"Hermione, when will you be my wife?"

"Oh, please, please let me go; if I'm late—"

"When, Hermione?"

"When I—come home, if—you really—want me—Oh, now my hair's all coming down, I know. Good-by!"

Reluctantly he loosed her and stood to watch until, reaching the verandah of the house, she paused to glance back to where he stood among the leaves ere she vanished between the screen doors. Then Ravenslee turned, and remembering her sudden fright, looked sharply about him, even pausing, now and then, to peer behind bush and thicket; but this time he did not think to glance upward, and thus failed to see the round eyes that watched him from amid the leaves of the great tree.

So he came again to the dusty highway and strode along, throbbing with life and the lust of life, revelling in the glory of earth and sky and quite unconscious of the small, furtive figure that flitted after him far behind.

And it was not until he sat in the ferryboat that he remembered he had forgotten to give her the ring, after all.



CHAPTER XXVII

MRS. TRAPES UPON THE MILLENNIUM

Mulligan's was in a ferment. Bare-armed women talked in every doorway; they talked from open windows, they talked leaning over banisters, they congregated on landings and in passageways—but everywhere they talked; while men and youths newly returned from work, lunch-can and basket in hand, listened in wide-eyed astonishment, shook incredulous heads, puffed thoughtfully at pipes or cigarettes, and questioned in guttural wonderment.

But Ravenslee, lost in his own happy thoughts, sped up the stairs all unheeding, abstractedly returning such neighbourly salutes as he happened to notice; reaching his lofty habitation in due course he let himself in, and was in the act of filling his pipe when Mrs. Trapes appeared. In one hand she grasped a meat skewer and in the other an open testament, and it was to be noted that her bright eyes, usually so keen and steady, roved here and there, from pink rug to green and yellow tablecloth, thence to the parrot-owl, and at last to her lodger. Finally she spoke.

"Mr. Geoffrey, are ye saved?" she demanded in awe-struck tones.

"Why, really, Mrs. Trapes, I—"

"Because, Mr. Geoffrey, this day it behooveth us all t' think of our souls an' th' hereafter, I reckon."

"Souls?" said Ravenslee, staring in his turn.

"Fire," she continued, shaking portentous head, "fire I'm prepared for; a earthquake I could endoor; battle, murder, and sudden death I could abide; poverty is me lot, Mr. Geoffrey, an' hardship is me portion, an' for all sich am I dooly prepared, sich things bein' nacheral; but fer this—well, there!"

"What is the matter, Mrs. Trapes?"

"Matter, Mr. Geoffrey? Well, the millenyum's at hand, that's all—the lion is about t' lay down with th' lamb, tigers has lost their taste fer blood, an' snakes an' serpints has shed their vennymous fangs! Mr. Geoffrey—the day is at hand—beware!"

"What in the world—" began Ravenslee, but Mrs. Trapes stayed him with uplifted skewer, and drew from the mysterious recesses of her apron a folded circular which she proceeded to spread open and from which she read in a hollow voice as follows:

NOTICE AUGUST 1, 1910.

On and after the above date, all tenants soever residing within the tenement house known as Mulligan's are warned that all rents will be reduced by fifty per cent.

BY ORDER.

"Now what," said Mrs. Trapes, refolding the circular very reverently and shutting it into the testament, "jest what d'ye think o' that?"

"Quite a—er—remarkable document, Mrs. Trapes!"

"Remarkable?" snorted Mrs. Trapes.

"Yes," said Ravenslee, beginning to fill his pipe, "extraordinary, most extraordinary—er—very much so—"

"Extraordinary? Mr. Geoffrey, is that all you got t' say about it?" And Mrs. Trapes sniffed loudly.

"Well, what more should I say?"

"Why, ain't it th' wonder o' th' whole round world? Ain't it th' merrycle of all time?"

"Certainly! Not a doubt of it!" he agreed. "By the way, what do you happen to have for supper? You see I've been—"

"Supper?"

"I'm quite hungry—I'm always hungry lately and—"

"Hungry!" ejaculated Mrs. Trapes, rolling her eyes, "here I tell him of wonders an' omens beyond pore huming understanding an'—he's hungry! Lord, ain't that jest like a man! A man's soul, if a man has a soul, lays in his stummick. Hungry! But you shall be fed—prompt, Mr. Geoffrey. How'll b'iled salmon an' peas soot?"

"Splendidly! And I think—"

"'On and after,'" said Mrs. Trapes, slowly and dreamily, "'on and after the above date, all tenants soever residin'—I've learned it by heart, Mr. Geoffrey. Then it goes on to say, 'within the tennyment house known as Mulligan's are warned'—hum! I wonder why 'warned'?—'are warned that all rents will be re-dooced by fifty per cent!' Fifty per cent!" she repeated in a dreamy rapture, "which is jest half, y' see. An', Mr. Geoffrey, that's jest what's got me plumb scared—it's all so unnacheral. I've heard o' rents bein' rose—constant, but who ever heard of 'em bein' took down before? Well, well! My land! Well, well!"

