ran--they began

to shoot, and--"

He stopped.

"Well," he said very quietly. "I had my rod, and barked at Kouka. I

got him."

Marriott wished that he could see Archie's face. It was not so dim in

there as it had been, or so it seemed to Marriott, for his eyes had

accommodated themselves to the gloom, but he could not read Archie's

expression. He waited for him to go on. He was intensely interested

now in the human side of the question; the legal side might wait. He

longed to put a dozen questions to Archie, but he dared not; he felt

that he could not profane this soul that had erred and gone astray, by

prying out its secrets; he was conscious only of a great pity. He

thought he might ask Archie if he had shot, aimed, intentionally; he

wished to know just what had been in the boy's heart at that moment:

then he had a great fear that Archie might tell him. But Archie was

speaking again.

"Say, Mr. Marriott," he said, "could you go out to my home and get me

some clothes? I want to make as good a front as I can when I go into

court."

"Your clothes seem pretty good; they look new. They gave them to you, I

suppose, at the penitentiary?"

Archie laughed.

"I'd look like a jay in them stir clothes," he said. "These--well, these

ain't mine," he added simply. "But get me a shirt, if you can, and a

collar and--a tie--a blue one. And say, if you can, get word to the

folks--tell 'em not to worry. And if you can find Gus, tell her to come

down. You know."

Marriott went out into the street, glad of the sunlight, the air, the

bustle of normal life. And yet, as he analyzed his sensations, he was

surprised to note that the whole affair had lacked the sense of tragedy

he had expected; it all seemed natural and commonplace enough. Archie

was the same boy he had known before. The murder was but an incident in

Archie's life, that was all, just as his own sins and follies and

mistakes were incidents that usually appeared to be necessary and

unavoidable--incidents he could always abundantly account for and

palliate and excuse and justify. Sometimes it seemed that even good

grew out of them. Sometimes! Yes, always, he felt, else were the

universe wrong. And after all--where was the difference between sins?

What made one greater than another? Wherein was the murder Archie had

done worse than the unkind word he, Gordon Marriott, had spoken that

morning? But Marriott put this phase of the question aside, and tried

to trace Archie's deed back to its first cause. As he did this, he

became fascinated with the speculation, and his heart beat fast as he

thought that if he could present the case to a jury in all its clarity

and truth--perhaps--perhaps--

VII

Archie did not have his hearing the next morning. The newspapers said

"the State" was not ready, which meant that Allen, the prosecutor, and

the police were not ready. Quinn and Allen had conferences. They felt

it to be their duty to have Archie put to death if possible, and they

were undecided as to which case would the better insure this result.

Allen found legal difficulties; there was a question whether or not the

murder of Kouka had been murder in the first degree. Hence he wished to

have Bridget Flanagan identify Archie.

Several days elapsed, and then one morning, Bentley, the sheriff,

brought Bridget Flanagan to the Central Police Station in a carriage.

Allen and Cleary and Quinn, with several officers and reporters, were

waiting to witness her confrontation of Archie.

The old woman was dressed in black; she wore a black shawl and a black

bonnet, but these had faded independently of each other, so that each

was now of its own dingy shade. The dress had a brown cast, the shawl a

tone of green, the bonnet was dusty and graying, and the black veil that

was tightly bound about her brow, like the band of a nun, had been

empurpled in the process of decay. She leaned heavily on Bentley,

tottering in her weakness, now and then lifting her arms with a wild,

nervous gesture. Bentley's huge, disproportionate bulk moved

uncertainly beside her, lurching this way and that, as if he feared to

step on her feet or her ancient gown, finding it difficult, at arm's

length, to support and guide her. But at last he got her to a chair.

At the edge of the purplish veil bound across the hairless brows, a

strip of adhesive plaster showed. The old woman wearily closed the eyes

that had gazed on the horrors of the tragedy; her mouth moved in senile

spasms. Now and then she mumbled little prayers that sounded like

oaths; and raised to her lips the little ball into which she had wadded

her handkerchief. And she sat there, her palsied head shaking

disparaging negatives. The police, the detectives, the prosecutor, the

reporters looked on. They said nothing for a long time.

