"Oh, well, I'll go to the old class," muttered Charley. "I'll get the gas mantle to-morrow."

Evan breathed freely again.

When Charley was safely out of the way Evan made haste to array himself in the best that their joint wardrobes afforded. They shared everything. His conscience troubled him a little over his treatment of Charley, but he salved it with the thought: "Well, anyway, I saw her first. I quarrelled with her before he even laid eyes on her." Evan gave anxious thought to the matching of ties and socks, and spent many minutes in vigorously brushing out a slight tendency to curl in his hair. He despised curly hair in a man.

But when he was all ready a sudden fit of indecision attacked him, and he flung himself into the old chair, glooming. She had all but driven him out of her room the night before. Well, if he presented himself at her door now, it would be simply inviting her to insult him. Even though she didn't mean it, even though she might want him to come (Evan had that possibility in mind, though his ideas as to the psychology of girls were chaotic), how could he give her the chance to put it all over him? Surely she would despise him. On the other hand, he could hardly expect her to make the first overtures. Evan sighed in perplexity.

It was not that he liked her any the worse for being so difficult; on the contrary. But he had to think out the best thing to do under the circumstances, and the trouble was he wanted to go down so badly he couldn't think at all.

He made up his mind he wouldn't go down—not that night anyway. He lighted his pipe in defiance of the whole sex. But somehow he couldn't keep it going. He only smoked matches. Nor keep his legs from twitching; nor his brain from suggesting vain pretexts to knock at her door. He might go out and buy her a gas mantle—but that would be a low trick on Charley. He flung down the pipe, he walked up and down, he looked out of the window; a score of times he swore to himself that he would not go down, yet his perambulations left him ever nearer the door.

Finally with a great effort of the will he closed it. But almost instantly he flew to open it again, bent his head to listen, then threw it back with a note of deep laughter. He commenced to run downstairs. She was singing, the witch! She had made the first overture. Let her make believe as much as she liked, she must have calculated that the song would bring him. Outside her door—it was closed to-night—he pulled himself up short. "Easy! Easy!" he said to himself. "If you're in such a rush to come when you're called she'll have the laugh on you anyhow. Let her sing for a while, the darling! You won't miss anything here."

It was a jolly little song, full of enchanting runs and changes; old English, he guessed:

"Oh, the pretty, pretty creature; When I next do meet her, No more like a clown will I face her frown But gallantly will I treat her."

"A hint for me," thought Evan, smiling delightedly.

When she came to the end of the song, Evan, fearful that she might open the door and find him there, hastened on downstairs. Miss Sisson was in her room at the back with the door open, and Evan stepped in for a chat, flattering the lady not a little thereby, for Mr. Weir was the most stand-offish of her gentleman roomers—and the comeliest.

But it is to be feared she didn't get much profit out of this conversation, for Mr. Weir was strangely absent-minded. His thoughts were in the room overhead where the heart-disquieting mezzo-soprano was now singing a wistfuller song and no less sweet:

"Phyllis has such charming graces I must love her or I die."

Miss Sisson remarked in her most elegant and acid tones: "It's such an annoyance to have a singer in the house. I already regret that I yielded to her importunities."

"You fool!" thought Evan. "She makes a paradise of your old rookery!"

At the end of the second song he was sure he heard the singer's light footsteps travel to the door overhead, linger there, then return more slowly. The heart in his breast waxed big with gladness. "You blessed little darling!" he thought. "If it's true you want me, God knows you can have me for a gift!"

Yet he let her sing another song before he stirred. He bade Miss Sisson good-night and went deliberately upstairs. She had stopped singing now. He knocked on the door.

She took her time about opening it. "Oh, it's you!" she said.

"Good evening," said Evan.

"Good evening," she returned with a rising inflection that suggested: "Well, what do you want?"

Evan was a bit dashed. His instinct told him, though, that he must put his fate to the test. In other words, he must find out for sure whether she detested him, or was simply being maidenly. She had not thrown the door open to its fullest extent, but Evan, gauging the space, figured that he could just slip in without actually pushing her out of the way. He did so.

She faced about in high indignation. "Well! You might at least wait until you are invited!" she said.

Evan had no wish to anger her too far. "Oh, I'm sorry," he said innocently. "I thought you meant me to come in." He turned towards the door again.

"Oh, well, as long as you're here I'm not going to turn you out," she said casually. "But your manners aren't much." She closed the door.

"It's all right!" thought Evan happily.

"I heard you singing," he said, by way of opening the conversation.

"Yes, I have to sing every night for practice," she said quickly. She wished him to understand clearly that she had not been singing to bring him.

She sat on the piano bench, but with her back to the piano and her hands in her lap. Her expression was not encouraging. Evan sat on the sofa.

"Please go on," he said. "Don't mind me."

"No," she said, with her funny little downright way. "I shan't sing any more."

"But why?"

"You have provoked me. I can't sing when I am provoked."

"What have I done?"

"The mere sight of you provokes me," she said with more frankness, probably, than she intended.

"I'm sorry," said Evan. "You're so different, so unusual, I don't know how to handle you."

The first part of this pleased her, the last outraged her afresh. "Handle me!" she cried. "I like that!"

Evan saw his mistake. "That's not the word," he said quickly. "I mean I study how to please you, and only seem to get in wrong."

"Don't 'study'," she said with a superior air. "Just be yourself."

"But I am myself, and it only provokes you."

The brown eyes flashed. "Oh, you're too conceited for words!"

This was a new thought to Evan. He considered it. "No," he said at last, "I don't think I am. At least not offensively conceited. But it seems to me you are so accustomed to having men bow down before you that the mildest independence in a man strikes you as something outrageous."

This was near enough the truth to be an added cause for offense. She received it in an ultra-dignified silence.

"I'd like to bow down before you too," Evan went on smiling. "But something tells me if I did it would be the end of me. You would despise me."

Her mood changed abruptly. "I feel better now," she said. "One really cannot take you seriously. I'll sing."

Her hands drifted over the keys, and she dropped into "Mighty lak' a Rose." The air was admirably suited to the deeper notes of her voice. The listener's heart was drawn right out of his breast; he forgot at once his fear of being mastered, and his great desire to master her.

When she came to the end he murmured, deeply moved: "I can't say anything."

She could have asked no finer tribute. "You needn't," she murmured.

The pleasure she took in his applause was evidenced in the warmth she imparted to the next song. She made it intolerably plaintive: "Just a Wearyin' for You."

Evan held his breath in delight. "If the words were true!" he thought. But though she sang with abandon, she never looked at him. He was artist enough to know better than to take an artistic performance literally.

Nothing more was said for a long time. She passed from one song to another, singing from memory; dreamily improvising on the piano between. She chose only simple songs in English which pleased Evan well—could she read his heart?—the "Shoogy-Shoo"; "Little Boy Blue"; the "Sands o' Dee."

Evan was incapable of criticising her voice. Some might have objected that it lacked that bell-like clearness so much to be desired; that it had a dusky quality, but Evan was not quarrelling because it was the voice of a woman instead of an angel. One thing she had beyond peradventure, temperament; her heart was in her singing, and so it played on his heartstrings as she willed.

While he listened enraptured, he saw the moon peek over the buildings in the next street. He softly got up and turned off the impertinent gas. Beyond a startled glance over her shoulder she made no objection. He was utterly fascinated by the movements of the bright head, now raised, now lowered, now turned towards the window in the changing moods of the songs.

Moonlight completed the working of the spell that was laid upon him. For the moment he ceased to be a rational being. He was exalted by emotion far out of himself. He experienced the sweetness of losing his own identity. It was as if a great wind had snatched him up into the universal ether, a region of warmth of colour and perfume. But he was conscious of a pull on him like that of the magnet for the iron, a pull that was neither to be questioned nor resisted.

At the last she turned around on the bench again, and her hands dropped in her lap. "That is all. I'm tired," she said like a child.

With a single movement the rapt youth was at her feet, weaving his arms about her waist. Unpremeditated words poured from him; words out of deeps in him of which up to that moment he was unconscious.

"Oh, you woman! You are the first in the world for me! I know you now! I feel your power! It's too much for me. And I'm glad of it! I have waited for you. I looked for you in so many girls' faces only to find emptiness. I began to doubt. Love was just a poetic fancy, I thought. But I have found it. Let me love you."

She was not surprised, nor angry. She gently tried to detach his arms. "Oh, hush! hush!" she murmured. "It is not me! It is just the music!"

"It is you! It is you!" he protested. "I knew it when I first saw you. You or none!"

"But how silly!" she said in a warm, low voice. "You have seen me twice."

"What difference does that make?" he said impatiently. "One cannot be mistaken about a thing like this. I love you with all my heart. It only takes a second to happen, but it can never be undone while I live. You have entered into me and taken possession. If you left me I should be no more than a shell of a man!"

"Ah, but be sensible!" she begged him. He thought he felt her fingertips brush his hair. "Try to be sensible. Think of me."

"I wish to think only of you. What do you want me to do?"

"Get up and sit beside me. Let us talk."

He sat beside her on the bench. He did not offer to touch her again. The moonlight was in her face; the lifted, shadowy oval seemed angelic to him, he was full of awe.

"You're so beautiful!" he groaned, "so beautiful it hurts me!"

"Hush!" she said, "you mustn't talk like that."

"Is it wrong?"

"Yes—no! I don't know. I can't bear it!"

"You can do what you like with me."

"You don't mean that really."

