"Cut it, Louie," he heard "Slim" say as he remained where he had been thrown, fearful of lifting his head.

For a minute there was a dreadful silence.

"Murphy," said "Slim," "do you remember what happened to 'Gat' Mollwitz and 'Beanie' Wilson?"

Did he remember? A nauseating feeling gripped him. "Gat" and "Beanie" had defied the "Gink" and they were found one morning beaten and kicked, broken and bleeding. They died in agony a few hours later.

"Don't, 'Slim,' don't!" he gasped.

"Out with it, then, who was that with you last night? Come through and you can get out of town tonight."

Right then something happened inside of Murphy, something a psychologist might be able to describe in vague scientific terms. He became possessed of a desperate courage far greater than he had ever dreamed of having. In that moment of metamorphosis he became a fatalist. He realized that whether he gave "Slim" the information he sought or not the result would be the same. The life would be kicked and beaten out of him. The "Gink," to save himself and Gibson at all hazards, would not take a further chance by permitting him to live.

Then why should he give up? Why should he surrender to "Slim" and his "bashers" if he could gain nothing by it? He'd like to be able to live just long enough to tell the mayor and Brennan and the "Gallant kid" the real reason that he helped them trap Cummings and Gibson. He didn't want them to think he had sold himself for money. And even if they killed him now, Brennan and the "Gallant kid" would know that he died trying to protect them, that he wasn't a contemptible "squealer" after all.

As he straightened up from the prone position into which he had been thrown by Louie, he saw, out of the corner of his eye, the pillow under his bed and there flashed into his mind the realization that under it was his revolver. If he could only get it somehow.

"Let's hear it. Who was with you?" demanded "Slim."

Murphy's long dormant imagination began to work. For the purpose of deceiving "Slim" he must keep a mask of servile fear on his face.

"Let me get a shot of hooch, 'Slim,' and I'll tell ya everything," he whimpered. He rose timidly from his chair. Louie and the other "basher" started toward him, but stopped at a gesture from "Slim."

He went to the battered, flat-topped dresser a few feet from the bed and pulled open a drawer. From it he took a bottle of whisky. Pretending that the cork was stuck he worked with it fumblingly to get time in which to think. He would take a drink, feign that it choked him, stagger to the head of the bed, stumble on to the pillow and then come up with the revolver in his hand. Then he would have them!

He lifted the bottle to his mouth and gulped. He let the bottle fall from his hand as he choked and gasped for breath, sputtering the fiery liquor from his lips. Reeling and spitting he stumbled toward the bed and fell on it. His right hand pushed under the pillow and seized the gun, but not by the handle. In the second that he was trying desperately to wrap his hand around the butt of the weapon and get a finger on the trigger he was lost.

With a warning shout Louie leaped on the bed and grasped his arm.

He felt himself pulled to his feet and hurled to the floor. He shut his eyes. With a sweep of his arm the "basher" crashed a black-jack against his skull. A head splitting flash of blinding light and then darkness and insensibility. He did not feel the brutal blows that were rained on him nor the kicks that fractured his arms, his ribs and tore deep cuts on his face and body.

"That's enough, boys, beat it," commanded "Slim." As they ran out of the room "Slim" caught sight of Murphy's coat. Quickly his hands went through the pockets. From one he drew a soiled bit of paper.

On the paper was written, "Brennan and the Gallant kid" and the telephone number of the newspaper on which they were employed.

"Slim" locked the door from the outside and tossed the key back into the room over the transom, leaving Murphy for dead.



CHAPTER XXI

In that delightful state of drowsiness that follows after waking from a sound sleep, John mentally reviewed the stirring adventure of the night before. The warm, bright sunshine streaming in through the open windows of his bedroom had wakened him slowly. He could hear his mother in the kitchen, preparing breakfast.

Every detail of how the mayor, Murphy, Brennan and he had succeeded in overhearing a conversation between Gibson and "Gink" Cummings was fresh in his mind. His nerves tingled as he again felt the thrill of those breathless minutes when Benton photographed Gibson and the "Gink" by flashlight and Cummings rained shots after them as they escaped in the mayor's automobile.

It was only a matter of a few hours now before the conspiracy between the police commissioner and candidate for mayor and the notorious king of the underworld to seize control of the city government would be exposed, broadcast throughout Los Angeles as the most sensational news story of the year. Before he returned home, after three o'clock in the morning, John, with Brennan, had informed P. Q. of their success in obtaining evidence to prove the Cummings-Gibson conspiracy. The city editor told them he would communicate with the "chief" Sunday and instructed them to report for duty earlier than usual Monday morning.

"We'll probably break the story Monday," said P. Q. "We'll shoot everything we have: Gallant's story of the framed raid on the Spring street bookmakers, how the 'Gink' regulated crime to give Gibson a reputation; the affidavits of 'Big Jim' Hatch and his wife and give it the finishing touch with Benton's photograph. Of course, we'll have Smith's verbatim report. Arrange with him to have it ready for us without fail by seven o'clock Monday morning. One of you get an affidavit from Murphy, telling his whole story. You've blown the lid off things this time, all right, boys."

Murphy left them before they telephoned to P. Q., so it was impossible for them to arrange with him to meet one of them before Monday. They agreed that John should find Murphy and obtain his affidavit in order that it would be ready for publication Monday.

The elation John felt as a newspaper reporter in having aided in obtaining the evidence for the exposure of the Cummings-Gibson plot changed to regret when he thought of how it would affect Consuello. Could she, would she remember and follow out her promise to think of him as having done what he believed was his duty? Would she refuse to believe the truth about Gibson or would she, in the bitterness of disillusionment, blame those who brought about the exposure? He pictured her beside her window of red geraniums, lifting tear-dimmed eyes to her "green and friendly hill" and he was unhappy in conjecturing upon her broken heart.

His mother's call to him that breakfast was waiting roused him from his reverie. He had never told Mrs. Gallant that Consuello was Gibson's fiancee; in fact, Consuello's name had never been mentioned between them since the night that Mrs. Gallant had displayed her antipathy for her. He realized also that his mother would not be able to comprehend why Consuello met him in Gibson's absence and would probably consider it an unforgivable breach of etiquette.

At breakfast he told his mother of his adventure of the previous night, minimizing the dangers of the exploit to forestall her inevitable admonition for him to avoid risks of all kinds.

"It's a big thing for me," he said, enthusiastically. "I was promised more salary and a contract if it went through. Of course, Brennan and P. Q. and Murphy deserve most of the credit, but I helped them."

"What will become of this man Gibson?" Mrs. Gallant asked.

"I've been wondering how he'll take it," he said. "He may try to bluff through, claim it's all a perjured frame-up. But I don't believe he'll do that. You see, he knows that the photograph is absolutely condemning evidence. I expect that he'll simply disappear. He may have left the city by this time. Or he may try to bargain with our publisher by offering to retire as a candidate if the scandal about him is hushed up. I don't believe the 'chief' would consent to that, though."

Usually on Sunday mornings John accompanied his mother to church. This day, however, because it was too late for them to attend the morning service, they went for a walk instead. When they passed the neighborhood motion picture theater John noticed that Consuello's latest picture, the one he had seen at the pre-view, was being shown. An heroic size photograph of Consuello stood in the small lobby of the theater. He noticed that his mother averted her eyes. They walked in silence for half a block and then Mrs. Gallant spoke.

"Isn't Miss Carrillo a friend, a very dear friend, of this Mr. Gibson?" she asked.

"Yes," he admitted. "Why do you ask, mother?"

She did not reply.

"But, mother," he exclaimed, "surely you won't think that she knew of his scheming with 'Gink' Cummings! Will you blame her because someone she knew went wrong? Do you hold her responsible for the faults and weaknesses of others?"

Again Mrs. Gallant did not reply. Her silence provoked him. It was so unlike her to be unfair. He stifled the angry protest he was about to utter.

"Some day, mother, you are going to know her," he said. "Then every unkind thought you have ever held toward her will come back to you in anguish. You know, mother, dearest, how wrong it is to condemn unfairly. That was one of the first lessons taught me by father; to withhold judgment; suppress prejudice until all sides of a case have been heard. That is the keystone of American liberty—'malice toward none.' It was the principle of the Magna Carta, Great Britain's document of human rights, that the English barons compelled their king to deliver to them more than 700 years ago.

"Remember, mother, dearest"—his voice softened—"it was prejudice, intolerance and hate that caused the crucifixion of Christ."

"John, please," his mother said, gently, "please don't allow anything to spoil our one day of the week together."

"But, mother——" he began.

"My boy! Please," she pleaded.

He had never gone against her wishes when she spoke to him like that. He patted her arm and smiled.

"All right, mother, dearest," he said, "we'll forget all about it now. This is our day together and nothing shall impair it."

How glad he would have been to have been able to have told her of his love for Consuello! How much help she could have been to him, now that he was about to ruin the man Consuello had agreed to take as her husband. If "that" Mrs. Sprockett, who was fostering his mother's prejudice against motion pictures and motion picture players, would only stay more at home with her colicky baby instead of playing the part of a hypocritical Puritan. A passage from Proverbs his father had often quoted returned to him.

"Where no wood is there the fire goeth out; so where there is no talebearer, the strife ceaseth."