Cleary, trying to speak with an exaggerated tenderness, finally said:

"Miss Flanagan, we hate to trouble you, but we won't keep you long. We

think we have the man who killed your dear sister--we'd like to have you

see him--"

The old woman started, tried to get up, sank back, made a strange noise

in her throat, pushed out her hands toward Cleary as if to repulse him

and his suggestion, then clasped her hands, wrung them, closed her eyes,

swayed to and fro in her chair and moaned, ejaculating the little

prayers that sounded like oaths. Cleary waited. Quinn brought a glass

of water. Presently the old woman grew calm again; after a while Cleary

renewed his suggestion. The old woman continued to moan. Cleary

whispered to two policemen and they left the room. The policemen were

gone what seemed a long time, but at last they appeared in the doorway,

and between them, looking expectantly about him, was Archie Koerner.

The policemen led him into the room, the group made way, they halted

before the old woman. Cleary advanced.

"Miss Flanagan," he said very gently, standing beside her, and bending

assiduously, "Miss Flanagan, will you please take a look now, and tell

us--if you ever saw this man before, if he is the man who--"

Wearily, slowly, the old woman raised her blue eyelids; and then she

shuddered, started, seemed to have a sudden access of strength, got to

her feet and cried out:

"Oh, my poor sister! my poor sister! You kilt her! You kilt her!"

Then she sank to her knees and collapsed on the floor. Bentley ran

across the room, brought a glass of water, and stood uncertainly,

awkwardly about, while the others bore the old woman to a couch,

stretched her out, threw up a window, began to fan her with newspapers,

with hats, anything. Some one took the water from the sheriff, pressed

the glass to the old woman's lips; it clicked against her teeth.

Then Cleary, Quinn, Bentley, the policemen, the detectives, the

reporters, looked at one another and smiled, Cleary bent over the old

woman.

"That's all, Miss Flanagan. You needn't worry any more. We're sorry we

had to trouble you, but the law, you know, and our duty--"

He repeated the words "law" and "duty" several times. Meanwhile Archie

stood there, between the two policemen. He looked about him, at the men

in the room, at the old woman stretched on the lounge; finally his gaze

fastened on Cleary, and his lips slowly curled in a sneer, and his face

hardened into an expression of utter scorn.

"Take him down!" shouted Cleary angrily.

The reporters rushed out. An hour later the extras were on the streets,

announcing the complete and positive identification of Archie Koerner by

Bridget Flanagan.

"The hardened prisoner," the reports said, "stood and sneered while the

old woman confronted him. The police have not known so desperate a

character in years."

VIII

Marriott had attended to all of Archie's commissions, save one--that of

telling Gusta to go to him. He had not done this because he did not know

where to find her. But Gusta went herself, just as she seemed to do

most things in life, because she could not help doing them, because

something impelled, forced her to do them,--some power that made sport

of her, using a dozen agencies, forces hereditary, economic, social,

moral, all sorts--driving her this way and that. She had read of the

murder, and then, with horror, of Archie's arrest. She did not know he

was out of prison until she heard that he was in prison again. She began

to calculate the time that had flowed by so swiftly, making such changes

in her life. Her first impulse was to go to him, but now she feared the

police. She recalled her former visits, that first Sunday at the

workhouse, on which she had thought herself so sad, whereas she had not

begun to learn what sorrow was. She recalled the day in the police

station a year before, and remembered the policeman who had held her arm

so suggestively. She read the newspapers eagerly, absorbed every

detail, her heart sinking lower than it had ever gone before. When she

read that Marriott was to defend Archie, she allowed herself to hope.

The next day she read an account of the identification of Archie by the

surviving Flanagan sister, and then, when hope was gone, she could

resist no longer the impulse to go to him.