"I do. I have longed to be able to give myself up wholly."

"Then be my brother, my dear brother."

Evan frowned. "You mean——?"

"Be my brother," she repeated. "I need your help."

"But—but how can I?" said Evan. "I am only a man."

"The other thing only frightens me," she said quickly. "I like you—but I cannot return that. This is not just the feeling of a moment. It will never change. I know myself. But be my friend. Take what I can give you. Do not force me to be on my guard. I wish to let myself go with you."

"That is what I wish," he said quickly. Poor Evan felt hollow inside: hollow and a little dazed. The cloud-piercing tower of his happiness had collapsed. A sure instinct told him that what she proposed was impossible, and what was more, absurd. But he clutched at straws. The idea of giving her up altogether was unthinkable. Moreover he was incapable of resisting her at that moment. It was easy enough to silence that inner voice. He said nothing, but merely raised her hand to his lips.

"Swear it," she murmured.

"You dictate the oath."

"Swear that you will be my friend, and nothing but my friend."

"I swear it."

Suddenly leaning forward she kissed his cheek as a sister might have done—but the spot glowed long afterwards. Then she jumped up.

"You must go now."

"Not quite yet," he pleaded, "Corinna."

"Oh!" she rebuked him.

"But you're my sister now."

"Very well, you may call me Corinna, but you must go. What will the landlady say?"

"But you said you needed my help. How can I rest not knowing——"

"But that's too long a story to begin now. There's no immediate danger threatening me. There will be other nights."

"How can I wait twenty-four hours?"

"How would you like to get up early and go walking in the country before the day's work?"

"I'd like it above all things."

"Then call for me at eight. We'll have breakfast at the French pastry shop. My first lesson's at eleven."

"Great!"

"Now go."

"Say good-night, Evan."

"I will when I am more accustomed to you."

"But try it just for an experiment."

"Well—good-night, Evan."

His name was so sweet on her tongue it required all his self-control to remember his oath. He turned away with a groan.

"Good-night, Corinna."



CHAPTER VIII

EVAN IS RE-ENGAGED

He dreamed of her all night—but not as a sister it is to be feared. In his dream she was running through the springtime woods with the glorious hair flying, and he was running after her, an endless race without his ever drawing nearer, while the sun shone and the little young leaves twinkled as if in laughter.

He was awake at six and sprang out of bed to see what kind of day it was. The sun was already high over the tops of the buildings to the east, the sky was fleckless, and the empty Park was beaming. His anxiety was relieved. He dressed as slowly as possible in order to kill time, taking care to make no sound that might awaken Charley in the next room.

He was not prepared to make explanations just then.

Notwithstanding all his care he was ready a whole hour too soon, an hour that promised to be endless, for he was completely at a loss what to do with himself; couldn't apply his mind to anything; couldn't sit still. Finally he stole down-stairs, sending his love silently through her door as he passed, and started circumnavigating the Park.

He was subconsciously aware of the splendour of the morning, but saw little of what actually met his eyes. He was too busy with the happenings of the night before. A nasty little doubt tormented him. He knew he was slightly insane; it was not that; he gloried in his state and pitied the dull clods who had not fire in their breasts to drive them mad. But here was the rub; would not these same clods have laughed at him had they known of the oath he had taken—would not he have laughed himself yesterday?

It was carried on inside him like an argument; on the one hand the enamoured young man who insisted that the relationship between brother and sister was a holy and beautiful one, on the other hand the matter-of-fact one who said it was all damn nonsense; that a man and woman, free, unattached and not bound by the ties of consanguinity were not intended to be brother and sister. Such arguments have no end. The thought of Charley troubled him most; he had always taken a slightly superior attitude towards Charley's sentimentality. What a chance for Charley to get back at him if he learned of this!

At five minutes to eight, having looked at his watch fifty times or so, he ventured back into the house, and tapped at Corinna's door. "She's bound to be late anyhow," he thought, "no harm to hurry her up a little."

But no, she was hatted, gloved and waiting just inside the door. This little fact won his gratitude surprisingly; a man does not expect it of a woman. In the sunlight they took in each other anew. What Corinna thought did not appear, but Evan was freshly delighted. She was an out-of-doors girl it appeared; the morning became her like a shining garment. He forgot the argument; it was sufficient to be with her, to laugh with her, to be ravished by the dusky, velvety tones of her voice.

Of the hours that followed it is unnecessary to speak in detail. It was one long rhapsody, and rhapsodies are apt to be a little tiresome to those other than the rhapsodists. Everybody has known such hours for themselves—or if they have not they are unfortunate. They breakfasted frugally—there is a delicious intimacy in breakfast no other meal knows, and then decided on Staten Island. Half an hour later they were voyaging down the bay, and in an hour were in the woods.

Corinna was inexorable on the question of eleven o'clock, and to Evan it seemed as if they had no sooner got there than they had to turn back again. Evan got sore, and the pleasure of the return journey was a little dimmed, though there is a kind of sweetness in these little tiffs too. Anybody seeing their eyes on each other, Corinna's as well as Evan's, would have known they were no brother and sister, but they still kept up the fiction.

As they neared home she said: "Do you mind if I go in alone?"

"Are you ashamed to be seen with me?" demanded Evan scowling.

"Silly! Didn't I propose this trip? The reason is very simple. Your ridiculous landlady looks on every man in the house as her property. I don't want to excite her ill-will, that's all."

Evan could not deny the truth of this characterisation of Carmen. "Go on ahead," he said. "I'll hang around in the Park for a while. See you to-night."

She stopped, and gave him an inscrutable look. "Oh, I'm sorry, I shan't be home to-night."

With this the ugly head of Corinna's mystery popped up again. It had been tormenting Evan all morning, but with a lover's pride he would not question her, and she volunteered no information.

"Oh!" said Evan flatly, and waited for her to say more.

But she seemed not to be aware that anything more was required and his brow darkened. "If it was me," he thought, "how eager I would be to explain what was taking me away from her, but she is mum!"

"Come to-morrow night," she said.

He bowed stiffly.

She hesitated a moment as if about to explain, then thought better of it, and hurried away, leaving Evan inwardly fuming.

He plumped down on a bench across the square from 45A, and thrusting his hands deep in his pockets, stretched out his legs and scowled at the pavement. A "platonic friendship" had no charms for him then. "I'm a fool!" he said to himself. "Her brother!"—a bitter note of laughter escaped him, "when I'm out of my mind with wanting her! What a fool I was to stand for it! She's just playing the regular girl's game—no blame to her of course, it's their instinct to keep a man at arm's length as long as they can. It pleases them to have us on the grill. And I fell for it! I'm on my way to make a precious fool of myself. If I can't find out where she's going to-night, I'll be clean off my nut before morning. But I wouldn't ask her! And if she's going out with another man—! Lord! which is worse, to know or not to know?"

When he let himself in the door of 45A, Miss Sisson, according to her custom, poked her head out into the hall to see who it was. She came out.

"Oh, Mr. Weir," she said importantly, "where have you been?"

"Out," said Evan stiffly.

She was too much excited to perceive the snub. "There's been a man here for you half a dozen times I guess."

"What did he want?"

"I don't know. Says it's most important."

"Who was he?"

"Wouldn't give his name. Acted most mysterious."

"What sort of looking man?"

"A young fellow about your age, but scarcely a friend of yours I should say. A mean-like face."

This meant nothing to Evan. He looked blank.

"The last time he was here he said he'd wait," Miss Sisson went on, "but I said there was no place inside, because I didn't like his looks, so he said he'd wait in the Square and——"

The sound of the door-bell interrupted her.

"Here he is now!"

Evan opened the door and discovered Alfred, the Deaves' second man, on the step. Alfred smiled insinuatingly, but with a difference from their first meeting, more warily. Miss Sisson pressed forward to hear what he had to say.

"Can I see you a moment?" he said to Evan meaningly.

Evan looked at Miss Sisson, who forthwith retired with a chagrined flirt of her skirts.

"They sent me for you," said Alfred.

Evan's eyebrows went up. "What do they want?" he asked coolly.

"Search me!" said Alfred shrugging. "They're in a way about something."

"Anything new?"

"Uh-huh. Hilton says they got another letter from the blackmailers."

Evan being human, could not but feel certain stirrings of curiosity. "Very well, I'll come with you," he said.

They left a furiously unsatisfied Miss Sisson behind them.

Evan and Alfred rode up-town together on the bus. Alfred was no less silky and insinuating than in the beginning, but whereas at first he had been genuinely candid, he now only made believe to be.

"He's been warned off me," thought Evan.

The conversation on Alfred's side consisted of a subtle attempt to elicit from Evan what had happened the day before, and on Evan's side a determination to balk his curiosity without appearing to be aware of what he was after.

The Deaveses, father and son, were in the library. Before he was well inside the room the latter flung out at him:

"Where have you been all morning?"

Evan instantly felt his collar tighten. His jaw stuck out. "I don't know as that is anybody's business but my own," he said.

They both opened up on him then. Evan could not make out what it was all about. But his conscience was easy. He could afford to smile at the racket. Finally George Deaves got the floor.

"Will you or will you not describe your movements this morning?" he demanded.

"I will not," said Evan coolly.

"What did I tell you? What did I tell you?" burst out the old man. "Send for the police!"

Evan's temper had already been put to a strain that morning. It gave way now. "Yes, send for the police!" he cried. "I'm sick of these silly accusations. I owe you nothing, neither of you. My life is as open as a book. I make a few dollars a week by honest work, and that's every cent I possess in the world. Satisfy yourselves of that, and then let me alone!"

