"Here, you!" The detective seized his arm as he attempted to pa.s.s; the young man wheeled and flung him aside, and the next instant reeled back as the detective struck him again with his billy, knocking him halfway into the street.

"You d.a.m.ned dead-beat!" he panted, "I'll show you!"

The young man stood swaying, his hands against his head; porters, cabmen, and the detective saw him stagger and fall heavily. And the next moment the girl was kneeling beside him.

"Let him alone, lady," said somebody. "That b.u.m isn't hurt."

The "b.u.m," in fact, was getting to his feet, groping for some support; and the girl's arm was offered and he leaned on it a moment, clearing his eyes with a gloved hand. Suddenly he made a movement so quick that she never understood how she wrenched the short, dull-blue weapon from his hand.

"Pick up your hat!" she gasped. "Do what I tell you!"

He looked at her, dazed, then the blood blotted his dark eyes again. She stooped swiftly, caught up his hat, and, holding tightly to his arm, opened the other door of the taxicab.

"They'll kill you here," she whispered. "Come with me. I've got to talk to you!"

"Lady--are you crazy?" demanded the tall head-porter, aghast.

But she had got him into the cab. "Drive on," she said through clenched teeth. And the chauffeur laughed and started east.

In the swaying cab the man beside her sat bent over, his face in his hands, blood striping the fingers of his gloves. With a shudder she placed the automatic weapon on the cushion beside her and shrank back, staring at him.

But his senses seemed to be returning, for presently he sat up, found his handkerchief, staunched the rather insignificant abrasion, and settled back into his corner. Without looking at her he said: "Would you mind if I thank you? You have been very kind."

She could not utter a word.

Presently he turned; and as he looked at her for the first time a faint flicker of humour seemed to touch his eyes.

"Where are we going--if you don't mind?" he said pleasantly.

Then the breathless words came, haltingly.

"I've got to tell you something; I've got to! I can't stand aside--I can't pa.s.s by on the other side!"

"Thank you," he said, smiling, "but Lazarus is all right now."

"I mean--something else!" Her voice fell to a whisper. "I must speak!"

He looked pleasantly perplexed, smiling.

"Is there anything--except a broken head--that could possibly permit me the opportunity of listening to you?"

"I--have seen you before."

"And I you."

She leaned against her window, head resting on her hand, her heart a chaos.

"Where are you going when--when I leave you?" she said.

He did not answer.

"Where?" She turned to look at him. "Are you going back to that hotel?" And, as he made no reply: "Do you wish to become a murderer, too?" she said tremulously. "I have your pistol. I ask you not to go back there."

After a moment he said: "No, I won't go back... . Where is the pistol?"

"You shall not have it."

"I think perhaps it would be safer with me."

"No!"

"Very well."

"And--I--I ask you to keep away from that man!" She grew unconsciously dramatic. "I ask you--if you have any memory which you hold sacred--to promise me on that memory not to--to----"

"I won't shoot him," he said, watching her curiously. "Is that what you mean?"

"Y-yes."

"Then I promise--on my most sacred memory--the memory of a young girl who saved me from committing--what I meant to do... . And I thank her very deeply."

She said: "I did save you from--that!"

"You did--G.o.d knows." He himself was trembling a little; his face had turned very white.

"Then--then----" she forced her courage--lifted her frightened eyes, braving mockery and misconstruction--"then--is there a chance of my--helping you--further?"

For a moment her flushed face and timid question perplexed him; then the quick blood reddened his face, and he stared at her in silence.

"I--I can't help it," she faltered. "I believe in you--and in--salvation... . Please don't say anything to--hurt me."

"No," he said, still staring, "no, of course not. And--and thank you. You are very kind... . You are very kind... . I suppose you heard somebody say--what I am."

"Yes... . But that was long ago."

"Oh, you knew--you have known--for some time?"

"Yes."

He sat thinking for a while.

Presently they both noticed that the cab had stopped--had probably been standing for some time in front of the station; and that several red-capped porters were watching them.

"My name is Lily Hollis," she said, "and I live at Whitebrook Farm, Westchester... . I am not coming to New York again--and never again to that hotel... . But I would like to talk to you--a little."

He thought a moment.

"Do you want a gambler to call on you, Miss Hollis?"

"Yes," she said.

"Then he will do it. When?"

"To-morrow."

He pa.s.sed his hand over his marred young face.

"Yes," he said quietly, "to-morrow."

He looked up and met her eyes, smiled, opened the door, and stepped to the sidewalk. Then he went with her to her train. She turned at the gates and held out her hand to him; and, hat in hand, he bent his battered head and touched her gloves with twitching lips.

"To-morrow?"

"Certainly."

She said, wistfully: "May I trust in you?"

"Yes. Tell me that you trust me."

"I trust you," she said; and laid the pistol in his hands.

His face altered subtly. "I did not mean in that way," he said.

"How could I trust you more?"

"With--yourself."