She paused again at the door of the sergeant's room, her heart beating

painfully with the fear that showed itself in little white spots on each

side of her nostrils; then the timid parleying with the officers, the

delay, the suspicion, the opposition, the reluctance, until an officer

in uniform took her in charge, led her down the iron stairway to the

basement, and had the turnkey open the prison doors. Archie came to the

bars, and peered purblindly into the gloom. And Gusta went close now,

closer than she had ever gone before; the bars had no longer the old

meaning for her, they had no longer their old repulsion, and she looked

at Archie no more with the old feeling of reproach and moral

superiority. In fact, she judged no more; sin had healed her of such

faults as self-satisfaction and moral complacency; it had softened and

instructed her, and in its great kindness revealed to her her own

relation to all who sin, so that she came now with nothing but

compassion, sympathy and love. Tears were streaming down her cheeks.

"Oh, Archie!" she said. "Oh, Archie!"

Archie looked at her and at the officers. Gusta was oblivious; she put

her face to the greasy bars, and pressed her lips mutely between them.

Archie, who did not like to cry before an officer and before the other

prisoners, struggled hard. Then he kissed her, coldly.

"Oh, Archie, Archie!" was all she could say, putting all her anguish,

her distress, her sorrow, her impotent desire to help into the varying

inflections of her tone.

"Oh, Archie! Archie! _Archie!_"

She spoke his name this last time as if she must find relief by wringing

her whole soul into it. Then she stood, biting her lip as if to stop

its quivering. Archie, on his part, looked at her a moment, then at the

floor.

"Say you didn't do it, Archie."

"Do what?"

"You know--"

"You mean Kouka?"

"Oh, no," she said, impatient with the question.

"That Flanagan job?"

She nodded rapidly.

"Of course not; you ought to know that. Every one knows that--even the

coppers." His sentence ended with a sneer cast in the officer's

direction. And Gusta sighed.

"I'm so glad!" she said, her bosom rising and falling in relief. "They

all said--"

"Oh, that's just the frame-up," said Archie. "They'd job me for it

quick enough." He was sneering again at the officer, as incarnating the

whole police system, and his face was darkened by a look of all hatred

and malignity. The officer smiled calmly.

"I'm so glad," Gusta was smiling now. "But--" she began. Her lip

quivered; the tears started afresh. "What about the other?"

"That was self-defense; he agitated me to it. But don't let's talk

before that copper there--" He could not avert his look of hatred from

the officer, whose face was darkening, as he plucked nervously at his

mustache.

"He'd say anything--that's his business," Archie went on, unable to

restrain himself.

"Sh! Don't, Archie!" Gusta said. "Don't!"

Archie drew in full breaths, inflating his white chest. The officer

returned his look of hatred, his bronzed face had taken on a shade of

green; the two men struggled silently, then controlled themselves. Gusta

was trying again to choke down her sobs.

"How's father?" Archie asked, after a silence, striving for a

commonplace tone.

"He's well,--I guess."

"He knows, does he?"

"I--don't know."

"What! Why--can't you tell him? He could get down here, couldn't he?

He had a crutch when I was there."

She was silent, her head drooped, the flowers in her hat brushed the

bars at Archie's face. She thrust the toe of a patent-leather boot

between the bars at the bottom of the door. The tips of her gloved

fingers touched the bars lightly; there was a slight odor of perfume in

the entry-way.

"You see," she said, "I--I can't go out there--any more." Her tears

were falling on the cement floor, falling beside the iron bucket in

which was kept the water for the prisoners to drink.

"Oh!" said Archie coldly.

She looked up suddenly, read the meaning of his changed expression, and

then she pressed her face against the bars tightly, and cried out:

"Oh, Archie! Don't! Don't!"

He was hard with her.

"By God!" he said. "I don't know why _you_ should have--oh, hell!"

He whirled on his heel, as if he would go away.

She clung to the bars, pressing her face against them, trying, as it

were, to thrust her lips through them.

"Oh, Archie!" she said. "Archie! Don't do that--don't go that way!

Listen--listen--listen to your sister! I'm the same old Gus--honest,

honest, Archie! Listen! Look at me!"

He had thrust his hands into his pockets and walked to the end of the

corridor. He paused there a moment, then turned and came back.

"Say, Gus," he said, "I wish you'd go tell Mr. Marriott I want to see

him again. And say, if you go out to the house, see if you can't find

that shirt of mine with the white and pink stripes--you know. I guess

mother knows where it is. Do that now. And--"

"Time's up," said the officer. "I've got to go."