"Papa, be quiet!" said George Deaves severely. "I will handle this." To Evan he said soothingly: "There's no need for you to excite yourself. I've no intention of sending for the police—yet."

"Well, if you don't, I will!" said Evan. "I'll tell them the whole story and insist on an investigation!"

George Deaves wilted at the threat of publicity. Evan, in the midst of his anger thought: "Lord, if I were guilty this is exactly the way I would talk! How easy it would be to bluff them!"

George Deaves said: "I hope you won't do anything so foolish as that."

"Well, it's a bit too much to be dragged all the way up-town just to listen to a re-hash of yesterday's row," said Evan.

"The situation is entirely changed," said George Deaves mysteriously.

"Well, I don't know anything about that!"

Deaves shoved a letter across his desk towards Evan. Evan read:

"Mrs. George Deaves:

Dear Madam:

I beg to return herewith the $5,000 in marked bills that your husband left for us yesterday. We are too old birds to be caught with such chaff. The story, a copy of which I sent Mr. Deaves yesterday, goes to the Clarion at eleven A.M. to-day for publication in this evening's edition. If you wish to stop it you must persuade Mr. Deaves to find a similar sum in clean straight money before that hour. These bills must be put in an envelope and addressed to Mr. Carlton Hassell at the Barbizon Club, Fifth avenue near Ninth street. Your messenger must simply hand it in at the door and leave. If there is any departure from these instructions the money will not be touched, and the story goes through.

With best wishes,

Yours most sincerely, THE IKUNAHKATSI."

"Good Heavens!" cried Evan amazed. "Do you mean to say the money was returned?"

George Deaves nodded.

"And addressed to your wife? What a colossal nerve! What have you done? You haven't sent fresh bills?"

Another nod answered him, a somewhat sheepish nod.

"Maud made him," snarled the old man. "Insisted on taking the money down herself and sent it in by the chauffeur."

"But you've communicated with Mr. Hassell?"

"Do you know him?" demanded George Deaves sharply.

"Why of course, as everybody knows him. The most famous landscape painter in America—or at least the most popular. His pictures bring thousands!"

"What good to communicate with him?" said Deaves sullenly. "I might better have him arrested."

"But don't you see," urged Evan, "Hassell couldn't have had anything to do with this, not with the money he makes and his reputation? Not unless he were crazy, and he's the sanest of men! It's as clear as day. They're just using his name. Easy enough for somebody else to get the letter at the club."

"Is this a trick?" muttered George Deaves scowling.

Evan laughed in exasperation. "Why sure! if you want it that way. It's nothing to me one way or the other." He turned to go.

"Wait a minute," said Deaves. "Why wouldn't it be better to call up the club?"

Evan shook his head. "A man's club is his castle. Club servants are always instructed not to give out information, particularly not over the telephone. Telephone Hassell. You should have telephoned him before sending the money. Or better still go to him. It's his interest to get to the bottom of this."

"Will you go with me?" asked Deaves stabbing his blotter.

Evan smiled. "A minute ago you implied that I was behind the scheme."

"I might have been mistaken. Anyway, if you had nothing to do with it, you ought to be glad to help me clear the matter up."

"I'll go with you," said Evan, "not because I'll feel any necessity for clearing myself, but because it's the most interesting game I've ever been up against!"

"Interesting!" shrilled the old man indignantly, "Interesting! If you were being bled white, you wouldn't find it so interesting! I'll go too."

"You'll stay right here, Papa," commanded George Deaves. "And don't you go out until I come back! You've brought trouble enough on me!"

"Well, you needn't bite off my head!" grumbled the old man.

The Deaves limousine was available, and a few minutes later George Deaves and Evan were being shown into the reception room of a magnificent studio apartment on Art's most fashionable street. George Deaves was visibly impressed by the magnificence. It was rather an unusual hour to pay a call perhaps, but the Deaves name was an open sesame. A millionaire and a potential picture-buyer! the great man himself came hurrying to greet them. He was a handsome man of middle age with a lion-like head, and the affable, assured manner of a citizen of the world.

He showed them into the studio, a superb room, but severe and workmanlike according to the modern usage. Before they were well-seated, an attendant, knowing his duty well, began to pull out canvases.

"I—I didn't come to talk to you about pictures," stammered George Deaves.

At a sign from his master the man left the room. Mr. Hassell waited politely to be enlightened.

Poor George Deaves floundered about. "It's such a delicate matter—I'm sure I don't know what you will think—I scarcely know how to tell you——"

Hassell began to look alarmed. He said: "Mr. Deaves, I beg you will be plain with me."

Deaves turned hopelessly to Evan. "You tell him."

"Better show him the letter," said Evan.

"The letter?" said Deaves in a panic, "what letter? I don't understand you."

"We came to tell him," said Evan. "We've either got to tell him or go."

Deaves wiped his face. "Mr. Hassell, I hope I can rely on your discretion. You will receive what I am about to tell you in absolute confidence?"

"My dear sir," returned the painter a little testily, "you come to me in this state of agitation about I don't know what. Whatever it is, I hope I will comport myself like a man of honour!"

George Deaves handed over the letter in a hand that trembled. Hassell's face was a study as he read it.

"This is blackmail!" he cried. "And in my name!"

"That's why we came to you," said Deaves—a little unnecessarily it might be thought.

"You surely don't suspect——"

"Certainly not," said Evan quickly—there was no knowing what break Deaves might have made. "But you can help us."

"Of course! This letter names eleven o'clock as the hour." Hassell glanced at his watch. "It's nearly twelve now. Why didn't you come to me earlier—or phone?"

"Well, I didn't know—it didn't occur to me," began Deaves, and stopped with an appealing glance at Evan.

Evan said bluntly: "Mr. Deaves was not acquainted with your name and your work until I told him."

The great painter looked a little astonished at such ignorance. "Has the money been sent to the club?" he asked.

Deaves nodded shamefacedly.

Mr. Hassell immediately got busy. "I'll taxi down there at once. I rarely use the Barbizon club nowadays. Haven't been there in a month."

"Shall we go with you?" asked Delves.

"No. They may have spies posted who would see you even if you remained in the cab. If you'll be good enough to wait here, I'll be back inside half an hour."

Even in his bustle he did not neglect business. As soon as he had gone the servant appeared again, and began to show his pictures. Deaves goggled at them indifferently, but Evan was keenly interested. He studied them with the mixture of scorn and envy that is characteristic of the attitude of poor young artists towards rich old ones.

Within a few minutes of his half hour Hassell was back again. "Not much to report," he said deprecatingly. "The envelope addressed to me was delivered just before eleven o'clock, and put in the H box of the letter rack. It was gone when I looked, of course, but who took it remains to be discovered. About thirty members had gone in and out. Practically everybody stops at the letter rack. I have a list of those who passed in and out as well as the doorkeeper could make it out from memory."

"How about the door-keeper?" asked Deaves.

"Above suspicion, I should say. Has been with the club for twenty years. A simple soul hardly capable of acting a part. He would hardly have told me that he put my letter in the rack himself."

"Other servants then?"

"There were several boys on duty in the hall, but they are not supposed to go to the letter-rack without orders. If one of them had looked over the letters it could scarcely have escaped notice. No, unpleasant as it is to think so, I am afraid it was one of the members—someone who was counting on the fact that I never appear at the club except for an important meeting or a dinner. I looked over the members in the clubhouse, honest-looking men—but who can tell?"

"No doubt the one who got the money left immediately," suggested Evan.

Hassell said to Deaves: "With your permission I should like to take the matter up with the Board of Governors."

"No, no, if you please," said Deaves nervously. "No publicity."

"Then allow me to put this list in the hands of a first-class detective agency. Those fellows are secret enough."

"Let me attend to it if you please."

Hassell handed over the list with manifest reluctance; "If anyone uses my name again I trust you will let me know promptly."

"You may depend on it," said Deaves, making for the door.

"By the way, how did you like my pictures?"

"Very pretty, very pretty," said Deaves uneasily. "I don't know anything about such things. My wife buys everything for the home."

"Ah!" said Hassell with ironical eyebrows.

"I will tell her about them."

"Thank you," said Hassell, bowing them out.

George Deaves didn't say much on the way home, but Evan was aware that his attitude had changed. There were no more accusations. Clearly Deaves had been impressed by the fact that the interview with Hassell had turned out exactly as Evan had foretold.

Simeon Deaves was still shuffling around the library in his slippers. "Well?" he demanded.

His son briefly told him what had occurred.

The old man was in a very bad temper. "Yah! let him pull wool over your eyes!" he cried. "All a pack of thieves together! Artists never have any money! And this one knows more than he lets on. He's too smart by half! You mark my words!"

"Please go outside," the much-tried George said to Evan. "Wait in the hall."

Evan obeyed with a shrug. Outside the softly-stepping Alfred was loitering suspiciously. He approached Evan.

"Something doing to-day, eh?" he said with his obsequious-impudent leer. "Where did you two go?"

Evan's gorge rose at the man. He saw nothing to be gained now by hiding his feelings. "You damn sneak!" he said quietly. "Keep away from me, or I'll hurt you!"

Alfred, with a scared and venomous look, slunk down-stairs. Evan felt better.

Presently George Deaves called him back into the library. At what had taken place between father and son he could only guess. The old man's attitude had changed; he was disposed to be friendly. Divided between their fears and their suspicions father and son were continually making these face-abouts.