With which remark Mrs. Trapes went about her household duties, leaving Ravenslee to lounge and smoke and dream blissfully of Hermione.

"Y' see," said Mrs. Trapes, wandering in with a plate, "it'll make things s' much easier for all of us; we shall begin t' feel almost rich—some of us. 'Are warned that all rents will be re-dooced by fifty per cent.' Well, well!" and she wandered out again.

But presently she was back once more, this time with the tablecloth, which she proceeded to spread, though still lost in dreamy abstraction.

"At first I couldn't an' I wouldn't believe it, Mr. Geoffrey—no, sir!" she continued in the same rapt voice. "But every one's got a notice same as mine, so I guess it must be true—don't ye think?"

"Not a doubt of it!" answered Ravenslee.

"But th' burnin' question as I asks myself is—who? It's signed 'By Order', y' see, well—whose? One sure thing, it ain't Mulligan."

"But he owns the place, doesn't he?"

"He did, Mr. Geoffrey, an' that's what worries me—continual. What I demands is—who now?"

"Echo, Mrs. Trapes, methinks doth answer 'Who?' By the way, it was—er—salmon and green peas I think you—"

"My land, that bit o' salmon'll bile itself t' rags!" and incontinent she vanished.

However, in due time Ravenslee sat down to as tasty a supper as might be and did ample justice to it, while Mrs. Trapes once more read aloud for his edification from the wondrous circular, and was again propounding the vexed and burning question of "who" when she was interrupted by a knocking without, and going to the door, presently returned with little Mrs. Bowker, in whose tired eyes shone an unusual light, and whose faded voice held a strange note of gladness.

"Good evenin', Mr. Geoffrey!" said she, bobbing him a curtsey as he rose to greet her, "my Hazel sends you her love an' a kiss for them last candies—an' thank ye for all th' medicine—but oh, Mr. Geoffrey, an' you, Ann Trapes, you'll never guess what's brought me. I've come t' wish ye good-by, we're—oh, Ann, we're goin' at last!"

"Goin'!" exclaimed Mrs. Trapes, clutching at her elbows, "y' never mean as you're leavin' Mulligan's now the rent's been took down—re-dooced fifty per cent.—by order?"

"That's just what I'm tellin' ye—oh, Ann, ain't it just—heavenly!"

"Heavenly!" repeated Mrs. Trapes, and sank into a chair.

"Yes, heavenly t' see th' trees an' flowers again—t' live among them, Ann."

"Samanthy Bowker—what do you mean?"

"Why, Ann, my Tom's had a gardener's job offered him at a gentleman's mansion in the country. Tom went after it t'day—an' got it. Fifteen dollars a week an' a cottage—free, Ann! Hazel's just crazy with joy—an' so'm I!"

Mrs. Trapes fanned herself feebly with her apron.

"All I can say is," said she faintly, "if the world don't come to an end soon—I shall. A gardener's job! A cottage in th' country! Why, that's what you've been hungerin' for, you an' Bowker, ever since I've known ye. And to-day—it's come! An' to-day the rent's re-dooced itself fifty per cent. by order—oh, dear land o' my fathers! When d' ye go?"

"T'morrow mornin', Ann. Hazel'll sure grow a strong, well girl in th' country—doctor said so last week—you heard him, Mr. Geoffrey, didn't you?"

"I did, Mrs. Bowker."

"And my Tom's that excited he couldn't eat no supper—oh, an' have ye seen in t'night's paper, Ann, about Mulligan's?"

"No—what now?" enquired Mrs. Trapes, as though on the verge of collapsing.

"Well, read that—right there!" and unfolding an evening paper, Mrs. Bowker pointed to a paragraph tucked away into a corner, and, drawing a deep breath, Mrs. Trapes read aloud as follows:

It is understood that Geoffrey Ravenslee, the well-known sportsman and millionaire, winner of last year's International Automobile race and holder of the world's long-distance speed record, has lately paid a record price in a real estate deal. A certain tenement building off Tenth Avenue has been purchased by him, the cost of which, it is rumoured, was fabulous.

"Fab'lous!" repeated Mrs. Trapes, and sniffed. "Well, I never had no use fer millionaires, anyway—they're generally fools or rogues—this one's a fool sure—any one is as would give much fer a place like Mulligan's—an' yet, come t' think of it again—'are warned as all rents will be re-dooced fifty per cent. by order'—yes, come t' think of it again, what I say is—God bless this millionaire, an' whatever he is, Ann Angelina Trapes is sure goin' t' mention him before th' Throne this night."



