He had put forward this condition, perfectly sure that she would refuse
to accept it. He could not understand.
"You accept that condition?"
"Yes." Having gone thus far with her plot, Kitty would have died
rather than retreated; Irish temperament.
Thomas was moved to a burst of confidence. "I know that I am poor, and
to the best of my belief, honest. Moreover, perhaps I should be
compelled by the exigencies of circumstance to leave you after a few
months. I am not a rich man, masquerading for the sport of it; I am
really poor and grateful for any work. It is only fair that I should
tell you this much, that I am running away from no one. Beyond the
fact that I am the son of a very great but unknown scholar, a farmer of
mediocre talents who lost his farm because he dreamed of humanity
instead of cabbages, I have nothing to say." He said it gravely,
without pride or veiled hauteur.
"That is frank enough," replied Kitty, curiously stirred. "You will
not find us hard task-masters. Be here this afternoon at three. My
father will wish to talk to you. And be as frank with him as you have
been with me."
She smiled and nodded brightly, and turned away. He had a glimpse of a
tan shoe and a slim tan-silk ankle, which poised birdlike above the
high doorsill; and then she vanished into the black shadow of the
companionway. She afterward confessed to me that her sensation must
have been akin to that of a boy who had stolen an apple and beaten the
farmer in the race to the road.
We all make the mistake of searching for our drama, forgetting that it
arrives sooner or later, unsolicited.
Bewitched. Thomas should have been the happiest man alive, but the
devil had recruited him for his miserables. Her piquant face no longer
confronting and bewildering him, he saw this second net into which he
had permitted himself to be drawn. As if the first had not been
colossal enough! Where would it all end? Private secretary and two
hundred the month--forty pounds--this was a godsend. But to take her
orders day by day, to see her, to be near her. . . . Poverty-stricken
wretch that he was, he should have declined. Now he could not; being a
simple Englishman, he had given his word and meant to abide by it.
There was one glimmer of hope; her father. He was a practical merchant
and would not permit a man without a past (often worse than a man with
one) to enter his establishment.
Thomas was not in love with Kitty. (Indeed, this isn't a love story at
all.) Stewards, three days out, are not in the habit of falling in
love with their charges (Maundering and Drool notwithstanding). He was
afraid of her; she vaguely alarmed him; that was all.
For seven years he had dwelt in his "third floor back"; had breakfasted
and dined with two old maids, their scrawny niece, and a muscular young
stenographer who shouted militant suffrage and was not above throwing a
brickbat whenever the occasion arrived. There was a barmaid or two at
the pub where he lunched at noon; but chaff was the alpha and omega of
this acquaintance. Thus, Thomas knew little or nothing of the sex.
The women with whom he conversed, played the gallant, the hero, the
lover (we none of us fancy ourselves as rogues!) were those who peopled
his waking dreams. She was La Belle Isoude, Elaine, Beatrice,
Constance; it all depended upon what book he had previously been
reading. It is when we men are confronted with the living picture of
some one of our dreams of them that women cease to dwell in the
abstract and become issues, to be met with more or less trepidation.
Back among some of his idle dreams there had been a Kitty, blue-eyed,
black-haired, slender and elfish.
Kitty sat down in her chair. "Well," she said, "I have found him."
"Found whom?" asked Mrs. Crawford.
"The private secretary."
"What?" Killigrew swung his feet to the deck. "What the dickens have
you been doing now? Who is it?"
"Webb."
"The steward?"
"Yes."
"Well, if that . . ." began Killigrew belligerently.
"Dad, either mother and I act as we please, or you may attend to the
home-bureau yourself. Mother, it was agreed and understood that I
should select any employee we might happen to need."
"It was, my dear."
"Very good. I want some one who will attend to the affairs honestly
and painstakingly. There must be no idler about the house; and any
young man . . ."
"Wouldn't an old one do?" suggested Killigrew.
"Whose set ideas would clash constantly with ours. And any young man
we know would idle and look on the whole affair as a fine joke. I've
had a talk with Webb. He's not a university man, but he's educated. I
found him reading _Morte d'Arthur_."
"Ah!"--from Crawford.
"He became a steward because he could find nothing else to do at the
present time. He has been poor, and I dare say he has known the pinch
of poverty. You said only this morning, dad, that he was the most
attentive steward you had ever met on shipboard. Besides, there is a
case in point. Our butler was a steward before you engaged him, six
years ago."
Killigrew began to smile. "How much have you offered him as a salary?"
"Two hundred a month, to be paid out of the funds."
"Janet," said Crawford, "it's a good thing I'm married, or I'd apply
for the post myself."
"All right," agreed Killigrew; "a bargain's a bargain."
"A wager's a wager," thought Kitty.
"If you wake up some fine morning and find the funds gone . . ."
"Mother and I will attend to all checks, such as they are."
"Kitty, any day you say I'll take you into the firm as chief counsel.
But before I approve of your selection, I'd like to have a talk with
our friend Webb."
"He expects it. You are to see him on the main-deck at three this
afternoon."
"Molly, how long have we been married?"
"Thirty years, Daniel."
"How old is Kitty?"
"Mother!"
"Twenty-two," answered Mrs. Killigrew relentlessly.
"Well, I was going to say that I've learned more about the Killigrew
family in these four months of travel than in all those years together."
"Something more than ornaments," suggested Kitty dryly.
"Yes, indeed," replied her father amiably.
And when he returned to the boat-deck that afternoon for tea (which, by
the way, he never drank, being a thorough-going coffee merchant), he
said to Kitty: "You win on points. If Webb doesn't pan out, why, we
can discharge him. I'll take a chance at a man who isn't afraid to
look you squarely in the eyes."
At the precise time when Kitty retired and Thomas went aft for his good
night pipe--eleven o'clock at sea and nine in New York--Haggerty found
himself staring across the street at an old-fashioned house. Like the
fisherman who always returns to the spot where he lost the big one, the
detective felt himself drawn toward this particular dwelling. Crawford
did not live there any more; since his marriage he had converted it
into a private museum. It was filled with mummies and cartonnages,
ancient pottery and trinkets.
What a game it had been! A hundred thousand in precious gems, all
neatly packed away in the heels of Crawford's old shoes! And where was
that man Mason? Would he ever return? Oh, well; he, Haggerty, had got
his seven thousand in rewards; he was living now like a nabob up in the
Bronx. He had no real cause to regret Mason's advent or his escape.
Yet, deep in his heart burned the chagrin of defeat: his man had got
away, and half the game (if you're a true hunter) was in putting your
hand on a man's shoulder and telling him to "Come along."
He crossed the street and entered the, alley and gazed up at the
fire-escape down which Mason had made his escape. What impelled the
detective to leap up and catch the lower bars of the ground-ladder he
could not have told you. He pulled himself up and climbed to the
window.
Open!
Haggerty had nerves like steel wires, but a slight shiver ran down his
spine. Open, and Crawford yet on the high seas. He waited, listening
intently. Not a sound of any sort came to his ears. He stepped inside
courageously and slipped with his back to the wall, where he waited,
holding his breath.
Click! It seemed to come from his right.
"Come out o' that!" he snarled. "No monkey-business, or I'll shoot."
He flashed his pocket-lamp toward the sound, and aimed.
A blow on the side of the head sent the detective crashing against a
cartonnage, and together the quick and the dead rolled to the floor.
Instinctively Haggerty turned on his back, aimed at the window and
fired.
Too late!