George Deaves said in his pompous way: "My father has re-considered his decision not to employ you further. He will be glad to have you stay according to the original arrangement."

"That's right," added the old man. "I just spoke a little hasty. I always said you were a good boy."

Evan's face hardened. "I'm not sure that I want the job," he said.

"Forty dollars a week's a fine salary," said Simeon Deaves.

"I'll stay for fifty," said Evan coolly.

They both gasped. "Are you trying to hold us up?" cried George Deaves.

"If that's what you want to call it," said Evan. "You force me to. If I appear anxious for the job, you will soon be accusing me again of being in the gang. As a matter of fact I don't care whether I stay or not."

"Well, I'll pay it," said George Deaves with a sour face, "provided you'll agree to investigate the list Hassell gave us in your spare time."

"I'll do it," said Evan. "I'm interested. You'd better discharge Alfred who is certainly a spy, and get a detective in his place to keep a watch on the other servants."

"Those fellows cost ten dollars a day!" cried Simeon Deaves.

"The blackmailers are getting five thousand out of you every fortnight," retorted Evan.

"I do not see the necessity for a detective," said George Deaves loftily. "As long as I'm paying you all this money. You can look out for that side of the case as well."

"Just as you like," said Evan smiling. It was hopeless to try to argue with these people.

Alfred entered, and giving Evan a wide berth laid a long envelope on George Deaves' desk. "Brought by messenger," he said. "No answer." He left the room.

Deaves paled as his eyes fell on the superscription.

"The same handwriting!" he murmured.

He nervously tore open the envelope. It contained some typewritten sheets, and a slip with writing upon it. George Deaves read the letter with a perplexed expression, and handed it over to Evan.

"What do you make of that?" he asked.

Evan read: "Received of George Deaves the sum of five thousand dollars in full payment of the story entitled: 'Simeon Deaves Goes Shopping,' including all rights. All existing copies of the manuscript enclosed. Many thanks. The Ikunahkatsi."

"Same old impudence!" said Evan smiling grimly. "This crook is something of a character it seems. Affects a kind of honesty in his dealings."

"Oh, he's kept a copy of the story," said George Deaves.

"Possibly. But why should he go to the trouble of making believe that he has not?—and send a receipt? Criminal psychology is queer. This is something out of the common that we are up against!"



CHAPTER IX

THE COMPACT IS SMASHED

Evan spent the afternoon walking about with Simeon Deaves. The old man was an indefatigable pedestrian. He had no object in his wanderings, but loved to poke into the oddest and most out-of-the-way corners of the town. They were not followed to-day so far as Evan could tell. At first Simeon Deaves was uneasy and suspicious of his body-guard, but finding that Evan took everything calmly for granted, he unbent and became loquacious. All his talk was on the same subject: how to get along in the world, i.e. how to make money.

Evan having taken him home at last, sank into the seat of a bus with relief. "Anyhow it will be good for my health," he thought.

Before going home he called at the studio of a friend, a member of the Barbizon Club, and without taking him entirely into his confidence, enlisted his aid in investigating the actions and habits of the men on Hassell's list. It may be said here, that nothing came of this.

Evan and Charley met for the evening meal. The irrepressible Charley was still singing about the red-haired girl. In spite of his boasts it appeared that his advances had consistently been turned down. Evan took a little comfort from this. Sullenness was unknown to the gay Charley and he was not a whit less optimistic because of his set-backs.

"You don't want a girl to be too come-on-ish," he said. "A highty-tighty manner adds zest to the game. They don't expect to be taken seriously when they turn you down, bless your heart, no. Why, if I let that girl drop now, she'd despise me for my faintheartedness. Sure, and be as disappointed as anything!"

Evan was not in much of a humour to laugh at him. Indeed he foresaw that an impossible situation would presently develop between Charley and him unless he said something. With an elaborately casual manner he began at last:

"I say, Charl, you and I have always played fair with each other."

"Well I should rather fahncy, as Lord Percy said. What's on your chest, boy? Unload! Unload!"

"It's only fair to tell you that I have become acquainted with the young lady in question."

Charley stared. "The Deuce you say! You, the scorner of the sex! Since when?"

"Two nights ago."

"And you never said a word about it. You let me shoot off my mouth all this time and never——"

"What was there to say?"

"You packed me off to the life class last night so you could—"

"That was for your own good!"

"Come off! Come off! Have I such a trusting eye? On the level why didn't you tell me before?"

What was Evan to say. He began an explanation that was no explanation. Charley's sharp eyes bored him through and through.

"By the Lord!" cried the latter at last, "Old Stony-heart has melted! St. Anthony has fallen for the caloric tresses. Touched where he lives, by Gad! Brought low and humbled in the dust!"

Evan grinned painfully. "Don't be a fool!" he muttered.

"How does it feel?" asked Charley with mock solicitude, "a dull ache in the epigastrium or a fluttering sensation in the pericardium; some lay stress on the characteristic feeling of heaviness behind the occiput."

"You wheeze like a vaudeville performer on small time," growled Evan.

Charley roared. He did not often get his partner on the grill like this. It was generally the other way about. But in the midst of his outrageous joshing it suddenly struck the warm-hearted Charley that under his game grin Evan was suffering very pretty torments. Charley jumped up and for the briefest of seconds laid his hand on his partner's shoulder.

"Look here," he said abruptly, "you know what I think of you really, or if you don't you'll have to take it for granted, for I'll never tell you. I haven't the words, but only a line of cheap cackle as you say. Understand, from this time on it's a clear field for you, see? Me for the Movies, to-night."

Evan was touched, but of course he couldn't show Charley his feelings, for that matter Charley did not require it. "You needn't go out on my account," he grumbled. "I don't expect to see her to-night. She has a date."

Such was the bitterness with which he said it, that Charley could not help but laugh again. "Cheer up!" he cried. "It has been known to happen. Fellows like you take it too hard. Hard wood is slow to catch, eh, but Lor' what a heat she throws out!"

"Don't jolly me," muttered Evan. "I can't take it!"

Charley's face softened again for an instant. "C'mon with me," he said. "Mildred Macy in the Spawn of Infamy's at the Nonpareil. Milly is some vamp I hear."

"Couldn't sit through a picture," said Evan. "You go."

Nevertheless when the dishes were washed up the prospect of spending the evening alone in the little room was too ghastly. As Charley got up Evan said sheepishly:

"Believe I will go."

"Bully!" said Charley. "Get your hat."

As they passed her door Evan's ears were long. No sounds came from within, no crack of light showed beneath. He had been hoping against hope that she might be there. Where was she? The picture of a little restaurant rushed before his mind's eye, Corinna and a man on opposite sides of the table, their smiling faces drawing close over the cloth. He suffered as much as if he had actually beheld them. That's the worst of having a vivid imagination.

"Spawn of Infamy" proved to be what Charley termed "High-life for low-lifers" and they were home shortly after nine. As they mounted the first flight Evan perceived a crack of light under Corinna's door and his heart rose. She was home early, she had not had a good time then. But as they rounded the landing he heard her voice inside. She had a visitor—alone in there with her! A horrible spasm of pain contracted his breast. He had much ado to restrain himself from beating with his fists on the door. He followed Charley up-stairs grinding his teeth. He had never suspected that such raging devils lay dormant in his blood.

When they got up-stairs it was quite impossible for Evan to remain there. For a moment or two he walked up and down like something caged; he could not pretend to hide the feelings that were tearing him. Charley glancing at him wonderingly out of the tail of his eye, bustled about talking foolishly.

Finally Evan said thickly: "It's stuffy up here. I'm going down to walk around the Park awhile."

Charley's eyes followed him compassionately. Charley's time to experience this sort of thing had not arrived.

When he started Evan honestly intended to go down in the Park and calm himself with the exercise of walking. But unfortunately he had to pass her door. In spite of himself he stopped there, and despising himself, listened. He heard her say: "I won't sing to-night. I'm not in the humour." Then he heard a man's voice low and urgent, and he saw red. He knocked.

She came promptly and opened the door, opened it wide. She did not quail when she saw his lowering face.

"Good evening," she said with the upward inflection meaning: "What do you want?"

Her tone flatly denied their intimacy of the night before. This aspect of a woman's nature was new to Evan; he was astonished and hotly indignant.

"May I come in?" he asked stiffly.

"Certainly," she said promptly and indifferently, and threw the door open wide.

Evan stepped in, and his eyes flew to find his rival. The latter was sitting between the piano and the window. He was younger than Evan, not much more than a lad in fact, but a resolute, comely lad; one of whom Evan could be jealous.

"Mr. Weir, Mr. Anway," said Corinna impassively.

They nodded, eyeing each other like strange dogs. A factitious calm descended on Evan. He could even smile, but there were ugly lines around his mouth. His voice was harsh.

"Aren't we going to have some music?" he said.

By this he meant to convey to the other man that he was accustomed to be entertained in that room. The point was not lost. The younger man whitened about the lips. The girl gave no sign at all. Even in his anger Evan commended her pluck. She kept her chin up; her eyes were scornful.

"I'll play," she said going towards the piano.

"I like your singing better," said Evan.

"I am not in the humour," she said in a tone that finally disposed of the question.

She played—what she played Evan never knew. It is doubtful if any of them heard a note. Evan sat affecting to listen with a smile like a grimace. The other man kept his eyes down. Whatever Corinna may have been feeling, it did not interfere with the technical excellence of her performance; her fingers danced like fairies over the keys, but to-night there was no magic in the sounds they evoked.