But he chased these thoughts from his head to be a companion to his mother. They admired flowers in gardens of homes they passed, studied interesting architecture they caught sight of, planned a picnic in the foothills—John thought of the spot where he had watched Consuello before the cameras—recited bits of poetry to each other and enjoyed the afternoon more than any since the death of Mr. Gallant, who had always led them on their Sunday "tramps," as he called them.

It was earlier than usual when they returned to their home. They shortened their outing because of John's promise to Brennan to see Murphy before morning and obtain from him an affidavit to be used in the printed exposure of Cummings and Gibson.

"Be careful, my boy," Mrs. Gallant cautioned him as he kissed her before leaving to get the car to go down town.

"Don't worry, mother; there's no danger now," he assured her.

As he passed the neighborhood picture theater a young girl, sixteen or seventeen years of age, emerged from the door. In the strong light of the lobby he saw her face plainly—a rather pretty face—and he remembered, indistinctly, of having met her, seen her somewhere before. He saw that she recognized him with a startled expression and unconsciously he slowed his steps. The girl hurried to his side and put her hand on his arm.

"Please don't tell, will you?" she begged.

"Tell? I don't understand," he said.

"Aren't you John Gallant?" she asked.

He noticed a look of fear in her eyes.

"Yes."

"I'm Alma Sprockett," she said, as if the mention of her name was sufficient explanation of her request for him to keep whatever she had in mind a secret.

"Well?" he asked, still unable to understand.

"If mother ever found out that I was at the picture show today I'd be in a peck of trouble," she said. "She won't let me go to the movies at all and I have to sneak away and I do enjoy them so much. Now you won't tell your mother or my mother or anyone, will you?"

"Of course not," he answered, smiling.

"Oh, thanks ever and ever so much," she said, and turning, hurried homeward.

That was it, he thought as he waited for his car. Mrs. Sprockett could find time to run around the neighborhood telling others what to do, what not to do, what should be done and what shouldn't be done, but she couldn't be obeyed even by her own daughter! All the way uptown and until he turned into the narrow, foul-aired stairway leading up to Murphy's room, Mrs. Sprockett and Alma, his mother and Consuello were jumbled in his thoughts.

He rapped on the panel of the door of Murphy's room at the end of the dark, dingy hall. When he received no response he turned the knob and pushed against the door, which held fast. Discovering that it was locked he hesitated a moment to decide whether to wait or leave and return later.

A moan, a deep gasping sound, came to his ears. He started and put his ear to the crack of the door. Another moan, fainter than before, sounded in the room.

"Murphy!" he called.

There was no answer from beyond the door, not even a moan. John shook the handle.

"Murphy! Murphy! Is that you? Are you hurt?" he shouted.

No answer, no sound. He put his shoulder to the door and, bracing himself, pushed with all his strength against it, but it held firm. Stepping back he swung a kick against a lower panel. The wood broke and splintered. He dropped to his knees and tore the split pieces out with his hands.

Through the hole in the panel he saw the key "Slim" Gray had tossed back into the room over the transom. Reaching his arm through the opening he picked it up and, opening the door, rushed into the room.

The twisted, broken, beaten figure of Murphy lay on the floor near the foot of the bed. The awfulness of the sight turned John sick and with a choking cry of pity and despair he dropped to his knees beside it.

"Murphy! Murphy!" he cried. "What have they done to you? Can you hear me? Speak to me, Murphy, speak to me."

The head of the "bashed" youth rolled limply from side to side and he groaned unconsciously. John shut his eyes to close from vision the swollen, lacerated face of his friend. Fury surged through him as he jumped to his feet. He knew intuitively that Murphy was the victim of "Gink" Cummings' brutality. He wanted to kill Cummings with his hands.

Sobbing, he ran from the room and dashed to the nearest telephone. He called the receiving hospital, telling the attendant to rush the ambulance at top speed. He waited at the street entrance to the rooming house until the ambulance arrived, its shrill siren whistle clearing a pathway for it through the traffic. Slowly, gently, they lifted Murphy from the floor and, placing him on a stretcher, carried him down the stairs to the ambulance. A morbid crowd, attracted by the sight of the ambulance, thronged the sidewalk.

John sat beside the stretcher with the white-clad attendant as the ambulance sped up Third street to Hill and turning to the right stopped with a creaking of brakes in front of the hospital door. He waited anxiously for the surgeons to make their examination. Two detectives hurried from central station to the hospital and getting what information John had, dashed out to a waiting automobile.

In his anxiety as he waited for the verdict of the surgeons he only gave the detectives Murphy's name and the address of the rooming house. They were gone before he could tell them he knew Murphy had been "bashed" by the "Gink's" men.

"He's in bad shape," the chief surgeon told him. "Skull fracture; arms, jaw, ribs and nose broken; internal injuries; cuts and bruises; lost a lot of blood."

"What can be done to save him?" John asked.

"An operation is about the only thing," the surgeon replied. "He's pretty far gone."

"Operate then," said John. "Get the best surgeons in the city to help you. Spare no expense."

An hour later Murphy was on the operating table with three of the most capable surgeons in Los Angeles working with all their skill and science to hold the flickering life in his body. Not knowing where to find Brennan, John telephoned to P. Q.

"I'll get in touch with the mayor and have him tell Sweeney to put every available detective on the case," the city editor said. "Do everything you can for Murphy. Be careful yourself. If the 'Gink' knows what Murphy has done he knows that you and Brennan were with him. He'll not stop at anything. I'll try to find Brennan."

While Murphy was in the operating room, Chief Sweeney, with a squad of detectives, appeared at the hospital and questioned John.

"I've just talked with the mayor," Sweeney said. "He has told me enough of what has happened to convince me that the 'Gink's' men did this. I'm going out now to arrest Cummings on suspicion and hold him in jail until we see how Murphy comes out. If he dies, I'll charge Cummings with murder if it's the last thing I do on earth."

John noticed as Sweeney and the detectives hurried away that several of them carried sawed-off shotguns.

A few minutes later they wheeled Murphy out of the operating room on a carrier and placed him on a cot in one of the wards. John approached one of the surgeons, swathed in sterilized clothes and apron.

"Will he live, doctor?" he asked in trepidation.

The surgeon answered without looking up from the rubber gloves he was peeling from his hands.

"He has a chance," he said.

"Much of a chance?" John asked.

"Not much, I'm afraid," the surgeon said. "You see, he is weak from the loss of blood and he is hurt internally. His ribs have punctured his lungs. Only one in a hundred injured the way he is ever recovers. We'll do everything we can now, but we're almost helpless."

He went to Murphy's bedside. The figure stretched flat on the bed was motionless except for an almost indiscernible trembling of the covering that showed Murphy was still breathing. The face of the unconscious youth was hidden by bandages. A pungent odor of ether filled the room. As John looked down on the bed, praying that the little flame of life would not be extinguished by the cold breath of death, he became conscious of the fact that someone else had entered and was standing close behind him. Believing it to be a nurse he turned slowly to ask if it was possible that Murphy might regain consciousness after the effects of the anesthetic wore off. He found himself facing the mayor.

For fully a minute the mayor stood looking down at Murphy. Tears filled his eyes and brimmed over his cheeks. He let them fall unheeded as he lifted his eyes to John.

"Gallant," he said, "if you don't mind, I'm going to pray for the life of this boy."

John bowed his head. He saw the mayor drop to his knees at the side of the bed so that his forehead touched the covers.

"'Thy will be done,' oh, Father," he heard the mayor pray, "but we ask Thee in Thy gentle mercy, to spare us the life of this boy. We ask Thee to hold the life in his poor, battered body; to bring him back to us. We ask it, oh, Lord, in the name of Thy son; Amen."

The mayor rose to his feet and they walked from the room.

"I hope you'll tell the people of Los Angeles what Murphy saved them from," said the mayor as they separated outside the hospital door. "Whether I'm re-elected or not I'll not rest until the brutes who beat him are brought to justice. You can tell them that, too."

Dusk was deepening into night as John entered the detective bureau at central station, around the corner in First street from the hospital. He found the two detectives who made the first investigation of the case writing out their reports.

"Three men did it," one of them told him. "They were seen entering and leaving the house. Two big fellows and a small, thin-faced man. No one heard the noise or suspected that anything was wrong."

"No identification of the men?" he asked.

"Not yet," the detective replied. "We understand the chief and a bunch of the boys are on the case and may make an arrest before morning. By the way, if you're a friend of Murphy's you'd better go down to his room and take charge of his things. There's no lock on the door now, you know, and things are liable to disappear."

"Thanks for the tip," said John. "I'll attend to it."

He went direct to Murphy's room from police headquarters. The room was dark and, scratching a match, he lighted the gas at a jet in the wall. He thought of how rapidly gas illumination in homes had disappeared. He remembered Consuello's father telling him that as late as 1870 there was only one street lamp—a gas one—in Spring street, although there was agitation among the citizens to have the city council add another light to put "as far south as First street."

As he inspected the room in the pale light from the gas flame he tried to picture in his mind how Murphy had tried to save himself from the three bruisers. He discovered the stain caused by the spilled whisky, the empty bottle under the bed. Then, suddenly, it flashed into his mind that Murphy might have been beaten to force him to reveal the names of those who were with him. He stopped his work of collecting Murphy's few belongings as this possibility came into his brain.