CHAPTER XXVIII

WHICH SHOULD HAVE RELATED DETAILS OF A WEDDING

"It's all very, very wonderful, Ann, dear! But then—everything is so wonderful—just lately!"

"Meanin' what, Hermy?"

Hermione was darning one of Spike's much-mended socks, while Mrs. Trapes sat drinking tea. "Meanin' jest what is wonderful, my dear, and—since when?" she persisted.

"Oh—everything, Ann!"

"Yes, you said everything before. S'pose you tell me jest the one thing as you find so wonderful? An'—why an' wherefore that blush?"

"Oh, Ann—Ann, dear!" Down went sock and needle and, falling on her knees, Hermione clasped her arms about Mrs. Trapes and hid her glowing face in her lap. "Ann, dear, I'm so happy!" she sighed—her speech a little muffled by reason of the voluminous folds of Mrs. Trapes's snowy apron.

"Happy?" said Mrs. Trapes, setting down her teacup to fondle and stroke that shapely head, "sich happiness ain't all because of the rent bein' re-dooced, by order, I reckon—is it?"

"Dear Ann," said Hermione, her face still hidden, "can't you guess?"

"No, my dear," answered Mrs. Trapes, her harsh tones wonderfully soft, "I don't have to—I guessed days ago. D' ye love him, Hermy?"

"Love him!" repeated Hermione, and said no more, nor did she lift her bowed head, but feeling the quick, strong pressure of those soft, embracing arms, the quiver of that girlish body, Mrs. Trapes smiled, and stooping, kissed Hermione's shining hair.

"When did he speak, my dear?"

"Last Monday, Ann."

"Did he say—much?"

"He asked me to—marry him."

"Spoke of marriage, eh? Did he happen t' mention th' word—wife?"

"Oh, many times, Ann."

"Good f'r him! An' when's it t' be?"

"Oh, Ann, dear, I—I'm afraid it's—to-night!"

"T'night? My land, he's sure some hasty!"

"And so—so masterful, Ann!"

"Well, y' sure need a master. But t'night—land sakes!"

"He wrote and told me he would fix things so he could marry me to-night, Ann!"

"Then he's sure out fixin' 'em right now. Lord, Hermy, why d' ye tremble, girl—y' sure love him, don't ye?"

"So much, Ann, so very much—and yet—"

"You ain't scared of him, are ye?"

"No—and yet, I—I think I am—a little."

"But you'll marry him, all the same?"

"Yes."

"An' t'night?"

"Yes. But Ann, dear, when he comes in I want you to keep him with you as long as you can—will you?"

"Why, sure I'll keep him, jest as long as—he'll let me! Lord, t' think as my little Hermy'll be a married woman this night!"

"And—oh, Ann, I haven't any—trousseau—"

"Shucks! You don't need none. You're best as you are. You won't need no fluffs an' frills, I reckon."

"But, Ann dear," said Hermione, lifting her head and shaking it ruefully, "I have—nothing! And my best dress—I made it in such a hurry, you remember—it needs pressing and—"

"He ain't marryin' you fer your clo'es, Hermy—no, sir! It's you he wants an'—oh, shucks! What do clo'es matter t' you, anyway? You was meant to be one o' them nymphs an' goddesses as went about clad—well, airy. You'd ha' done fine with them soft arms an' shoulders an'—"

"But I'm not a goddess, Ann, I'm only poor Hermy Chesterton—with a hole in one stocking and the lace on her petticoat torn, and her other things—well, look here!" and up whirled gown and petticoat, "see what a state they're in—look, Ann!"

"My dear, I am!" nodded Mrs. Trapes over her teacup, "an' what I say is, it don't matter a row o' pins if a stockin' 's got a bit of a hole in it if that stockin' 's on sich a leg as that! An' as fer—"

"But," sighed Hermione, "don't you understand—"

"My dear, I do! I was a married woman once, mind. An' I tell you 'beauty doth lie in the eye o' the beholder', my dear, an' the two eyes as is a-goin' t' behold you this night is goin' t' behold so much beauty as they won't behold nothin' else."

"But—he loves dainty things, I'm sure."

"Well, ain't he gettin' a dainty thing? Ain't he gettin' th' daintiest, sweetest, loveliest—" Here Mrs. Trapes set down her cup again to clasp Hermione in her arms.

"Do you think he'll—understand, Ann?"

"He'll be a fool if he doesn't!"

"And make allowances? He knows how poor we are and how busy I have to be."

"He does so, my dear. But, if it's goin' t' comfort you any, there's that corset cover you made me last Christmas. I ain't never wore it; I ain't dared to with all them trimmin's an' lace insertion, an' me s' bony here an' there. You can have it an' willin', my dear, an' then there's them—"

"Ann, you dear thing, as if I would!"