Corinna's part was the easiest because she had something to do and somewhere to look. She went from one piece to another without a word being spoken. Evan went on smiling until his face was cracking; the other never looked up.

Finally the sounds began to get on Evan's nerves. "Don't tire yourself!" he said with bitter politeness.

She stopped, and turning around on the bench waited for him to say something more. Her attitude said plainer than words: "You provoked this situation; very well, it's up to you to save it." This cool defiance in a mere girl, a little one at that, angered Evan past all bearing. He smiled the more, and addressed the other man:

"Fond of music, Mr. Anway?"

"Very," said the other without looking at him.

"What is your favourite piece in Miss Playfair's repertoire—I mean among the songs."

"I have no favourite."

"But don't you think she sings 'Just a Wearyin' for You' and 'Love Unexpressed' with wonderful expression?"

Anway did not answer. Corinna yawned delicately. "You'll have to excuse me," she said. "I have to go to Ridgewood early to-morrow to give lessons."

Anway, better-mannered than Evan—or better-trained, immediately rose. Evan sat tight, smiling mockingly at Corinna. "No, you don't!" the smile said. His conduct was inexcusable of course, but he was beyond caring for that. She had denied him and defied him to his face; let her take the consequences. Anway seeing that Evan wasn't going, sat down again flushing.

"Don't wait for me," said Evan. "I only have to go up-stairs."

Anway bit his lip. He was not deficient in pluck, but he lacked Evan's self-possession. The two or three years' difference in age put him at a cruel disadvantage. Finally he looked at the girl.

"May I stay a little longer, Corinna?" he asked.

The Christian name stabbed Evan. He sneered. "Nice, well-mannered little boy!" his expression said.

"You must both go," said Corinna calmly.

Evan smiled at her again, but she refused to meet his glance. However he stood up now, for he wished to start the other man on his way. Anway picked up his hat and gloves. Then all three stood there avoiding each other's glances. Neither man would be the first to say good-night, nor would Corinna address one before the other. It was a sufficiently absurd situation, but it had all the potentialities of a violent one. Finally Corinna cut the knot by saying:

"Good-night, both of you." She opened the door.

The two young men glared at each other. Anway was the weaker spirit and he had to go first. But he lingered just outside the door to make sure that Evan was coming too.

Evan whispered to Corinna: "I'm coming back."

"Indeed you're not!" she retorted, glancing significantly at the key in the door.

"Then I won't go," said Evan coolly turning back into the room.

Corinna bit her lip. Clearly, Evan offered her a new set of problems in the management of men. Anway sought to enter again, but she stopped him.

"Please go, Leonard," she murmured. "This is too absurd!"

The whispered colloquy was perfectly audible to Evan.

Anway said: "But I don't like to leave you alone with——"

She laughed slightly. "Nonsense! I can take care of myself!"

"But, Corinna, if I go he'll think I——"

"I will put him straight as to that."

"Corinna," this low and thick, "what is this man to you?"

"No more than you—or any of my friends."

"But, Corinna——"

"Go!"

He went step by step with heavy feet on the stairs.

Corinna came into the room leaving the door open. Her eyes were bright with anger. "Well, you won your pitiful little victory over the boy," she said scornfully. "I hope you're pleased with yourself!"

The blood began to pound in Evan's temples. "Don't speak to me like that!" he said thickly. "I am no tame thing!"

"You may go," she said.

He smiled. "Not so easily!"

"Then I will."

"Where will you go?"

"To Miss Sisson's room."

Evan laughed. He had not much fear of that.

"What's the matter with you?" she demanded.

For a brief instant he seemed to catch a glimpse inside himself and was aghast at what was stewing there. "God knows!" he said helplessly.

Corinna took heart at this evidence of weakness. "Then go away until you come to your senses," she said imperiously.

Evan flushed darkly. "I will not go!" he said.

They stared at each other.

Finally words began to come to Evan, at first haltingly: "Last night—you sang to me. Love songs—that drew the very heart out of me——"

She made an indignant movement.

"Oh, I know what you're going to say, they were just songs that you might sing to anybody. But you sung them to me—in a warm and tender voice, knowing that my ears were hungry for the sounds. You sang down all my defenses. You sang to me until I was soft and helpless. You sang me to your feet. I offered you myself—all there is of me body and soul. And you took me!—Oh, I know you made conditions, what did I care? I scarcely heard them. What do words matter at such moments? I offered you my love, and you took it. I felt from that moment that I was yours, and you mine.

"To-night when I came I found another man here—another man you were accustomed to sing to—how many of them are there?—the same songs, Oh God! Another man who looked at you with sick eyes of longing! And you denied me when I came! You looked at me with the eyes of a stranger because he was here! And now you ask me what is the matter with me. Am I a toy spaniel to be petted and turned out of the room by turn?"

She found her voice at last. "You have no right to speak to me like that! You promised me——"

"Oh, damn such promises! That's all nonsense! You're a woman and I'm a man! Have all the little brothers you want, but count me out. I will be your lover or nothing!"

"How dare you!" she gasped. "You brute!"

"Yes, I'm a brute!" he said. "I'm glad of it! Brutal things need to be said to clear the air. There's been too much sickly nonsense. You despise men, don't you? You like to see them crawling? You need a lesson! You shall be mine, and mine only and you shall respect me!"

Corinna was well-nigh speechless now. "I hate you! I hate you!" she gasped. "Leave my room!"

"Not till we come to an understanding."

She darted for the door. It was a mistake in tactics. A joyous flame leaped up in his eyes and he seized her. She fought him like a little tigress, but he only laughed deep inside of him, and drawing her close kissed her pulsing throat.

She ceased to struggle. The hands that had been beating his face stole around his neck. Her lips sought his of their own accord.

"I love you!" she murmured. "I can't help myself! I love you! What will happen to me now!"

At breakfast next morning Evan was in the highest spirits. His piercing inaccurate whistling of "Mighty Lak' a Rose" got Charley out of bed a good half hour before his time. Charley looked at him rather sourly, not too well pleased to have his role of little sunshine usurped by another. A scratch decorated one of Evan's cheeks which Charley did not overlook.

"What have you been in?" he asked sarcastically.

"Cut myself shaving," replied Evan with a casual air.

"You must have shaved early. It's dry."

Evan's only reply was another cadenza.

"Here's a change of tune!" commented Charley. "Last night it was the Dead March from Saul."

"Come on, slug! Breakfast's on the table."

It was impossible for Charley to be ill-tempered for long. Presently he began to grin. "Pleasant walking in the Square last night?" he asked dryly.

Evan couldn't quite confide in him, but he was not unwilling that Charley should guess how matters stood. "Out-o'-sight!" he cried.

"Want to borrow some money?" said Charley carelessly. "I'm flush."

Evan stared. "How did you guess that?"

"They generally do," said Charley airily.

"I'll be paid by the old man at the end of the week."

"That's all right. Here's five, son. I can recommend the one on the Avenue just below Fourteenth."

"The one what?" asked Evan innocently.

"Florist."

Evan blushed.

On his way down-stairs Evan tapped on her door with beating heart. There was no answer. With a sigh he went on. Carmen, who missed little, had heard him stop and coming out, volunteered the information that Miss Playfair had gone out real early. Evan thanked her, and hurried on, dreading to face the sharp-eyed spinster.

All morning he walked the streets with Simeon Deaves in a dream. In the middle of the day he made an excuse to avoid luncheon at the Deaves' and rushed home, stopping en route to buy a small-sized cartwheel of violets.

He let himself in softly and managed to get on the stairs without attracting Carmen's attention. The violets were hidden under his coat. Corinna's door stood open now, and his heart began to beat. "Will she recognise my step?" he thought. "I would know hers on my flight."

He stood in her doorway and the heart slowly froze in his breast. The room was empty, dreadfully empty. She was gone. The empty mantel, the empty floor, the empty place where the piano had stood seemed to mock at him. He turned a little sick, and put his hand out behind him on the door frame for support. "There is some mistake," he told himself, but he knew in his heart there was no mistake. This was the natural outcome of the tormenting mystery in which Corinna enveloped herself.

He looked stupidly down at the violets in his hand. In a spasm of pain he threw them on the floor and ground them under his heel. Their fragrance filled the room. Then the violence passed and he felt dead inside. He looked inside the little dressing-room—not that he expected to find her there, but it was a place to look. It was empty of course.

When he issued out again the sight of the bruised flowers caused him a fresh wrench. Lying there they were like a public advertisement of his betrayed heart. He picked them up and thrust them as far as he could reach up the chimney flue.

In the midst of Evan's pain a voice seemed to whisper to him: "You might have expected it. It was too much happiness!"

Later he thought: "There will be a letter for me up-stairs," and ran up the two flights, knowing there would be no letter. Yet he searched even in the unlikeliest places. There was no letter. To his relief Charley was out.

He thought of Carmen. Dreadful as it was to face her prying eyes, it was still more dreadful not to know what had happened. He went down-stairs again. On the final flight the unhappy wretch started to whistle, hoping by that to attract her to her door that he might not have to ask for information.

The ruse was successful. She came out into the hall. Evan found himself curiously studying the odd bumps that the curling pins made under her frowsy boudoir cap. She required no lead to make her talk.

"Miss Playfair has gone!" she cried.