Had Murphy told? Beaten and kicked and facing death had he sought mercy by revealing who had the evidence against Cummings and Gibson? Or, had he passed into insensibility keeping it a secret?

He heard footsteps approaching the room. Perhaps it was Sweeney and his detectives coming to inspect the scene of the brutal attack. It might be Brennan.

The door swung open and three men entered the room quickly. John recognized one of them as "Slim" Gray.

He knew he was face to face with the men who had "got" Murphy.



CHAPTER XXII

In the fraction of the second that he stood facing "Slim" Gray and the two bruisers, tense and glaring, the cool self-possession he had acquired in his training as a boxer overcame his mental confusion. With one quick glance he saw the cold hate gleaming in "Slim's" eyes as he stood with his back flat against the door and noticed that one of the "bashers" wore brass knuckles on his right fist, while the other had pulled a black-jack from his pocket.

The iron bedstead was between him and the two thugs. As one of them started forward John stooped and grasped the empty whisky bottle on the floor at his feet. From his crouching position he leaped toward the window, his only avenue of escape. Louie—it was he who was armed with the black-jack—jumped at him with a curse, his skull-crashing weapon held back to strike a blow. Coolly, with the mental rapidity he had developed as a boxer, John darted toward the bruiser and back. Tricked by the feint, Louie lurched forward with a sweeping blow of the black-jack. The momentum of the swing of his arm drew his head down and with a quick slashing movement, like a pugilist chopping with his fist, John crashed the bottle against Louie's temple.

The bottle shattered and Louie, blood gushing from the wound, crumpled at his feet, John tossed away the neck of the bottle and barely had time to side-step the onrush of the other thug, who struck viciously at him with the fist armored with the knuckles. As they drew back John was in the position of a boxer, standing lightly on his toes, his left hand extended with the shoulder drawn up to protect his chin, which rested against his collarbone, his right arm crooked back. The bed was between him and the door, where "Slim" stood.

The "basher" swung up from the hip with his right arm, aiming for John's face. A man who "leads," or strikes first, with his right hand, is a target for a trained fighter. Warding off the blow by lifting his left arm so that it caught the descending fist on the tightened muscles below his elbow, John stepped in with a swift right-cross to his opponent's chin. A sharp pain shot through his clenched fist and he knew he had smashed a knuckle as it crashed against the jawbone.

His head jerking as he received John's punch, the thug reeled back, throwing up his hand to cover his face. John rushed at him and sank his bruised right fist into his middle. As the fist clouted against his abdomen the bruiser grunted and, doubling over, grabbed John in his arms. John lifted his left arm as they clenched and pushed his elbow against the other's throat. Pulling himself out of the clinch as the "basher's" hold weakened when the elbow pressed against his neck, John whirled and stopped with his back against the wall. He danced lightly from side to side to confuse the thug, who stood panting before him.

Louie, only stunned by the blow with the bottle, pulled himself to his hands and knees. John saw that his face was smeared crimson from the cut on his head. Realizing that the "basher" in front of him was "stalling" for time, waiting until Louie was on his feet again John darted to one side and seized a chair, swinging it up over his shoulder. His hand with its broken knuckle was puffed and painful and it hurt to bend the fingers to grasp the chair.

Louie was on his feet, poised for a leap. John threw the chair at the "basher" before him and dashed to the other side of the room.

"I'll get him, Joe," Louie gasped, wiping the blood from his eyes and taking a firmer grip on the black-jack. As Louie rushed at him John seized the heavy water pitcher on a table near him and hurled it. With a snarl on his lips, Louie ducked and the pitcher broke against the wall behind him. Louie was smarter than Joe had been. He "led" with his left hand and as the blow was warded off he swung the black-jack with his right. John jerked back his head, but the club grazed his cheek, tearing open the flesh. Before he could recover, Joe's brass knuckles crashed against his forehead, opening another cut.

John wabbled to his feet. His brain was numbed and he was blinded by the blood from the laceration over his eyes. Feebly he lifted his arms to protect his head. Joe pulled his arms down from his face and Louie drew back his black-jack for the knockout blow. As he was about to strike, John, with the last flickering move of instinctive self-protection, sank to the floor. With a curse, Louie lifted his foot to kick the prone figure beneath him.

John nerved himself for the blow that was to knock him insensible. He knew it was the end. He heard a scuffle of feet and dimly, through the blood from his wounds he saw Louie and Joe step back from him. He shut his eyes. They were going to kick him to death. If he could only—but why didn't they move? Why didn't they kick him? What were they waiting for?

Unable to believe his eyes, he saw the legs of Louie and Joe take backward steps until they were back against the wall. Did they think he was "out"? Were they leaving him for dead? Fascinated, he stared at the legs of the bruisers and then he heard a voice, a voice he recognized.

"Keep 'em up," the voice commanded, coldly, evenly, "Keep 'em up. The first one of you that tries moving gets it, understand?"

Slowly John lifted his head. It ached splittingly and lolled heavily on his shoulders. Weakly he pressed his hand against his cut forehead, stopping the blood from dripping over his eyes. Blinking to clear his vision he looked around the room.

In the doorway stood Brennan, a .45 caliber army model automatic in his hand; a very different Brennan from the reporter John knew. A Brennan with eyes as cold as the steel of the gun he gripped; a Brennan with an unwavering hand and a steady voice; a Brennan like the hero of the stories he told of brave men leading forlorn-hope charges. Good old Brennan! He had them, all right. Good old Brennan!

With their backs to the wall, their hands high above their heads, stood "Slim" Gray, Louie and Joe, ghastly pale, staring as if they were hypnotized at the pistol that pointed toward them.

"Drop that sap!" Brennan snapped.

The black-jack fell from Louie's upraised hand, bouncing as it hit his shoulder and dropped to the floor.

"How badly are you hurt, Gallant?" Brennan asked, without looking away from his three prisoners.

"I'm—I'm all right," John replied, struggling to his feet. "Good old Brennan," he added, essaying a smile.

"Good old nothing," said Brennan. "Wrap a towel around that head of yours and if you think you can make it, get downstairs to a phone. Get Sweeney; he's back at central station now."

John staunched the flow of blood with a towel and, faint from the reflex action of the blows he had endured, walked falteringly out of the room. At the door Brennan stepped to one side to allow him to pass, but never took his eyes from the three men with their hands above their heads.

The clerk at the corner cigar store gaped when John, the crimson stained towel swathed about his head, walked in to the telephone. In less than a minute he had Chief Sweeney on the wire.

"Chief, this is Gallant—John Gallant," he said.

"Yes, what is it?"

"We've got the men who beat up Murphy."

"Where?"

"In Murphy's room. Brennan is covering three of them with a gun now. Come as fast as you can."

His strength returning gradually, John walked a little more steadily as he hurried back to the room. Brennan and his prisoners were in the same positions as when he left them.

"You're lucky I didn't kill you as soon as I came in," he heard Brennan say to the three against the wall. "If Gallant had been out I would have killed you. It's a good long stretch in San Quentin or the rope for all of you if Murphy dies."

"Slim" and his two bruisers glared at their captor.

"I know what you're thinking," Brennan continued. "You're thinking about rushing me. You think I could only get one of you before the other two got me. Each of you would start right now if you were sure you weren't the one I'd get. That's what you're thinking and if you weren't all cowards you'd come at me. Well, why don't you try it? But before you do, let me show you something. See that picture of Jack Johnson on the wall over there? See how small the head is? Well, watch this."

With a jerk of his wrist he tossed the gun into the air, caught it by the butt and the roar of a shot shook the room. He had fired a second after the pistol was in his hand. Where Jack Johnson's head had been on the print was a hole about the size of a five-cent piece.

"Come on, now, try rushing me," said Brennan, quietly.

"Slim," Louie and Joe, their eyes returning to Brennan from the hole in the wall, continued to stare at him like hypnotized men.

A white, scared face showed in the doorway. It was the proprietor, roused by the pistol shot. He was almost bowled over a few seconds later when Sweeney, with a squad of detectives, all with guns in their hands, burst into the room.

John saw them snap handcuffs on "Slim" and the two "bashers" and then the room began going around and around and the figures before him began floating up and down. There was a roaring sound in his ears and everything went black. His knees sagging, he sank slowly to the floor.

* * *

He dreamed a dream that was half nightmare and half ecstasy before he regained complete consciousness.

First he was in a room without doors battling alone against an endless line of alternate Louies and Joes who vanished when he struck them. Then he was on the floor waiting to be kicked by a pair of legs that had no body and that tormented him by dancing a jig to the rhythm of a sing-song rendition of "Gunga Din."

When the bodiless legs disappeared he found himself mingling in an every-day Spring street crowd with a towel turban stained with blood, on his head and wondering why none paid the slightest attention to him or his strange headgear. Alma Sprockett stopped him at a corner and begged him not to tell something he knew nothing of, and he promised her he wouldn't tell and went on his way racking his brain to remember what she had said to him.