"That is a--lesser trust," she said faintly. "It is for you that I have been afraid."

He saw the colour deepen in her cheeks, looked, bit his lip in silence.

"To-morrow?" she said under her breath.

"Yes."

"Good-bye till then."

"Good-bye."

[Ill.u.s.tration]

[Ill.u.s.tration]

XXVI.

THE next day he didn't appear, but a letter did.

"I merely lied to you," he wrote. "All gamblers are liars. You should have pa.s.sed by on the other side."

Yes, that is what she should have done; she realised it now alone there in the sunny parlour with his letter.

There was no chance for him; or, if there was, she had not been chosen as the instrument of his salvation.

Slowly she turned her head and looked around her at her preparations--the pitiful little preparations for him--the childish stage setting for the scene of his salvation.

The spotless parlour had been re-dusted, cleaned, rubbed to its old-time polish. Bible and prayer-book on the mahogany centre-table had been arranged and re-arranged so many times that she no longer knew whether or not her art concealed art, and was innocently fearful that he might suspect the mise-en-scene and fight shy of her preparations for his regeneration.

Again and again she had re-arranged the flowers and books and rumpled the un-read morning newspaper to give to the scene a careless and casual every-day allure; again and again she had straightened the rugs, then tried them in less symmetrical fashion. She let the kitten in to give a more home-like air to the room, but it squalled to go out, and she had to release it.

Also, from the best spare room she had brought Holman Hunt's "Shadow of the Cross"--and it had taxed her slender strength to hang it in place of the old French mezzotint of Bacchus and Ariadne.

But the most difficult task was to disseminate among the stiff pieces of furniture and the four duplicate sofa cushions an atmosphere of pleasant and casual disorder--as though guests had left them where they were--as though the rigid chairs were accustomed to much and intimate usage.

But the effect troubled her; every formal bit of furniture seemed to be arranged as for an ambuscade; the cushions on the carved sofa sat in a row, like dwarfs waiting; the secretary watched, every diamond pane a glittering eye. And on the wall the four portraits of her parents and grand-parents were behaving strangely, for she seemed never to be out of range of their unwinking painted eyes.

From other rooms she had brought in ornaments, books, little odds and ends--and the unaccustomed concentration of household G.o.ds caused her much doubt and uncertainty, so fearful was she that his wise dark eyes might smilingly detect her effort.

There had been much to do in the short time pending his arrival--the gravel path to be raked, the lawn to be rolled and cut, the carefully weeded flower beds to be searched for the tiniest spear of green which did not belong there, the veranda to be swept again, and all the potted plants to be re-arranged and the dead leaves and blossoms to be removed.

Then there were great sheafs of iris to gather; and that, and the cutting of peonies and June roses, were matters to go about with thought and discretion, so that no unsightly s.p.a.ces in bloom and foliage should be apparent to those dark, wise eyes of his that had looked on so many things in life--so many, many things of which she knew nothing.

Also she was to offer him tea; and the baking of old-fashioned biscuits and sweets was a matter for prayerful consideration. And Hetty, the hired girl, had spent all the morning on her grand-mother's silver, and William Pillsbury, executor of ch.o.r.es, had washed the doorstep and polished the windows and swept the maple-pods and poplar silk from the roof-gutters, and was now down on his knees with shears, tr.i.m.m.i.n.g the gra.s.s under the picket-fence.

And he was not coming after all. He was never coming.

For a little while she failed to realise it; there was a numb sensation in her breast, a dull confusion in her mind. She sat alone in the parlour, in her pretty new gown, looking straight ahead of her, seeing nothing--not even his letter in her hand.

And she sat there for a long while; the numbness became painful; the tension a dull endurance. Fatigue came, too; she rested her head wearily on the back of the chair and closed her eyes. But the tall clocks ticking slowly became unendurable--and the odour of the roses hurt her.

Suddenly, through and through her shot a pang of fright; she had just remembered that she had given him back his pistol.

On her feet now, startled as though listening, she stood, lips slightly parted, and the soft colour gone from them. Then she went to the window and looked down the road; and came back to stand by the centre-table, her clasped hands resting on the Bible.

For a while fear had its way with her; the silent shock of it whitened her face and left her with fair head bowed above her clasped hands.

Once or twice she opened the Bible and tried to understand, choosing what she cared for most--reading of Lazarus, too. And she read about miracles--those symbolic superfluities attributed to a life which in itself was the greatest of all miracles.

And ever through the word of G.o.d glittered the memory of the pistol till fear made her faint, and she rose, her hands against her breast, and walked unsteadily out under the trees.

A bird or two had begun its sunset carol; the tree-trunks were stained with the level crimson light. Far away her gaze rested on the blue hills. Beyond them lay the accursed city.

The dull reiteration in her brain throbbed on unceasingly; she had given him his pistol; he had lied to her; she had trusted him; he had lied; and the accursed city lay beyond those hills--and he was there--with his pistol; and he had lied to her--lied! lied! G.o.d help them both!