"And come down to-morrow, Gus," said Archie. She scarcely heard him as

she turned to go.

"Hold on!" he called, pressing his face to the bars. "Say! Gus! Come

here a minute."

She returned. She lifted her face, and he kissed her through the bars.

And she went away, with sobs that racked her whole form.

As she started out by the convenient side door into the alley, the

officer laid a hand on her shoulder.

"This way, young woman."

She looked at him a moment.

"You'd better go out the other door," he said.

She climbed the steps behind him, wondering why one door would not do as

well as another. She had always gone out that side door before. When

they were up-stairs, passing the sergeant's room, he touched her again.

"Hold on," he said.

"What do you want?" she asked in surprise,

"I guess you'd better stay here."

"Why?" she exclaimed. Her surprise had become a great fear. He made no

reply, and pushed her into the sergeant's room. Then he whistled into a

tube--some one answered. "Come down," he commanded. Presently a woman

appeared, a woman with gray hair, in a blue gingham gown something like

a nurse's uniform, with a metal badge on her full breast.

"Matron," said the officer, "take this girl in charge."

"Why! What do you mean?" Gusta exclaimed, her eyes wide, her lips

parted. "What do you mean? What have I done? What do you--am

I--_arrested_?"

"That's what they call it," said the officer.

"But what for?"

"You'll find out in time. Take her up-stairs, Matron."

Gusta looked at the officer, then at the matron. Her face was perfectly

white.

The matron drew near, put her arm about her, and said:

"Come with me."

Gusta swayed uncertainly, tottered, then dragged herself off, leaning

against the matron, walking as if in a daze.

IX

It had been months since Marriott had gone up those steps at the Wards',

and he mounted them that November evening with a regret at the loss of

the old footing, and an impatience with the events that had kept him

away. He had waited for some such excuse as Gusta's commission now gave

him, and the indignation he felt at the girl's arrest was not strong

enough to suppress his gratitude for the opportunity the injustice

opened to him. He was sure that Elizabeth knew he was to defend Archie;

she must know how sensitive he was to the criticism that was implied in

the tone with which the newspapers announced the fact. The newspapers,

indeed, had shown feeling that Archie should be represented at all.

They had published warnings against the law's delays, of which, they

said, there had already been too many in that county, forgetting how

they had celebrated the success and promptness, the industry and

enterprise of John Eades. They had spoken of Archie as if he were a

millionaire, about to evade and confound law and justice by the use of

money. Marriott told himself, bitterly, that Elizabeth's circle would

discuss the tragedy in this same tone, and speak of him with

disappointment and distrust; that was the attitude his own friends had

adopted; that was the way the lawyers and judges even had spoken to him

of it; he recalled how cold and disapproving Eades had been. This

recollection gave Marriott pause; would it not now be natural for

Elizabeth to take Eades's attitude? He shrank from the thought and

wished he had not come, but he was at the door and he had Gusta's

message--impossible as it seemed after all these thoughts had crossed

his mind.

She received him in her old manner, without any of the stiffness he had

feared the months might have made.

"Ah, Gordon," she said. "I'm so glad you came."

She led the way swiftly into the library. A little wood fire, against

the chill of the autumn evening, was blazing in the wide fireplace;

under the lamp on the broad table lay a book she must have put down a

moment before.

"What have you been reading? Oh, _Walden_!" And he turned to her with

the smile of their old comradeship in such things.

"I've been reading it again, yes," she said, "and I've wished to talk it

over again with you. So you see I'm glad you came."

"I came with a message from--"

"Oh!" The bright look faded from her eyes. "Well, I'm glad, then, that

some one sent you to me."

He saw his mistake, and grieved for it.

"I wanted to come," he stammered. "I've been intending to come,

Elizabeth, anyway, and--"

He felt he was only making the matter worse, and he hated himself for

his awkwardness.

"Well," she was saying, "sit down then, and tell me whom this fortunate

message is from."