A life-size photograph of Consuello came to life, stepped out of its frame in a theater lobby and sailed through a casement window bordered with red geraniums until it reached the top of a hill, marked with a sign board, on which were the words, "Green and Friendly." He sat at her feet on the hilltop and told her all the earth was servant to just the two of them. They were supremely happy sitting there, for days and weeks and years, until a crimson rain fell and a terrible thunder roared. Bolts of lightning crashed all around him and a splinter from one of the bolts was imbedded in his eye and his head began to ache, and then—

He opened his eyes. He was in a bed at the receiving hospital. Putting a hand to his face he felt a bandage over the cut in his cheek, made by Louie's black-jack, and gauze, held in place by strips of adhesive tape, covering the laceration over his eyes made by Joe's brass knuckles. His right hand was in a stiff, straight bandage, the fingers held flat by splints. Brennan and the chief surgeon were standing at his bedside.

"Hello," he said and his voice sounded far away from him.

"Hello," said Brennan, "how are you feeling?"

"My head aches," he said.

"You'll be all right," said the surgeon. "You fainted from nervous exhaustion and loss of blood and we brought you down here and fixed you up. You cracked two knuckles of your right hand and you have lacerations that we sutured on your forehead and your cheek. You can get up as soon as you feel strong enough."

"What time is it?" he asked.

"It's a little after midnight," Brennan replied, as the surgeon left the room.

"Tell me," he asked, "how did it happen that you got there in time to save me?"

"I telephoned to P. Q. after dinner to tell him that I had Ben Smith's transcript and he told me about Murphy," Brennan explained. "He told me to find you at the receiving hospital here. When I got here they told me you had gone to the detective bureau and at the bureau I learned that you had gone to Murphy's room. I hurried down there and as I got near the door of the room I heard a crash. It must have been when you threw the water pitcher.

"Luckily I had my gun with me. I drew it and pushed open the door. As soon as they saw me standing there with the gun in my hand they lifted their hands above their heads and started backing up. You know the rest of it."

"You saved my life," said John.

"If you're going to start talking like that I'll leave you right now, understand?" said Brennan.

"What happened after I fainted?" he asked, realizing that Brennan meant what he said.

"We took 'Slim' and the other two to the University station and locked them up," said Brennan. "That is, Sweeney and his men took them while I brought you here. I had Sweeney take them out to University station because the other reporters would find out about it if we booked them at Central station and our whole story would have been in their hands."

"There's one thing I can't understand," John said.

"What's that?" asked Brennan.

"Why didn't 'Slim' or Louie and Joe shoot me when I put up a fight?" he asked.

"That's easy to explain," said Brennan. "They didn't try shooting because the sound of a shot would have roused the occupants of the house or have been heard by someone on the street. As it is, 'Slim' and the two others have been identified as the men seen leaving the place after Murphy was beaten up."

"And how is poor Tim?" he asked.

"There's very little hope for him," Brennan said. "They've taken him to the Clara Barton hospital and the mayor has employed two more physicians to stay with him and do everything they can for him."

"Has Sweeney arrested the 'Gink'?"

"No, Cummings has disappeared; can't find him anywhere?"

"What about Gibson?"

"I don't know," said Brennan. "No one has tried to find him yet. There'll be plenty of time for that after we come out with our blast in the first edition. And that reminds me, P. Q. is at the office now, waiting for me. We'll work the rest of the night and have everything ready to be set in type by seven o'clock. I'm sorry you won't be able to help us. You had better get some rest so that you'll be strong enough to be on your feet in the morning."

"Will you arrange to get word to my mother that I won't be able to get home?" he asked. "Tell her that I must work all night at the office. Don't give her any hint that I'm hurt."

"I'll arrange it," Brennan assured him, starting toward the door.

"Just a minute," said John, bringing his unbandaged hand above the covers. Brennan stopped and, turning, saw the hand extended toward him.

"I don't care what you say, Brennan," John said, "you've got to shake hands with me."

Brennan hesitated and then returned to the bedside, grasping John's hand. For a moment they regarded each other silently.

"You saved my life, Brennan, and I'll never forget it," said John slowly. "If it had not been for you I would be where Murphy is and you know it."

"If it had not been for Murphy they would have got both of us," said Brennan. "They went to him to try to find out who we were and I don't believe he told them."

"How was it they returned to the room when I was there?" John asked.

"I don't know; they probably spotted you when you found Murphy; but I'm willing to stake my life on it that Murphy was game to the last."

"Brennan," said John, "I'm beginning to think you have a little faith in mankind after all."

Brennan smiled as he dropped John's hand.

"Perhaps I have," he said. "Now go to sleep," he added, "because there's a great day ahead of us." He closed the door softly behind him, leaving John alone with his thoughts.

And his thoughts were of Consuello. He wondered where she would be during the "great day" before them when she read or learned of the exposure of Gibson's alliance with "Gink" Cummings, of the horrible pommeling given Murphy, of the attack upon himself. What would Gibson say to her? What COULD he say to her? He wished that Gibson would disappear as Brennan had told him Cummings had. If Gibson wanted to be merciful that's what he would do, disappear, leave her to think the worst or the best of him, as she chose.

Pondering over everything that had occurred since the first day he met him, John concluded that Gibson's single weakness, his inability to give up his social position when he found himself stranded financially, had worked his ruin. That love of the "niceness of conventionality," as Consuello had described it; that irresistible desire to live an easy life when he should have worked to restore his family fortune; had led him into trouble. At the moment when he was "broke," when circumstances were such that he would be compelled to withdraw as the society man "Gink" Cummings, scheming to seize control of the city government, had tempted him and he had fallen. He sold himself to the boss of the underworld and became perfidious and a puppet so that he might have money and fame while it lasted.

How Gibson suffered by comparison with the example set by Consuello! When the vast wealth that had once been the Carrillo's dwindled and only the few acres of land with the old home was left, she went to work and was loved and respected for what she had done. She had not lost caste by her venture into worldly affairs. That was where Gibson had been short-sighted. He had believed that he would lose standing if he was forced to work for a living; so he took the easier way and like all easier ways, it wrought destruction of his morals, his conscience and his reputation.

From this retrospective philosophizing with the lesson that it taught, John turned to dreaming of Consuello as the one he loved. His imagination, from which he slipped the leash of worry and care, pictured for him gloriously delightful, utterly impossible scenes—Consuello and he on a yacht skimming the rolling waves of the ocean off Catalina, leisurely inspecting some "gabled foreign town"; she another Princess Patricia with "silken gowns" and "jewels for her hair," loving and wedding him, a "commoner" like the real princess' husband, despite the frowns of kings and queens, and settling down to rule a Graustark-like little kingdom.

When he awoke the following morning a hospital attendant brought him his suit, cleaned and pressed, with a new shirt and collar which, he learned, had been left for him by Brennan. His head had ceased its aching and after breakfast he could only feel a trace of the weakness that had caused him to faint the night before.

As he entered the local room of the newspaper office P. Q. stopped work to rush toward him and Brennan, looking up from his typewriter, emitted a "rousing" cheer.



CHAPTER XXIII

All that day the giant presses roared, turning out thousands upon thousands of the newspapers with the story stripping the mask off Gibson and revealing the nefarious plot between him and "Gink" Cummings. All day long delivery trucks piled high with bundles of the papers distributed them to newsboys in the downtown district and throughout the city. Never in the history of Los Angeles had there ever been such a tremendous single-day issue of a newspaper.

Under the glaring headlines was Benton's flashlight photograph of Gibson and Cummings emerging from the rear door of the Spring street saloon where their conversation had been overheard by the reporters. The picture was clear enough to enable anyone who knew either of them to recognize them both. On one side of the cut was Brennan's signed and copyrighted story of the complete exposure of the alliance between the police commissioner and the underworld boss, a clear, concise, dramatic narrative of every event leading up to the denoument. On the other side was Ben Smith's stenographic transcript of the conversation between the conspirators, with all its tell-tale and condemning elements.

Beneath the cut were reproductions of affidavits by John, Brennan, Smith, the mayor, "Big Jim" Hatch and Evelyn Hatch, swearing to the facts contained in Brennan's comprehensive story that jumped from the first page and filled the second. On pages three and four were photographs of Gibson and the mayor; Brennan and Gallant, his face in bandages; Murphy on his cot at the hospital; Murphy's room; the mayor's automobile with its shattered windshield; "Gink" Cummings; "Slim" Gray, Joe and Louie and reproductions of their black-jack and brass knuckles.

There were separate stories dealing in detail with John's experience in Gibson's raid on the Spring street bookmakers; the regulation of the crime wave by Cummings to enable Gibson to add to his false reputation as the feared enemy of crooks; "Big Jim" Hatch's story of how he had been arrested by Gibson because he would not split money he stole in bunko swindles with Cummings; the "beating up" of Murphy and the attack on John; Evelyn Hatch's corroboration of her husband's claims and the pistol shots fired by either Gibson or Cummings, or both, the night they were trapped in the saloon. A strongly-worded editorial branded Gibson as the worst traitor the city had ever known and demanded his immediate retirement as a police commissioner and candidate for mayor. Police detectives it was announced, were searching for Cummings, who would be arrested as soon as he was located, and held for murder if Murphy died.

Mr. Phillips, the publisher, called John, Brennan and P. Q. to his private office and after he had commended them for their work they rejoiced together, not only because their paper had frustrated the scheming "Gink" and exposed Gibson, his tool, but because they had "beat" all other papers in the city with the story, acknowledged to be the greatest "scoop" ever scored in Los Angeles.