"So I see," said Evan. He listened carefully to the sound of his own voice. It did not shake. He kept his back to the light from the front door.

"What do you know about that! I never did like her. One of them flibbertigibbets! You never can trust a red-haired woman! And such a display of her hair, as if it was beautiful indeed! That showed her character. But I should worry! Paid me a month's rent in advance when she came. Wanted part of it back this morning. But I said, 'Oh, no, my dear! That's the landlady's propensity—I mean perquisite.'"

Evan wondered if the sick disgust he felt of the woman showed in his face. As a matter of fact his face was simply wooden. Carmen rattled on unsuspiciously:

"That's enough for me. I don't care if I never rent the rooms. No more women in my house. They lower the tone. A man of course can do anything and it doesn't matter, but a woman in the house is a cause for suspicion even if she doesn't do anything."

Evan was not interested in Miss Sisson's ideas. He wanted information. "What reason did she give for leaving?" he asked carelessly.

"Said she had an important musical offer from out of town. But do you believe that? I don't."

"She didn't lose much time in moving her things," suggested Evan.

"No indeed. Looks very suspicious if you ask me."

Evan was obliged to put his question in more direct form. "Who moved her things?"

"Just an ordinary truck without any name on it. I looked particularly. The piano people came for the piano. Rented. It was a Stannering."

Fearing that the next question could not but betray him, Evan was nevertheless obliged to ask it: "Did she leave any forwarding address?"

Miss Sisson's gimlet eyes bored him through before she replied. "Yes, I asked her. She said she didn't expect anything to come here, but if it did I could forward it care of her friend Miss Evans, 133 West Ninth street. Did she owe you any money?"

This was too much. "No, indeed," said Evan, and hurried away.

He walked blindly across the Square, conscious only that Carmen was probably watching him through the narrow pane beside the door. How well he knew her expression of mean inquisitiveness. He was marching into blackness. He was incapable of thinking consecutively. What was left of his faculties was concentrated to the sole end of concealing his hurt.

But he still had two clues. He automatically turned down Ninth street looking for 133 only to find what everybody knows that West Ninth street ends at Sixth avenue and there are consequently no numbers beyond 100. He went to the Stannering piano warerooms to ask if they had the new address of Miss Corinna Playfair on their books. He was told that Miss Playfair had returned her piano that morning saying that she was leaving town and would require it no longer.



CHAPTER X

MAUD'S INTEREST

Meanwhile Evan's association with Simeon Deaves was not without its humorous side. By the exercise of patience and diplomacy he gradually learned how to manage the old man like a child, though like a child there were times when he was perfectly unmanageable. Evan in a way became quite attached to him simply because he was a responsibility.

Avarice was a kind of disease that afflicted him. Apart from that he was a harmless, even a likable old fellow. He suffered from acute attacks, so to speak: these were his unmanageable times. He became sly and furtive, and sought for pretexts to sneak out of the house without Evan, or to give him the slip in the street. Evan had to watch sharp to keep him out of trouble. He had little doubt but that they were generally followed, but by more experienced trackers than the youth in grey for he could never be sure of it.

Simeon Deaves had a thousand foibles, some of which Evan found sadly trying. For instance it was his delight to walk up and down the aisles of department stores asking to be shown goods, and haggling over the price without the slightest intention of purchasing anything. The audible remarks of the salesgirls made Evan's cheeks burn.

When he remonstrated with the old man, the latter would not rest thereafter until he had given Evan the slip. Under cover of the crowds he would slip out of a side door, or dart into an elevator just as the door was closing. After a search Evan would find him perhaps entering a second-hand shop to trade the decent clothes that Maud made him wear for something out of stock with a little cash to boot. At other times Evan would track him by the crowd that gathered to hear his argument with a shoe-string peddler or a push-cart man. A favourite trick of his to evade Evan was to suddenly dart behind a moving trolley car. More than once this almost ended his career on the spot. At other times he was quite tractable and seemed almost fond of Evan.

Bargaining was his ruling passion. Consequently they haunted such places as the sidewalk market in Grand street, and the fish market under the Queensboro Bridge. Notwithstanding his avarice the old man not seldom bought things for which he had no possible use, simply because he thought they were cheap. He would bring home a doubtful fish in a bit of newspaper or a bag of pickled apples which promptly found their way into the Deaves' garbage cans.

His pet aversion was beggars. Woe to the beggar who tackled Simeon Deaves unwittingly. He would receive a lecture on Thrift on the spot. This likewise furnished amusement to the street crowds.

Evan's grand object, of course, was to keep the old man from doing anything which would give the blackmailers a further hold on him. One of his narrowest escapes took place under the very roof of the Deaves house. The old man was considered safe in his own little junk room in the basement, and was allowed to potter there unwatched. One rainy morning while he was supposedly so engaged Evan was enjoying a respite with a book in the little office adjoining the library, when through the open door into the hall he saw one of the maids whisper to another, then both tittered and scampered down stairs. Evan always on the alert for mischief, quietly followed.

He found most of the servants of that disorderly establishment gathered in a basement passage with heads bent, listening to sounds that issued through the door of Simeon Deaves' room. Among them was Hilton the butler, an oily, obese rascal whom Evan thoroughly distrusted. All vanished the other way down the passage at Evan's approach.

Evan knocked peremptorily, and the door being opened, he saw that the multi-millionaire was closeted with a typical specimen of old clo' man, bearded, dirty and cringing. It was their dispute over sundry articles in Simeon Deaves' weird collection that had drawn the giggling servants. It appeared that the old man was the seller. Evan bounced the old clo' man in spite of his protests.

"I come by appoindmend, mister. I come by appoindmend!"

"All right" said Evan. "Call it a disappoindmend, and get!"

The old man was indignant too. "A very honest man," he protested. "He was willing to pay me twenty-five cents for my alarm clock. I could have got him up to thirty. It isn't worth more than fifteen!"

"You can be sure then that he was taking a chance of picking up something for nothing," said Evan. "When will you learn sense! All the servants listening and giggling in the passage. Nice story the alarm clock would make in the papers!"

But it was impossible to make the old man realize his own absurdity. "Well, you needn't bite my head off," he said pettishly. "Come on, let's go out. A little rain won't hurt us."

From which it will be seen that their relative positions had undergone a considerable change since the beginning. Evan had become the mentor and guide.

In the past the demands for money had come pretty regularly about once a fortnight, Evan learned. As the end of the two weeks drew near a certain apprehension was evident in the house. George Deaves was wretchedly anxious, Evan somewhat less so, while the old man went his ways undisturbed.

And then the letter came. One morning on his arrival Evan was directed to the library where he found George Deaves in a state of prostration. He waved a letter at Evan in a kind of weak indignation. Evan took it and read:

"Dear Mr. Deaves:

Another story has been written to add to the blithe biography of your parent. It is the most humorous chapter so far. We do not enclose it, as we desire to stimulate your curiosity. You can read it in the Clarion to-morrow evening—unless you wish to reserve that pleasure exclusively to yourself. In that case you may send a picture to the rummage sale of the Red Cross at — Fifth avenue. Mrs. Follett Drayton is in charge. Send any framed picture and between the picture and the backing insert five of Uncle Sam's promissory notes of the usual denomination. Put your name on the picture for purposes of identification.

Yours as ever, THE IKUNAHKATSI."

"This is the return I get for the money I have paid you!" said George Deaves reproachfully.

"It's a bluff!" said Evan.

"Can you assure me of that?"

"I can't swear to it of course. Mr. Deaves gives me the slip once in a while. And there was one day I was not with him. But he says he didn't go out that day. I'm sure it's a bluff. If they had a new story on him they'd send it fast enough."

"Maybe they're going to print the last one."

"Maybe. But in that case why not say so? They have shown a queer sense of honour heretofore in suggesting that when you paid for a story that was done with. Have you got the envelope this came in?"

George Deaves handed it over. It was of medium size and made of cheap "Irish linen" paper. The post-mark was Hamilton Grange. A small peculiarity that Evan marked was that though it had been sent from a New York post-office the words "New York City" were written in full.

"What do you think about this Mrs. Drayton?" asked Deaves.

"A woman above suspicion. They're using her as they used Hassell. Easy enough to plant somebody in the Red Cross shop to watch the packages received. Someone to buy the picture you send."

"You advise me to ignore this then?"

"No, if it was me I'd call their bluff. Have a better moral effect. Get an old picture from somewhere and stick a piece of paper in the back. The fellow who wrote this letter fancies himself as a humorist. Answer him in kind. Write on the paper: 'Show me first your wares.'"

"What does that mean?" asked George Deaves innocently.

"A quotation from Simple Simon," answered Evan grinning.

The other man hung in a painful state of indecision, biting his nails. At last he said breathlessly with a tremendous effort of resolution: "Very well, I'll do it."

But the gang proved to have another shot in its locker. Next morning Evan was sent for again to the library where he found a family conclave in session. The gorgeous Maud in purple velvet and pearls ("How does she get the money out of them?" thought Evan) was detonating like a thunderstorm in the hills. George Deaves sat crushed at his desk, and the old man sputtered and snarled when he could get a word in. Maud (it was impossible for Evan to think of her by a more respectful name) promptly turned to discharge her lightnings at Evan's head.

"What are you good for?" she demanded. "Aren't you paid a good salary to keep my husband's father from disgracing us all? Why don't you do it then? Why don't you do it?"

Evan bit his lip to keep from smiling in her face. To an outsider these family rows smacked of burlesque. One could always depend on the actors to play their regular parts.