She leaned back in her chair, rather grandly, he felt. He regretted the

touch of formality that was almost an irony in her speech. But he

thought it best to let it pass,--they could get back to the old footing

more quickly if they did it that way.

"You'd never guess," he said.

"I'll not try. Tell me."

"Gusta."

"Gusta!" Elizabeth leaned forward eagerly, and Marriott thought that he

had never before seen her so good to look upon; she was so virile, so

alive. He noted her gray eyes, bright with interest and surprise, her

brown hair, too soft to be confined in any conventional way, and worn as

ever with a characteristic independence that recognized without

succumbing to fashion. He fixed his eyes on her hands, white, strong,

full of character. And he bemoaned the loss of those months; why, he

wondered, had he been so absurd?

"Gusta!" she repeated. "Where did you see Gusta?"

"In prison."

"What! No! Oh, Gordon!" she started with the shock, and Marriott found

this attitude even more fascinating than the last; her various

expressions changing swiftly, responding with instant sensitiveness to

every new influence or suggestion, were all delightful.

"What for? Tell me! Why don't you tell me, Gordon? Why do you sit

there?"

Her eyes flashed a reproach at him--and he smiled. He was wholly at ease

now.

"For nothing. She's done nothing. She went to see Archie, and the

police, stupid and brutal as usual, detained her. That's all; they

placed the charge of suspicion against her to satisfy the law. The

law!"

He sneered out the word.

Elizabeth had fallen back in her chair with an expression of pain.

"Oh, Gordon!" she said with a shudder. "Isn't it horrible, horrible!"

"Horrible!" he echoed.

"That poor Koerner family! What can the fates be about? You know--you

know it all seems to come so near. Such things happen in the world, of

course, every day the newspapers, the dreadful newspapers, are filled

with them. But they never were real at all, because they never happened

to people I knew. But this comes so near. Just think. I've seen that

Archie Koerner, and he has spoken to me, and to think of him now, a

murderer! Will--they hang him?"

She leaned forward earnestly.

"No," he said slowly. "They may electrocute him though--to use their

barbarous word."

"And now Gusta's in prison!" Elizabeth went on, forgetting Archie. "But

her message! You haven't given me her message!"

Marriott waited a moment, perhaps in his inability to forego the

theatrical possibilities of the situation.

"She wants you--to come to her."

Elizabeth stared at him blankly.

"To come to her?"

"Yes."

"In prison?"

"Yes."

Her brows contracted, her eyes winked rapidly.

"But Gordon, how--how can I?"

"I don't know." He sat at his ease in the great chair, enjoying the

meaning, the whole significance of her predicament. He had already

appreciated its difficulties, its impossibilities, and he was prepared

now to wring from every one of them its last sensation. Elizabeth, with

her elbow on the arm of her chair, her laces falling away from her white

forearm, bit her lip delicately. She seemed to be looking at the toe of

her suede shoe.

"Poor little thing!" She spoke abstractedly, as if she were oblivious

to Marriott's presence. He was satisfied; it was good just then to sit,

merely, and look at her. "I must go to her." And then suddenly she

looked up and said in another tone:

"But how am I to do it, Gordon?"

He did not answer at once and she did not wait for a reply, but went on,

speaking rapidly, her eyes in a dark glow as her interest was

intensified.

"Isn't it a peculiar situation? I don't know how to deal with it. I

never was so placed before. You must see the difficulties, Gordon.

People, well, people don't go to such places, don't you know? I really

don't see how it is possible; it makes me shudder to think of it! Ugh!"

She shrugged her shoulders. "What shall you say to her, Gordon?" She

said this as if the problem were his, not hers, and showed a relief in

this transfer of the responsibility.

"I don't know yet," he said. "Whatever you tell me."

"But you must tell her something; you must make her understand. It

won't do for you to hurt the poor girl's feelings."

"Well, I'll just say that I delivered her message and that you wouldn't

come."

"Oh, Gordon! How could you be so cruel? You certainly would not be so

heartless as to say I _wouldn't_!"

"Well, then, that you _couldn't_."