A master musician lives for the applause of his audiences; a great discoverer or inventor has his public acclaim; a statesman or public benefactor is rewarded by the voice of the people; but the gratification of a newspaper man in having accomplished a notable achievement for his paper is his only recompense and it is sufficient.

No medals are pinned on his chest, no roar of applause comes up to him from the multitudes, but he is satisfied. His glory is his own and he is content.

Two hours after the first edition was on the streets, the publisher received a hastily appointed committee representing the Church Federation, the women's clubs and other organizations that had supported and indorsed Gibson as a candidate for mayor. The evidence, no more than what had been published, was certified to this committee. The Church Federation was the first to act. Unable to locate Gibson to question him personally concerning the exposure and accepting the evidence against him as final, the federation authorized the publication of its withdrawal of indorsement of him as a candidate for mayor and an expression of appreciation of the newspaper's work in bringing the truth to light. Similar action by the other organizations that had been deceived by Gibson followed quickly and before night his political strength had melted away to nothing. Forgotten even was his sensational capture of "Red Mike," now serving a life sentence at San Quentin for his attempt to wreck and rob the Southern Pacific "Lark" train.

Every newspaper reporter in Los Angeles was engaged in the search for Gibson that followed the publication of the exposure of his plot with Cummings. The other papers, anxious to retaliate by obtaining the first statement from Gibson for the blow given them when they were "scooped" combined their forces in a frantic effort to find him before John and Brennan could do so.

The missing man's office and apartment were closed. His secretary, located after a search of several hours, could give no information concerning his disappearance. The railroad, steamship and automobile bus stations had sold no ticket to anyone answering his description. He seemed to have vanished completely. A theory was advanced that he had fled with "Gink" Cummings and this was gradually accepted generally as the hours passed and no trace of him could be found.

Brennan waited until they were alone before he suggested to John that Consuello might be able to furnish a clew to Gibson's whereabouts. Thoughts of her had been flashing in and out of John's mind during the excitement of the morning. He realized that if anyone knew where Gibson was it would be Consuello, and again he had the disheartening apprehension that, faithful to her love, she might be in flight with the man she was to have married.

"I don't like to speak of it—she's probably very much upset by what has happened today—but there's only one person who may know where Gibson is," said Brennan, "and that's Miss Carrillo."

"I'd rather do almost anything than face her, today," said John.

"You mean with your face bandaged up the way it is?" Brennan asked, a twinkle in his eyes.

"I don't know what she will think of me," John said, ignoring the jest. "She has believed in Gibson and she may think that what I have helped to do is a violation of the friendship between us and that I am an ungrateful and deceitful wretch."

"Don't you want to see her and explain things to her?"

"No, not until she sends for me."

"Suppose she never sends for you—what then?"

"Then I'll know that she never wants to see me and—and—that will be the end of it, I suppose."

They were silent for a moment and then, while John was pondering over the thoughts that were in his mind when he had said, "The end of it, I suppose," Brennan without another word, quoted a quatrain from the verse that he had recited while they were waiting to overhear the conversation between Gibson and Cummings:

"So long as Pleasure calls us up, And duty drives us down, If you love me as I love you, What pair so happy as we two?"

John glanced up quickly and saw that Brennan was pretending he just happened to think of the verse and had quoted it with no particular intention or reference to the thoughts of either of them.

"'And duty drives us down,'" he repeated, smiling.

A little later all thoughts of Gibson and the suggestion that Consuello be consulted in the search for him fled from their heads when they were called by telephone and told that Murphy was sinking rapidly and was not expected to live many more hours. Together they hurried to the Clara Barton hospital.

"I wish he could know that the brutes who beat him have been arrested," said Brennan as they turned west into Fifth street from Broadway. "I tried to talk to them, to find out from them what poor Tim said and did before they knocked him out, but they wouldn't answer. They know what they're up against if he dies and their lawyer has told them to keep their mouths shut. I had the satisfaction of telling them, though, that I'd be on hand to write the story when they are hanged and that I was looking forward to the assignment. 'Slim' almost broke down when I said it."

The mayor, two doctors and a nurse were in the room when they entered. Murphy lay inert on the bed. He had never regained consciousness, the doctors said, and he was in such a weakened condition that only a miracle beyond the skill of surgery and medicine could save him. The mayor looked at them in silence as they approached the bed beside which he was seated in a chair. They saw that there were tears in his eyes, tears that he was not ashamed of others seeing.

For a quarter of an hour they stood at the bedside while one of the doctors frequently felt Murphy's wrist to catch the fluttering pulse. Then a sound came from the bandaged head and the doctor leaned over, putting his ear close to the hidden face. They heard the sound again and realized it was a whisper.

"He's saying something about the Gallant kid," said the doctor looking up.

John moved to the head of the bed and, leaning over it, said:

"Yes, Murphy; I'm here."

The whisper rose a little becoming audible throughout the room.

"I'm croaking—I guess—ain't I?" it asked.

"You're all right—Tim," John managed to say.

"I didn't squeal—kid—they got me—I didn't tell 'em it was you and Brennan."

"We know you didn't, Murphy."

"I wanna tell ya something—before I go—see?" The whisper became fainter. "I wasn't workin' for ya—for da jack—ya gave me—see? I did it 'cause—my old man—my old man——" The whisper stopped.

"Yes, Tim."

"'Cause—my old man—my—old—man—was—was—'Red Mike,'—see?"

A quick intake of breath by Brennan was the only sound that broke the tense silence.

"So—I—wasn't—no—dirty—stool—pigeon——" The whisper stopped again. Murphy drew his last breath and with it he said his last word:

"See?"

* * *

The news of Murphy's death was printed in the late editions. His voice shaking with suppressed emotion, Brennan dictated the brief announcement of the passing of the twisted-nose youth by telephone to the office.

"Tim Murphy, who was brutally beaten by 'Gink' Cummings' thugs yesterday, died at the Clara Barton hospital as a result of his injuries late today," Brennan said over the phone. At the other end of the wire a reporter was taking the dictation on a typewriter. "Before he died Murphy regained consciousness long enough to disclose that he was the son of 'Red Mike,' now serving a life sentence for having attempted to wreck the Southern Pacific 'Lark.' It was because he believed his father had been the victim of former Police Commissioner Gibsons' lust for glory, he said, that he aided in disclosing Gibson's plot with Cummings to seize control of the city government. His death means that 'Slim' Gray, Cummings' right-hand man, and his two strong-arm men now under arrest, will be charged with murder and that a murder complaint will be issued against Cummings."

They were silent as they wove their way through the hurrying streams of men and women in Fifth street homeward bound after the work of the day in downtown stores and offices. On the corners newsboys were still selling editions of their paper with the exposure of the Gibson-Cummings plot as fast as they could hand them out. They saw several men stop where they had bought the paper and stand, jostled by the crowd, reading the story absorbedly, apparently amazed by what was on the printed page beneath their eyes.

From the corner of Fifth and Broadway, where he left Brennan waiting for a street car, John went to the receiving hospital to have the wounds on his face and his maimed hand dressed again before he started home. The gauze bandages on his forehead and cheek were replaced with strips of medicated plaster which were less conspicuous, but it would be more than two weeks, the hospital surgeon told him, before the splints could be removed from his hand.

His mother was at the door to meet him when he arrived home. Her face paled as she saw the plaster hiding the cuts on his cheek and forehead and the bandage on his hand. He took her in his arms quickly.

"I'm all right, mother, dearest," he said. "Don't worry, I'm all right."

"My boy, my boy! Why didn't you let me know you were hurt?"

"There, there, mother," he said, softly patting her with his uninjured hand. "It's nothing to worry about. I've only a couple of scratches on my face and my hand is hurt a little."

He led her into the living room and, seating her in a rocking chair, he dropped to his knees at her feet, as he had in the grief and despair that stunned him when his father died. With caresses and soft words of assurance he soothed her until her dismay left her. At dinner, which had been waiting for him, he told her everything that had occurred since he left her twenty-four hours past. At the end of his story he explained to her what it would all mean to him.

"The 'chief,' that is Mr. Phillips, our publisher, has promised me a contract at double what I'm getting now," he told her. "And, besides, he says Brennan and I are entitled to a bonus for what we've done. It means, mother, dearest, that I've made good; that I've arrived as a newspaper man."

"You know how proud I am of you, John," Mrs. Gallant said. "I never imagined that newspaper work was so strenuous. I thought a reporter's work was writing news instead of making it."

"Newspapers, I have learned, mother, are vigilant guards of the interests of the people," he said. "It is a newspaper's duty to inform the public of what occurs and to prevent as well as condemn wrong. Mr. Phillips told us that the unmasking of Gibson was newspaper enterprise by which the city as well as the paper benefited. Thousands of things not as conspicuous as this are done every year by a newspaper and its reporters and editors.

"Without publicity wrong would go undetected and unpunished. Think of what would have happened if Gibson had been elected mayor of Los Angeles. For at least four years 'Gink' Cummings would have ruled the city and you can imagine what that would have meant."