"If you would please explain," said Evan mildly.

"Read that!" She thrust a letter at him.

Evan read:

"Mrs. George Deaves:

Dear Madam:

Your husband has declined to purchase the latest anecdote of Mr. Simeon Deaves, and has bidden us to let the general public enjoy the laugh. This we will very gladly do, but knowing you to be a lady of sensitive nature, it seemed too bad not to give you a chance to act in the matter first. The story will be published in the Clarion this evening unless we hear from you or from Mr. Deaves. In case you wish to stop it please see our letter of yesterday for instructions how to reach us and what to send.

In the meantime pray accept, dear Madam, the assurances of our distinguished consideration, and believe us,

Yours most respectfully, THE IKUNAHKATSI."

"Why wasn't it sent?" she cried.

"Mr. Deaves decided that they were bluffing this time," said Evan.

"You advised me!" said Deaves.

"Certainly" said Evan. "That's all I can do. The decision rests with you."

"Why wasn't I consulted?" cried Maud.

And so the storm raged up and down. Evan devoutly wished himself some place else.

"Knowing your father's propensity for disgracing us I don't believe it's a bluff!" cried Maud.

"Disgracing you!" retorted the old man. "Whose money paid for those gew-gaws?"

"Must I stand here to be insulted in the presence of my husband!"

"Papa, be quiet!"

"Disgracing you? Where would you all be, but for this disgraceful old man I'd like to know!"

But neither of the men was any match for Maud. Within a quarter of an hour she had driven the old man from the room and reduced her husband to a palpitating jelly.

In the end the latter said hopelessly: "Very well, I'll send the money."

Maud swept triumphantly out of the room. Evan looked after her with a new eye. During the last few minutes an extraordinary suspicion had come into his mind, an incredible suspicion, but it would not down.

The wretched George Deaves played with the objects on his desk. "All very well to say I'll send it," he muttered. "But where am I going to get it? Useless to ask Papa."

Evan was silent. There was nothing for him to say.

George Deaves looked at him aggrievedly. "You think I'm wrong to send it."

"I should think it would be hard enough to send it when they had something on you, let alone when they were only bluffing."

"It is hard," whimpered the other. "I think it's a bluff myself. But suppose it isn't and the story is printed. What would I say to Maud? How could I face her?"

"It's for you to decide," said Evan.

George Deaves rapped on his desk, bit his fingers, looked out of the window, got up and sat down again. Finally he said tremulously: "Very well, I'll take a chance."

With what anxiety they awaited the appearance of the Clarion may be guessed. Simeon Deaves and Evan started out immediately after lunch to get a copy. The old man wanted to go direct to the publishing office to get it damp from the press, but Evan persuaded him it would never do to betray so much anxiety in the matter. The Clarion office might be watched. Indeed it was not unlikely the gang had an agent there.

They found that none of the newsstands in the vicinity of the plaza carried the Clarion: "a socialistic rag" it was called in that neighbourhood. They had to walk all the way to Third avenue to find a dealer who would confess to handling it. It would be up at four he said, so that they had an hour to kill, which old Simeon spent very happily in the fish-market.

For the last fifteen minutes they hung around outside the newsstand while the proprietor watched them suspiciously from inside his window. When the newswagon drove up Simeon Deaves snatched a Clarion from the top of the pile. The newsdealer held out his hand for the two cents, but it was ignored.

Evan got a copy for himself. Skimming over the headlines he failed to find the name of Deaves and breathed more freely. A more careful search column by column revealed not so much as a stick of type devoted to Simeon Deaves. Evan and his employer looked at each other and grinned.

The newsdealer demanded his two cents.

"Shan't need the paper now," said Simeon, calmly putting it down.

Evan averted an explosion by hastily paying for both copies.

On the way home the old man was in such an extraordinary good humour that he actually bought Evan a five-cent cigar. Evan keeps it to this day as a curiosity.

At home they found an ashy and shaken George Deaves waiting for them in the library.

"It's all right!" said Evan.

A look of beatific relief overspread the other's face. He immediately began to swell. "That is most gratifying! most gratifying!" he said pompously. "I am really under obligations to you, Weir. We both are, aren't we, Papa?"

"Sure, Evan's a good boy. I always said so. I bought him a cigar."

"Tcha! A cigar! I should really like to do something for you, Weir."

"You can raise my salary if you want," said Evan slyly.

A comical transformation took place in both faces. "What! Raise your salary! Again! Impossible!" both cried.

Evan laughed. "Well, you proposed doing something for me."

Someone else in that house had bought a copy of the Clarion. Mrs. George Deaves entered in what was for her a high good humour with a copy of the sheet under her arm.

"Well, I see you sent the money," she said.

George Deaves looked self-conscious. He greatly desired to lie, but lacked the effrontery to do so before the other men. His father saved him the trouble of doing so. Eager to get back at Maud he said:

"No, he didn't!"

Mrs. Deaves' face fell. The black eyes began to snap. Another storm portended. "You promised me——" she began.

"But you see we were right," interrupted her husband. "It was a bluff. There's nothing in the paper."

"You don't know it's a bluff!" she cried. "Perhaps they were too late for the paper. It will be in to-morrow. You have got to send the money at once as you promised!"

But George Deaves' momentary relief had put a little backbone into him. "I still think it a bluff!" he said doggedly. "I'm willing to take a chance."

The storm broke. "Oh, you're willing, are you? How about me? How about me? Here you sit all day. What do you know about how people talk? I have to go about. I have to see people smile when they think I'm not looking and whisper behind their hands. Do you think I don't know what they're saying? Oh, I know! 'That's Mrs. George Deaves, my dear. Wife of the son of the notorious miser. You've heard how he squabbles in the street with newsboys and fruit vendors over pennies!' Well, I've had enough of it! Enough, I say! I won't stand it!"

In the full course of her tirade she happened to look at Evan. Evan's suspicion had become almost a certainty. His eyes were bent steadily upon her. He was not smiling, but there was an ironical lift to the corners of his mouth.

She pulled herself up. "Well, if there's anything published to-morrow you know what to expect," she said, and swept out of the room.

Evan glanced at father and son. Nothing showed in their faces but simple relief at her going. Evan marvelled at their blindness. He had yet to learn that habitually suspicious people never see what goes on under their noses.

Evan had plenty of food for thought. An extraordinary situation was suggested; one in which it behooved him to move with exceeding caution. For the moment his best plan appeared to be to continue to keep the old man out of trouble, while he watched and waited and found proof of what he was already morally sure.



CHAPTER XI

THE STEAMBOAT ERNESTINA

On a shining morning when the Northeast wind had swept the sky as clean as a Dutch kitchen, Evan was on his way to work, trying to make out to himself with but poor success that all was right with him and with the world. As a matter of fact the loveliness of the morning only put a keener edge on his dissatisfaction. He could not but remember other lovely mornings when the heart had been light in his breast.

Every pretty woman that he met put him in a rage. "All alike! All alike!" he said to himself. "God help the man that takes them at face value! Well, they'll never get their hooks in me again! I know them now!" It did not occur to him that there was rather an inconsistency in raging at something so perfectly unimportant; nor did he enquire too closely into the motives that led him to search ceaselessly among the feminine passers-by and to turn his head to look down every side street. His search for a certain red-haired individual of the despised sex had become involuntary.

At Thirteenth street he suddenly perceived Anway coming towards him down the avenue, and his heart bounded. Never was a man gladder to stumble on his rival. Luckily Evan saw him first. Hastily turning his back, he stared in a shop window until he judged the other had passed behind him. Then he took up the trail, forgetting his job, and indeed everything else save that Anway must possess the clue to Corinna's whereabouts.

He was led to the corner of Broadway and Twenty-third street, where Anway stopped, evidently to wait for an eastbound car. This was a little awkward, for the cars bound in that direction were but sparsely filled at this hour. Evan bought a newspaper. Anyway boarded a cross-town car and sat down inside. Evan swung himself on as the car got in motion, and remained out on the back platform, using his paper as a screen.

As the car progressed to the far East side it gradually emptied until only Anway and Evan remained on board. Evan became rather nervous. "Well, if he spots me I'll follow him anyhow," he said. "What on earth is he doing on this ragged edge of the town?"

At the end of the line Anway got off the front end of the car without having discovered Evan, and headed down the water-front street to the South. A number of groups of people, having the gala look of those bound on an excursion, were going the same way; and Evan concealed himself among them.

On the river side the new city piers stretched out into the water. Not having been leased yet, all kinds of craft were tied there; canal-boats, lighters, schooners, launches. All the people, including Anway, were heading towards a pier where a queer little old-fashioned steamboat was lying. She had a tall, thin smoke-stack and immense paddle-boxes. She looked like one of those insects with a tiny body and a wholly disproportionate outfit of legs, antennas, etc., spreading around. Her name was painted in fancy letters on the paddle-boxes: Ernestlna.

From the rear Evan saw Anway pass on board. He wondered what the elegant Anway had in common with all the poor and humble people who were bound on the excursion. Many of them obviously did not even possess any Sunday clothes to put on for the trip. There is, surely, no greater degree of poverty. Children were very largely in the majority, pale, great-eyed, little spindle-shanks. All had red tickets in their hands. If, as it seemed, this was a charitable excursion, Anway must be one of those in charge.