"But she would want a reason, and she'd be entitled to one. What one

could you give her? You must think, Gordon, we must both think, and

decide on something that will help you out. What are you laughing at?"

"Why, Elizabeth," he said, "it isn't my predicament. It's your

predicament."

He leaned back in his chair comfortably, in an attitude of

irresponsibility.

"How can you sit there," Elizabeth said, "and leave it all to me?"

And then she laughed,--and was grave again.

"Of course," she said. "Well--I'm sure I can't solve it. Poor little

Gusta! She was so pretty and so good, and so--comfortable to have

around--don't you know? Really, we've never had a maid like her. She

was ideal. And now to think of her--in prison! Isn't it awful?"

Marriott sat with half-closed eyes and looked at her through the haze of

his lashes. The room was still; the fire burned slowly in the black

chimney; now and then the oil gurgled cozily in the lamp.

"What is a prison like, Gordon? Is it really such an awful place?"

Marriott thought of the miserable room in the women's quarters, with its

iron wainscoting, the narrow iron bed; the wooden table and chair, and

he contrasted it with this luxurious library of the Wards.

"Well," he said, turning rather lazily toward the fire, "it's nothing

like this."

"But,"--Elizabeth looked up suddenly with the eagerness of a new

idea,--"can't you get her out on bail--isn't that what it's called?

Can't you get some kind of document, some writ?--yes, that's it." She

spoke with pleasure because she had found a word with a legal sound.

"Get a writ. Surely you are a lawyer clever enough to get her out. I

always thought that any one could get out of prison if he had a good

lawyer. The papers all say so."

"You get in prison once and see," said Marriott.

"Mercy, I expect to be in prison next!" Elizabeth exclaimed. "Prisons!

We seem to have had nothing but prisons for a year or more. I don't

know what started it--first it was that poor Harry Graves, then Archie,

and now it's Gusta. And you talk of them and John Eades talks of

them--and I had to see them one night taking some prisoners to the

penitentiary. I'd never even thought of prisons before, but since then

I've thought of nothing else; I've lived in an atmosphere of prisons.

It's just like a new word, one you never heard before,--you see it some

day, and then you're constantly running across it. Don't you know? It's

the same way with history--I never knew who Pestalozzi was until the

other day; never had heard of him. But I saw his name in Emerson, then

looked him up--now everything I read mentions him. And oh! the memory

of those men they were taking to the penitentiary! I'll never escape

it! I see their faces always!"

"Were they such bad faces?"

"Oh, no! such poor, pale, pathetic faces! Just like a page from a

Russian novel!"

The memory brought pain to her eyes, and she suffered a moment. Then

she sat erect and folded her hands with determination.

"We might as well face it, Gordon, of course. I just can't go; you see

that, don't you? What shall we do?"

"You might try your Organized Charities." His eyes twinkled.

"Don't ever mention that to me," she commanded. "I never want to hear

the word. That's a page from my past that I'm ashamed of."

"Ashamed! Of the Organized Charities?"

"Oh, Gordon, I needn't tell you what a farce that is--you know it is

organized not to help the poor, but to help the rich to _forget_ the

poor, to keep the poor at a distance, where they can't reproach you and

prick your conscience. The Organized Charities is an institution for

the benefit of the unworthy rich." Her eyes showed her pleasure in her

epigram, and they both laughed. But the pleasure could not last long;

in another instant Elizabeth's hands fell to her lap, and she looked at

Marriott soberly. Then she said, with hopeless conviction:

"I just can't go, Gordon."

Before Marriott could reply there was a sense of interruption; he heard

doors softly open and close, the muffled and proper step of a maid, the

well-known sounds that told him that somewhere in the house a bell had

rung. In another moment he heard voices in the hall; a laugh of

familiarity, more steps,--and then Eades and Modderwell and Mrs. Ward

entered the room. Elizabeth cast at Marriott a quick glance of

disappointment and displeasure; his heart leaped, he wondered if it were

because of Eades's coming. Then he decided, against his will, that it

was because of Modderwell. A constraint came over him, he suddenly felt

it impossible that he should speak, he withdrew wholly within himself,

and sat with an air of detachment.