They were about to leave the supper table when Mrs. Sprockett, weeping hysterically, appeared in a state of excitement that alarmed them. Wringing her hands, sobbing distractedly, she flung herself into a chair and moaned in such a way that Mrs. Gallant hurried to her side anxiously.

"My Alma! My Alma! My girl!" Mrs. Sprockett wept.

"What is it? Tell us. Can we help?" asked Mrs. Gallant while John had a momentary apprehension that Mrs. Sprockett's condition might be the result of a discovery that her daughter had visited the corner motion picture theater surreptitiously.

"She's gone," Mrs. Sprockett gasped.

"Gone?" Mrs. Gallant exclaimed.

"Gone," Mrs. Sprockett repeated, and then, with a sob of despair, she added, "Kidnaped!"

"You mean she has disappeared?" asked John, feeling that her fear that Alma had been abducted might be far-fetched.

"She has been gone since morning," continued Mrs. Sprockett, a little calmed by the sound of a masculine voice. "Ever since morning. Someone has stolen her. Oh, my little girl; someone has stolen her. What shall I do? What shall I do?"

"Try to calm yourself," urged Mrs. Gallant. "She will probably return before long."

"She left no note? Gave no warning?" John asked. "She may have run away of her own accord, you know," he added.

Mrs. Sprockett stopped her sobbing and sat upright in her chair. Indignation blazed in her eyes.

"How dare you, sir? How dare you?" she demanded, furiously. "How dare you stand there and tell me that my Alma left me of her own free will? My Alma leave her mother who loves her so? My Alma run away like some common scamp? I didn't come here to be insulted like that, sir!"

A look from his mother caused John to repress an inclination to ask her to tell him really why she came to them.

"I'm sorry," he apologized. "I didn't mean to insinuate——"

"You did! You did! You stood up there and told me that my little girl who loves her mother ran away from home," Mrs. Sprockett cried, irrationally. "That's what you did! You stood up there——"

"I'm sorry," interrupted John, moving from the room to avoid the outburst.

He stepped out on the porch and found Mrs. Sprockett's husband, coatless and collarless as usual, with the same weary look about his eyes and the same hopeless droop of his narrow, rounded shoulders, mounting the steps. Across the street, in the Sprockett home, the baby wailed and fretted.

"Beg pardon," began Mrs. Sprockett's husband. "I just thought——"

"Yes, she's inside," said John, anticipating the inevitable question.

Instead of moving on into the house Mrs. Sprockett's husband stood where he had stopped.

"Our Alma——" he began.

"If you want my advice," said John, interrupting again, "I would wait until morning if I were you and then ask the police to help you find her."

No storm of protest came from Mrs. Sprockett's husband. The instinctive fraternalism of man between man caused him to signal, with a nod of his head, for John to come closer to him. With frequent apprehensive glances toward the door, he whispered:

"Alma's not a bad girl, but she's been held down too much. She's only sixteen and she likes pretty things and picture shows and other things a girl of her age likes naturally. It wouldn't surprise me a bit if she's just picked up and left to go to work some place and have a little more freedom. She's not a bad girl, she's—she's—just a girl, that's all, and she wants to do what other girls do. But, of course, I want her back."

John's sympathy swept away the anger that had surged through him when Mrs. Sprockett became irate.

"I think you're right," he said, remembering how Alma had begged him to refrain from telling anyone that he had seen her leaving the picture show.

"Don't say a word about what I've said to you, will you?" asked Mrs. Sprockett's husband, involuntarily shrinking away from the steps.

"Never fear," John assured him, "and if I can help, let me know."

"Thanks, I will, but Maud—well—you know how it is—you know—sometimes," said Mrs. Sprockett's husband.

"I know," said John, and Sprockett hurried back across the street. A few minutes later the baby's wailing stopped. Mrs. Sprockett's husband appeared on the porch of the Sprockett house with a bundle of blankets in his arms and pacing back and forth, whistled a familiar tune as a lullaby. John listened and distinguished the notes of the father's whistling and smiled to himself as he recognized it as an off-key variation of "The Merry Widow Waltz."

Mrs. Sprockett, still sobbing, and Mrs. Gallant, with her arm around her, emerged from the house.

"I'm going to keep Mrs. Sprockett company until she can rest," Mrs. Gallant explained.

John watched them cross the street and saw the door close behind them. Soon the whistling ceased and Sprockett and the baby went inside.

For half an hour John lolled on the porch, pondering over Alma's disappearance, the abjectedness of Mrs. Sprockett's husband and the spectacle of Mrs. Sprockett's wilfulness. Had Mr. and Mrs. Sprockett ever, ever been deeply in love, exulting in the happiness before them in married life? How miserable it was that Sprockett had to whisper to him "not to tell," exactly as Alma had?

He found his thoughts distressful and was about to rise, planning an hour with his books before going to sleep, when an automobile—he knew by the outline it was a taxicab—stopped before the house. The driver opened the door and a figure stepped out, hurrying up toward him.

As he came to his feet he saw that it was a girl who was approaching him.

"Mr. Gallant?" a familiar voice asked.

"Yes."

The figure came closer to him and he saw that it was Consuello's friend and companion, Betty.



CHAPTER XXIV

Abashed by Betty's unexpected appearance at his home and with a sudden fear that something had happened to Consuello possessing him, John waited for her to speak. He noticed that she had not dismissed the cab that waited at the curb.

"Can you come with me immediately?" she asked, quickly. "I want you to see Consuello, tonight."

"Did she send you for me?" he entreated.

"No, but I know that she wants you," she replied.

"Are you sure?" he persisted.

"Don't be a foolish boy," she said, with a gesture of impatience. "No one in the world knows Consuello as well as I do. I am doing this for her. Do you think for a moment that I would be here if I wasn't certain I was doing the proper thing?"

"I know she trusts you," he said, reassured by her mild vexation.

"Hurry, then; I'll explain things while we're on our way. I'll wait for you in the cab," she said.

Mrs. Sprockett's husband answered the door when he crossed the street to the Sprockett home to tell his mother he had been called away.

"Tell mother that I'm going to see a friend and that I'll be home before it is late," he said. "Tell her there's no need to worry about me."

"Just a minute and I'll call her," Mrs. Sprockett's husband suggested.

"No, just give her my message," he said, apprehensive of the probable consequences of telling his mother that it was Consuello he was going to meet.

As the cab started away from the curb he turned to Betty with the question that, in his mind, had been begging for an answer from the moment he recognized her.

"How is she?" he asked, his voice betraying his anxiety.

"She is very brave," Betty said, earnestly.

"Perhaps I should not ask you this, but has she seen—Gibson?" So much, he felt, depended on her reply to this question. If Consuello had already talked with Gibson and Betty divined that she wanted to see him, then——

"Perhaps I should not tell you, but—she has talked to him. That's as much as I will tell you. The rest must come from her," Betty replied.

She had talked with Gibson and yet she wanted to see him! Or, could Betty be mistaken? Had she interpreted Consuello's mood erroneously in coming for him?

"Forgive me for my doubtfulness," he said, "but are you certain that she wants to see me?"

A shade of exasperation crossed Betty's face.

"You said a moment ago that you knew Consuello trusted me," she said. "If she trusts me, then why can't you?"

Reassured by this pertinent counter question he deduced that Betty, with the welfare of Consuello at heart, had concluded that he might be able to furnish the solace her companion needed in her hour of trial. The ecstasy that had thrilled him when he first realized that he loved Consuello returned to him as the cab sped through the streets. She knew now why he had beseeched her to think of him as doing what he thought was right. And she had kept her promise! A glance through the window of the cab at a lighted corner told him that they were nearing their destination.

"I'm going to leave you alone with her," Betty said, with the frankness that she had displayed when they first met. "I need not ask you to be very considerate, to do everything you can to comfort her. In my heart I feel that what has happened is all for the best. How dreadful it would have been if she had been compelled to make this discovery for herself after they were married.

"I told her that I would be away until late; that I was busy. We'll stop at the corner to let you out, because she knows that I took a cab when I left and she might suspect that I went for you. Here we are."

She called to the driver to stop.

"It was kind of you——" he began as he stood at the cab door after alighting. She stopped him with a gesture of her hand. Then, leaning forward a little, her eyes dancing with a smile, she said:

"Don't you know that I know you love her?"

The door closed quickly and the cab spurted away from the curb, leaving him standing bewildered and yet overjoyed by the audacious words she had spoken. So that was why she had called him to Consuello! If Betty knew it, then Consuello, too, must realize that he loved her. The thought frightened him. It had never occurred to him before that she might know. Somehow, he had not dared to imagine that she cared enough even to guess that he loved her.

He went slowly to the opening in the hedge of boxwood that lined the sidewalk in front of Consuello's artistic little dream home and turned into the pathway between the patches of rosebushes. A heavy fragrance from the blossoms filled the still night air. As he stepped on to the porch and reached for the knocker with his left hand he recalled suddenly that his face bore strips of plaster over his wounds and that his right hand was held rigid in splints. The hesitancy that this recollection gave forsook him when he remembered that Betty had made no comment on his appearance, probably because she had seen the photograph of him that had been published in the paper. Emboldened he rapped with the knocker.

She wore the same simple white frock that he had admired when they first met. For a moment she stood with her hand on the knob of the door, the look of surprise in her eyes fading to an expression of mingled pleasure and perplexity.