As he drew closer Evan saw that the tickets were being collected by a man at the shore end of the gangway. Here was a proper source of information. This man had the pale and earnest look of the professional philanthropist, a worthy soul, some half a dozen years older than Evan, with a wife and four children undoubtedly. Evan took up a place near him and watched the procession wending aboard with brightening faces.

"You couldn't have a better day for the trip," he hazarded.

The ticket-taker responded amiably: "Great, isn't it? We'll bring 'em back with rosy cheeks."

"Is this the outfit Anway told me about?" asked Evan, feeling his way.

"Yes, the Ozone Association trips. Are you a friend of Anway's? He's just gone aboard."

"He told me so much about it I thought I'd stroll down and take a look."

"Go aboard if you'd like to. We won't be leaving for ten minutes yet."

Evan desired a little further information before trusting himself aboard. "You must need quite a crowd of helpers to look after the kids."

"Miss Playfair takes care of that for me. She's a host in herself."

All the blood seemed to leave Evan's heart for a moment, and then came surging back until it seemed as if that much-tried organ would burst. He heard his informant saying:

"But if you know Anway, no doubt you're acquainted with Miss Playfair?"

"I've met her," said Evan, carefully schooling his voice.

"A wonderful little woman!"

"Quite so," said Evan dryly. "Look here," he went on, "I'd like to go with you to-day if I wouldn't be in the way. I mean, work my passage, of course; help take care of the kids, or amuse them, or feed them, or whatever may be necessary. My name's Evan Weir."

The other man looked Evan over and was pleased with what he saw.

"I'd be delighted to have you," he said. "We can always use more help. My name's Denton."

"Well, then, give me a job," said Evan.

"First of all, take my place for a moment," said Denton. "The ice-cream hasn't come. I must go and telephone."

"Sure thing!"

"You needn't be too strict about tickets," Denton added in an undertone. "I mean in respect to women and children. The main thing is to keep the bad and healthy little boys off."

"I get you," said Evan.

Denton hurried away. Evan took his place and the procession passed before him deprecatingly presenting its squares of red pasteboard. At first Evan scarcely took note of them, he was so busy with his private exultation. He had found her! And once they got away from the pier he would have her all day on the boat where she couldn't escape him. His luck had changed. For the present he kept his back turned to the Ernestina that he might not be unduly conspicuous to anyone happening to glance out of the cabin windows.

He was recalled to the business in hand by a plea: "Say, Mister! Let me and me brutter go, will yeh please? We had our tickets all right, but a big lad pasted us and took 'em offen us."

Evan looked down into a little angel face and clear shining eyes. The "brutter" waited warily in the background. Evan knew boys, and had no doubt but that this was a pair of incorrigibles, but he couldn't refuse anybody just then.

"What's your name, boy?"

"Ikey O'Toole."

"Well, you are out of the melting-pot for sure!"

"No, sir; I live in Hester street."

"That's all a stall about losing your tickets," Evan said, trying to look stern. "But I'll let you go. I'm going too, see? And if there's any rough-housing you'll have me to deal with."

The surprised and jubilant urchins hurried aboard.

This incident was witnessed with visible indignation by two pale and solemn little girls who stood apart. They knew the bad little boys told a story if the gentleman didn't. Lost their tickets, indeed! During a lull Evan beckoned them. They came sidling over, each twisting a corner of her pinafore.

"Are you waiting for somebody?" he asked.

A shake of the head.

"Haven't you got any tickets?"

Another shake.

"Do you want to go anyway?"

An energetic pair of nods.

"What will your mother say?"

"Ain't got no mutter. Sister, she don't care. She works all day."

"All right. Skip on board."

Denton and the ice-cream arrived simultaneously. Shortly afterwards a warning whistle was blown. A small pandemonium of singing and delighted squealing was heard from the upper deck. Evan stuck close to Denton. They remained on the lower deck while the gangplank was drawn in and the ropes cast off. Meanwhile Evan was gathering what further information he could.

"How often do you make these trips?"

"Twice a week—Tuesdays and Saturdays."

"What is the Ozone Association? I never heard of it."

"I can't tell you much, though I work for them. I've always understood it was some rich man who wished to keep his name out of the thing. I was hired by a law firm to manage the trips, and the money comes to me through them."

"How did you get hold of all your helpers?"

"Oh, one way and another. Miss Playfair gets her friends to help."

When the Ernestina finally moved out into the stream, Denton remained below, attending to the stowage of the ice-cream and to other matters, and Evan stayed with him. To tell the truth, he dreaded a little to put his fortunes to the touch by venturing up above. They were unpacking sandwiches when Denton suddenly said:

"Here's Anway. Anway, here's a friend of yours."

Evan looked up with a wary smile. As it chanced, the busy Denton was called from another direction at that moment, and he did not see the actual meeting between the two. Evan had his back to the light and Anway did not instantly recognise him. Anway's expression graduated from expectancy at the sound of the word friend to blankness as he failed to recognise Evan, and to something like consternation when he did.

"What are you doing here?" he blurted out.

"The same as yourself," replied Evan. "Only a volunteer."

Without another word Anway turned. Evan went with him. He had no intention of letting him warn Corinna. They mounted the main stairway side by side, Anway gazing stiffly ahead, Evan watching him with a grin.

As soon as they rounded into the saloon Evan saw Corinna, and his head swam a little. She was so very dear and desirable he forgot how badly she had used him. She was kneeling on the carpet, feeding a hungry baby with cup and spoon. The baby sat in the lap of a woman so spent and done, she could do no more than keep the infant from slipping off. It was an appealing sight. In such an attitude Corinna was all woman, her face as tender as a saint's. Evan laid a restraining hand on Anway's arm.

"Let the kid have his meal anyway," he whispered.

But some current of electricity warned Corinna. Looking up, she saw Evan at a dozen paces' distance. Evan trembled for the cup. It was not dropped. Corinna had herself better in hand than Anway. No muscle of her face changed; only the light of her eyes hardened.

"She thinks you brought me aboard," murmured Evan wickedly.

Anway flushed.

Corinna resumed her feeding of the baby.

Evan was divided between admiration and chagrin. Secretly he had counted on his appearance creating a more dramatic effect than this.

Anway hung around in a miserable state of indecision. If Evan had only given him an excuse to punch him he would have been glad no doubt. Finally he said:

"You see what she's doing. Come away and let her be."

Evan good-humouredly shook his head. "The sight gives me too much pleasure," he said. "But don't let me keep you."

But Anway lingered unhappily, walking away a little and coming back.

Corinna did not look at Evan again. Her self-control was too provoking. "By Heaven, I'll make her show some feeling before the day's out!" he vowed to himself. When the cup was empty she came straight toward him with her chin up.

"How do you do, Corinna?" said Evan.

She looked at him with the faint air of surprise she knew so well how to assume. Then, as if suddenly placing him: "Oh! You must excuse me now. I have a dozen hungry babies to feed."

Evan, with a smile, allowed her to pass downstairs. It required no small amount of self-control. "Patience, son!" he said to himself. "You have all day before you. If you lose your temper, she'll have you exactly where she wants you. However she bedevils you, you must be little Bright-eyes still!"

Corinna presently returned with more food and proceeded to the next baby in line. In the meantime Anway, finding himself both unnecessary and helpless in this situation, had drifted away—to confer with his "brothers," perhaps. The second baby's mother was perfectly capable of feeding her own offspring, and Evan saw that Corinna was merely using the infant as a shield against him. But he could not seem to interfere between a helpless baby and its food.

When she passed him again bound down below he said: "Let me help you."

"Thanks, this is hardly in your line," she said coldly.

Nevertheless he followed her down and saw that she went to the galley for a soft-boiled egg for the next child.

"You're wasting your time running up and down," he said with obstinate good nature. "Let me be your waiter and fetch the different orders while you feed."

"Thanks; I don't need your assistance," she said.

But he saw that her temper was beginning to rise, and took heart. If he could only put her in the wrong! He blandly followed her back again, and as she started to feed he found out for himself what the next baby required. This was a small one and its order was for six ounces of milk with two ounces of barley water and a teaspoonful of sugar added, the whole in a bottle well-warmed.

He procured it from the galley in due course. Corinna received it of him with a very ill grace. "She'd make a face at me if she didn't have her dignity to keep up," thought Evan. After that he had her. They worked their way down one side of the saloon and back on the other, to all outward appearance at least like two pals. Evan was careful to confine his remarks to milk, oatmeal gruel, beef broth and orange juice. Corinna could not find matter in this to quarrel over. She was as acidly sweet as one of the oranges.

Only the little ones and the sick were specially fed in the saloon. The others were taken down in relays to the dining-room on the main deck aft. Corinna's and Evan's task came to an end at last. As he carried the last cup back to the galley Evan said to himself: "Now's my chance!"

But when he returned he saw that Corinna, for the sake of the convalescent children not allowed out on deck, had started to tell a story. They were pressing around her in close ranks that presented a triple line of defence.



CHAPTER XII

EVAN LOSES A ROUND

Evan, somewhat crestfallen, went out on deck and lit a cigarette. "Oh, well, it can't last forever," he told himself. He found a seat near an open window where he could overhear the story. To his mind Corinna had not much of a talent for it. He thought he could have told a better one himself. It was the chronicle of an unpleasantly good little girl, and when Corinna was gravelled for matter to continue with, she filled in by lengthily describing the heroine's clothes. "Just filibustering like the U. S. Senate," thought Evan disgustedly.

Corinna, suspecting perhaps that she had too critical a listener, changed her seat on the pretext of a draught and he could hear no more.