"Come in," she invited.

He saw that a tender light, the softness of sympathy, came into her eyes when she noticed the plasters on his forehead and cheek. Then, when she extended her hand to him and he stood awkwardly unable to take it without first disposing of the hat he held, she apologized for her forgetfulness.

"I'm sorry," she said, quickly compassionate.

"It's nothing," he said. "Only a scratch or two, that's all."

They crossed to the fireplace, where she took a chair near the rose shaded table lamp, the only illumination in the room. He sat opposite her, his back toward the door, waiting for her to speak.

"I was thinking of you when you rapped on the door," she said. "I was alone beside my window looking out toward my hill. The darkness of the night prevented me from seeing it, but I knew it was there. Though I could not see it, I looked to it for comfort."

"It won't be hidden from you long," he said. "When the morning comes it will be there and the darkness will be gone."

"When the morning comes," she said, softly, "there'll be sunshine and flowers and birds—and happiness. But it is there for me now, steadfast, loyal, abiding. I know now why I love the hills more than the ocean. They are so fixed, so permanent; unchanging, unmoving; while the ocean storms and calms, thunders and ripples, lures you to its depths and—drowns you."

John knew the inner meaning of her words. Sincerity and deceit. Trustworthiness and treachery. Genuineness and make-believe.

"Was it difficult for you to keep your promise?" he asked, breaking the silence that had followed after she had spoken.

"To understand that you did what you thought was right?" she inquired. He nodded.

"No," she said, "I never doubted that. But I was never really put to the test. My decision was made before I thought of what I had promised you."

She paused and then, lifting her eyes to meet his, she continued:

"You see, I believe there is only one real love between a man and a woman and that is the love that endures all things. I have always thought—and I still do—that a woman who sincerely loves a man will stay by his side even if the whole world is against him. Unless a woman can do that willingly, gladly, I do not believe that it is real love.

"He came here early Sunday morning and asked me to go away with him. I could not understand and he did not explain. He simply said that something had happened that would prevent him from ever becoming mayor of Los Angeles and that he was going away, never to return.

"'If you love me, you will come with me,' he said. I was bewildered, of course, but I knew that he was right. It was the test, a test far greater than I had ever dreamed would come to me.

"I asked him why it was that he should be compelled to leave the city. He assured me that he had committed no crime. He was very earnest as he spoke and so serious that I knew something terrible had happened. He declared again and again that he loved me and that if I loved him I would go with him and ask no questions. It was all so overwhelming that I begged him to leave me, to let me decide alone.

"'I will let you know, tonight,' I told him. 'Unless you hear from me you will know that I have decided I cannot do what you have asked me.'

"Soon after he was gone I realized that—that I did not love him with the one great love. I knew that I didn't because I had not thrown myself into his arms and told him, as Ruth told Naomi, 'For whither thou goest I will go; and where thou lodgest I will lodge.'

"I need not tell you in details of how bewildered I was by his strange request and what I went through when I found that I did not really love him. Of course, I tried to imagine what had occurred that caused him to ask me to leave everything and go away with him. Whatever it was, I felt it was cowardly of him to leave unless it was all his own fault.

"So he did not hear from me last night and this morning I read of what he stands accused. But I was prepared. I had chosen my course and what I read only made me certain that I was right; that I did not truly love him, never had and never could. I pitied his weakness. I could see how he had gone astray. You see, I have often wondered how it was he had money so suddenly after everything he once had had gone from him. The source of his wealth was always a mystery to me."

She paused and looking toward the casement window with its red geraniums, she added, softly: "That is my story. That is what has happened."

In the silence that followed they were both startled to hear footsteps on the porch outside. Consuello looked toward him, quickly, with an expression that warned him. The door swung open and Gibson stepped in, closing it behind him.

"I thought I'd find you here," he said.

His face was pale and a smile that was half a sneer was on his lips as he stood looking at them. John was on his feet facing him and a glance showed that Consuello had also risen from her chair at Gibson's unexpected entrance.

"The girl who said that she loved me and the man who pretended he was my friend," said Gibson, sarcastically.

John's muscles tightened and he bit his lip to restrain the words of warning to Gibson that he was about to speak.

"If you have come here to——" he heard Consuello say, coolly, evenly.

"I came here to say good-by to you," Gibson interrupted, "and to make certain that there had not been some mistake. I thought you might have tried to reach me last night and failed, or that you might have changed your mind." He paused a moment before adding, "But I know better now."

"You should have known last night," Consuello said. "You should have known that if I had decided to do what you asked me I would have come to you, found you wherever you were."

"I should have known months ago, if I had not been such a blind fool," said Gibson bitterly.

"You were a blind fool," said Consuello, "but not as I suspect you think. You were blinded by your own selfish indolence. You said a moment ago that I told you I loved you. I did tell you that and I thought that I meant it, but when I found that I could not go with you as you asked I knew I had been mistaken. You must remember that I decided against you before I knew the reason you wanted me to leave."

The half-sarcastic smile curled Gibson's lips.

"Then you'll admit that something else—someone else, perhaps——" he said.

"I saw no one, except Betty, from the time you left until Mr. Gallant came this evening," Consuello said. "I'm thankful that I was able to decide before I read what was in the paper today. Reggie, how often have I told you my conception of love. Don't you know that if I cared for you nothing would have kept me from you? I cannot tell you why it was; I can only tell you how. I knew as soon as I realized that I had refused to go with you blindly that it was not love, the real love, that I had in my heart for you."

"And suppose I had not asked you to go away with me? Suppose I came to you tonight and asked you to stand by me, right here in Los Angeles?"

"It would have been the same," Consuello replied quietly. "I would have given you the same answer."

As she spoke Gibson gazed at her intently and the anger that had smouldered in his eyes disappeared and he forced a smile to his lips as he turned toward John.

"Gallant," he said, "I saw you take terrible punishment one night and stagger to your feet until you were knocked senseless. I admired you that night, Gallant; I envied your courage. When Charlie Murray made his little talk I think I was the first to respond. If you found a $50 bill in what Charlie turned over to you, you know now who tossed it into the ring." He paused, looked to the floor and then back into John's face.

"Tonight you have watched me take my punishment," he continued. "I stood on my feet and cheered when you came back into the ring and when you left. I don't want pity or sympathy, but I want you to have a cheer in your heart for me when I go."

Gibson's change from sarcasm and bitterness to a show of manliness relieved the tenseness of the situation. Consuello sank into a chair and gazing into the fireplace, where flames had once sparkled as bright as her romance with Gibson and now only cold ashes remained, left the two men facing each other.

"No one has ever doubted your courage," John said.

"I hope you do not think that I had anything to do with the death of Murphy or the attack upon yourself," said Gibson. "If I had known what they were going to do I would have died fighting them. I took Cummings' gun from him when he fired at you and the others in the automobile. From that minute I have neither seen nor heard from him. If I ever run across him I'll bring him back and surrender him to the district attorney. That is the way I hope to win condonement for what I've done. That is where I'm going when I leave here tonight, to search for him, to the ends of the earth if it is necessary."

"If ever, while you're away, you need help, let me know," John said, with an impulsive desire to take Gibson's hand. But he stood still, waiting for the other to continue.

"When I came here tonight and found you two together I said things that I'm sorry ever escaped my lips," said Gibson. "I was a cad and no matter what you may think of me for the other things I've done, I want you to forgive me—both of you—for that alone."

Their silence assured him that they were anxious to forget his display of bitterness.

"Will you do me this favor, Gallant?" he continued. "Will you publish tomorrow that you have seen me and that I've started search for Cummings and won't return to Los Angeles until I bring him back with me? Just that much and no more."

"That much and no more," John promised.

Then Gibson turned toward Consuello. She had bowed her head in her hand. He hesitated a moment and then walked slowly to the side of her chair.

"Good-by, Conny," he said.

She looked up at him, tears brimming in her eyes, her under lip caught between her teeth. He tried to force a smile to his lips, but it balked.

"Good-by," she said, and her voice trembled.

He turned away quickly, as if he felt he could not trust himself to be at her side a second longer. He stopped again, facing John.

"Just one thing more, Gallant," he said.

"Yes," said John, his voice queerly out of pitch.

Gibson looked him straight in the eyes.

"You love her, don't you?" he asked.

Unable to speak what was in his heart, John stood silent. He moistened his lips with his tongue and wondered why it was he could not shout back his answer. Flustered by the boldness of the question put to him so directly, a thought flashed into his mind of Betty's frank declaration that she knew he loved Consuello. Then he discovered the reason why his mother had been so perturbed by his frequent meetings with her. She, too, undoubtedly knew he was in love!

While these thoughts were racing through his head, Gibson put his hand on his shoulder.

"You need not answer, Gallant," he said, "because your silence is enough. Regardless of how incongruous it seems in view of the great wrong I have done her, I love her, too. And, because I love her I can tell that you do. I can see it by the way you speak to her, the way you look at her and unless I am greatly mistaken she knows it as well as you and I do."

He grasped John's left hand in his own.

"Take care of her, Gallant; love her and try to make her happy," he said. He turned and walked to the door, leaving John speechless and motionless, staring after him. At the threshold he wheeled to face them again.

"Exit, the villain," he said slowly and smiling.

The door closed behind him and his footsteps, taking him steadily, not too fast, not too slowly, from the house, diminished until the only sound audible in the room was the ticking of the clock on the mantel of the fireplace.

John, his back toward Consuello, his eyes on the door, wondering whether it was all a dream, a cheer in his heart for the man who had left them so dramatically, feared to move.

"Exit, the villain"—Gibson's last words—echoed in his brain.

He imagined he heard Brennan saying: "A grandstander, a grandstander to the last."

When he finally turned around, Consuello was standing by the open casement window, looking out into the night, her fingers touching the petals of the geraniums on the sill, in the same position in which she had stood when she had recited to him the little verse with its simple, homely philosophy.

He moved to her side, marveling at her unaffected beauty.

Looking out of the window he saw that the moon, which had been hidden by the clouds an hour before, had crested her "green and friendly hill" with an outline of silvery-blue.

Something in her pose that suggested to him that she was waiting for him to speak gave him the courage. Yet he was afraid to look at her as he spoke, afraid to see what effect his words had upon her.

"I do—love you," he said.

That little gasp as she caught her breath, what did it mean? Still unable to face her, he continued:

"He knew it; Betty knows it; mother knows it and I want the whole world to know it—I love you." He could say no more.

Gently, caressingly, her small white fingers touched his unbandaged hand. Tremulously he turned his head and saw her answer in her eyes and slowly, almost reverently, he lifted her hand to his lips. A mocking bird broke into joyous song in a tree outside, a golden flood of music to mock the silent song in his heart.

* * *

Lights were shining through the curtains on the windows of the Sprockett house and his mother was waiting up for him when he returned home. As he took her in his arms to kiss her forehead tenderly he had a fantasy that the wonderfulness of his requited love had miraculously altered his mother's opinion of Consuello. But it was a fantasy, only that.

"Mother, dearest," he whispered, "I'm the happiest man in the world, tonight."

His mother drew back from him and the intuition that had advised her that her son was in love with Consuello, long before he realized it himself, told her the reason for his happiness. She turned away and pressing a handkerchief to her eyes left him with a discordant note breaking the harmony of his ecstasy.



CHAPTER XXV

A doctor is awarded his diploma; a lawyer is admitted to the bar; a preacher is given a pulpit; an actor rises from understudy to the leading role; a newspaper reporter is given a "by-line" and sees his name over a story for the first time.

Under the big head-line. "Gibson Found; Quits Race," and over the announcement Gibson had authorized—"that much and no more"—appeared the magic words, "By John Gallant."

By that simple token he passed automatically from the position of "cub" to be a full-fledged reporter.

The only ceremony marking the graduation was when Brennan, leaning over his shoulder as he gazed at his "by-line," said in his ear:

"Looks pretty nice, doesn't it?"

The story stated plainly that Gibson authorized the publication of the statement that he was leaving Los Angeles to search for "Gink" Cummings and did not intend returning until he brought Cummings back with him to face trial for the murder of Murphy, as co-defendant with "Slim" Gray and his two "bashers." John explained to P. Q. that he had given his word of honor that he would print nothing but the brief announcement. With the city editor's consent he omitted mentioning where he had met Gibson and under what circumstances Gibson had talked with him.

"A newspaper reporter's word must be as good as his bond," said P. Q. "Remember, Gallant, never to print what you have received in confidence. I fired more than one reporter because he broke his word, although in breaking it he gave us a whale of an exclusive story."

Shortly after the first edition was on the streets, John looked up from his typewriter to find Mrs. Sprockett standing beside his desk, about to speak to him. Nervous, distressed, her eyes reddened from a sleepless night of weeping, she asked him if he was too busy to spare her a moment.

"Not at all," he said, rising and placing a chair for her beside his desk.

Fumbling with her handkerchief and appearing apologetic for having spoken to him so sharply the night before, she told him that Alma had been away from home all night and had not returned yet.

"Then, Mrs. Sprockett, there's only one thing for you to do," he said, "and that is to inform the police."

"I have just come from the police station," Mrs. Sprockett said. "They sent me here. They told me that the best way to find a missing girl was through the newspapers. They said that in 99 cases out of 100 girls who disappear are either found or traced by the newspapers and newspaper men.

"Of course, you know how much I regret having anything concerning Alma appear in the newspapers. I thought there was some other way to find her, some way that would attract less attention. But if it has to be, it has to be, and I'll do anything to bring my little girl back to us."

"You will do the sensible thing if you permit the publication of Alma's picture and a brief story that she is missing," John said.

Mrs. Sprockett drew from her bag a photograph of her daughter and gave John a description of her and the facts relative to her disappearance.

"If anything has happened to her it will kill me," she said, as she rose to go. "I'll owe a debt I can never repay to the one who brings her back to me."

The photograph of Alma and the brief story that went with it appeared in the second edition and John wondered if Mrs. Sprockett's husband had dared to make the suggestion that had sent his wife to the police.

Soon after Mrs. Sprockett left the office, John, unable to wait a minute longer without hearing her voice, telephoned to Consuello's home. He wanted to tell her again that he loved her, and again and again, and he wanted to hear her tell him, as she had before he left her, that her "dreamings had come true, the brightest and the best." But it was Betty instead of Consuello who answered his call.

"Conny is at the studio," Betty said. "She was called there unexpectedly concerning something about her new picture."

"Did she tell you anything before she left?" he asked.

Betty laughed.

"She told me everything," she replied.

"And is she happy?" he asked.

"Happier than I have ever seen her," Betty assured him. "I'll tell her that you called."

"That I called and that I——" he stopped himself.

"Love her," Betty finished for him.

"More and more every minute," he said, not to be abashed by Betty's good natured presumptuousness.

But whenever throughout the day his thoughts of Consuello and their great love brought him happiness, the haunting realization that his mother still clung to her prejudice against her occupation wore upon him. He had gone to his room after she had left him the night before and at breakfast there had been a strained effort by both of them to avoid recalling the cause for her distress. He had pleaded and begged her so often to overcome her intolerant dislike for Consuello that he was beginning to fear he would never be able to win her over. Not for much longer, he realized, could he keep his mother's feelings against her from Consuello.

Late in the afternoon, when the clatter of the telegraph instruments and the typewriter had lulled, and tired men lounged, squatted on desks and tilted back in chairs in the local room discussing the events of the day, John and Brennan were summoned to the publisher's private office. There they were confronted by P. Q. and the "chief," the managing editor and the news editor, the quartet often referred to by the reporters as the "brain trust." There John and Brennan received checks for $500 each and were informed that their salaries had been doubled, the $500 being a bonus for their work in exposing the Gibson-Cummings plot.

On his way home John decided to make one final effort to change his mother's attitude toward Consuello. He planned it all very carefully. First he would tell her of how his salary had been doubled and then he would turn over to her the bonus check to be banked. Then he would take her in his arms and beg her to listen while he told her of the love between him and Consuello, whom he was to meet later in the evening.

He was absorbed in thinking of everything he would say to his mother when he got off the street car at the corner and walked toward his home. It was not until he was within a quarter of a block from his home when he saw something that brought him to a sharp halt. Scarcely able to believe what was before his eyes, he stood stock-still for a moment and his worry left him like a weight had been lifted from his soul.

On the sidewalk was Mrs. Sprockett with the lost Alma clasped in her arms. Mother and daughter were alternately laughing and crying and kissing each other. Near them stood Mrs. Sprockett's husband, bouncing the Sprockett baby in his arms and smiling and nodding his head to Alma whenever her face showed to him from her mother's embrace.

And a few feet from the re-united mother and her daughter were Consuello and his mother! Mrs. Gallant was smiling and patting Consuello's hand, which she held in both her own!

Wondering what had happened to bring about such a happy scene, John strode toward it, smiling his happiest. He was about to speak when Mrs. Sprockett, allowing Alma to go to her father, grasped Consuello's hand and holding it tight against her breast, cried softly:

"My dear, my dear, oh, what you have done for us! My dear, my dear."

He turned to his mother for an explanation.

"Consuello brought Alma back," Mrs. Gallant said. Then, lifting her face to kiss him, she whispered, "Forgive me, my boy, for my unkindness to her and to you."

She turned to Consuello.

"Come, my dear," she said, "you must have dinner with us."

Mrs. Sprockett hurried after her husband, who had started toward their home with the baby on one arm and the other around Alma's shoulders. John took Consuello's hand and whispered to her, "You wonderful, wonderful girl."

Inside, while Mrs. Gallant rearranged the dinner table and prepared portions for three instead of two, she related to him what had occurred.

"On the way to the studio this morning," she said, "I bought a copy of your paper to read what you had written about—about what happened last night. I saw in the paper the photograph of this girl who was missing and, just by chance, I noticed the address of her home and realized it must be close to your own. For that reason, I suppose, I gave the picture more than a passing glance, although I thought little of it.

"I had no sooner arrived at the studio than this girl came running up to me and begged me to help her become a motion picture actress. Because the picture was still fresh in my mind I recognized her, although it was some time before I got her to admit that she had run away from home. I talked to her and told her what a mistake she had made and finally she said that, if I wanted her to, she would return home. So I brought her home and, truly, you would think I had done something wonderful by the way your mother and Mrs. Sprockett thanked me."