"Why not? That corset cover's a dream! An' then there's them—"

"Dear, I couldn't—I wouldn't! No, I'll go to him just as I am—he shall marry me just like I am—"

"An' that's a goddess!" nodded Mrs. Trapes, "yes, a young goddess—only, with more clo'es on, o' course. I'm glad as he's quit peanuts; peanut men don't kind o' jibe in with goddesses."

"Ann," said Hermione, sitting back on her heels, "I think of him a great deal, of course, and—just lately—I've begun to wonder—"

"My dear," said Mrs. Trapes, blowing her tea, "so do I! I been wonderin' ever since he walked into my flat, cool as I don't know what, an', my dear, when I sets me mind t' wonderment, conclusions arrive—constant! I'll tell ye what I think. First, he ain't s' poor as he seems—he wears silk socks, my dear. Second, he's been nurtured tender—he cleans them white teeth night an' morn. Third, he ain't done no toil-an'-spinnin' act—take heed t' his hands, my dear. He's soft-spoke but he's masterful. He's young, but he's seen a lot. He ain't easy t' rile, but when he is—my land! He don't say a lot, an' he don't seem t' do much, an' yet—he don't seem t' starve none. Result—he may be anything!"

"Anything? Ann, dear!"

"Anything!" repeated Mrs. Trapes. "An' havin' studied him good an' heeded him careful, I now conclood he's jest the thing you need, my dear."

"Then you like him, Ann—you trust him?"

"I sure do."

"Oh, you dear—dear—dear thing!" And once again Mrs. Trapes was clasped in those vigorous young arms and kissed with every "dear."

"Though, mind you," said Mrs. Trapes, pushing cup and saucer out of harm's way, "though, mind you, he's a mystery I ain't found out—yet. D' ye s'pose he made any money out o' them blessed peanuts—not him! Mrs. Smalley, as lives down along 'Leventh, she told me as she's seen him givin' 'em away by the bagful t' all the children down her way—repeated!"

"How sweet of him!" said Hermione, her red mouth all tender curves.

"Yes, but how did he live? How does he? How will he?"

"I don't know, dear; I only know I would trust him always—always!" And sitting back, chin in hand, Hermione fell again to happy thought.

"When he give up the nuts," pursued Mrs. Trapes, draining the teapot and sighing, "he tells me some fool tale of makin' a deal in real estate, an' I—ha, real estate!" Mrs. Trapes put down the teapot with a jerk. "A deal in real estate!" she repeated, and thereafter fell to such unintelligible mutterings as "Record price! Fab'lous! No, it couldn't be! An' yet—silk socks! 'On an' after above date all tenants soever residin'—will be re-dooced by fifty per cent!'" Suddenly Mrs. Trapes sat bolt upright. "My land!" she ejaculated, "oh, dear land o' my fathers—if sech could be!"

"Why, Ann," exclaimed Hermione, roused from her reverie, "whatever is the matter?"

"My dear," said Mrs. Trapes, laying gentle hand on Hermione's blooming cheek, "nothin'—nothin' 't all! I'm jest goin' over in my mind sich small matters as silk socks an' toothbrushes, that's all."

"But you do mean something—you always do."

"Well—if I do this time, my dear, I'm crazy—but the Bowkers have gone, mind that! An' him s' fond o' little Hazel!" Here Mrs. Trapes nodded almost triumphantly.

"The Bowkers? Why, yes—I've been wondering—"

"I guess you know he went t' O'Rourke's an' give that M'Ginnis the thrashin' of his dirty life?" said Mrs. Trapes rather hastily. "Nigh killed the loafer, Spider Connolly told me."

"He's so strong," said Hermione softly, her eyes shining. "But, Ann, what did you mean about—about toothbrushes and socks?"

"Mean? Why, socks an' toothbrushes, o' course. An' my land! here's me guzzlin' tea, an' over in my kitchen th' finest shin o' beef you ever saw a-b'ilin' f'r his supper. But now the question as burns is, if a married man this night, will he be here t' eat? An' if him—then you? An' if man an' wife suppin' in my parlour—where will ye sleep?"

"I—oh, Ann—I don't know. His letter just said that when I came home it would be our—wedding night!"

"Why, then it sure will be. An' f'r a weddin' supper, y' couldn't have nothin' better 'n shin o' beef. I'll go an' watch over that stoo with care unfailin', my dear; believe me, that stoo's goin' t' be a stoo as is a stoo! What, half after five? Land sakes, how time flies!"



CHAPTER XXIX

IN WHICH HERMIONE MAKES A FATEFUL DECISION

When Mrs. Trapes was gone, Hermione stood a long time to look at herself in her little mirror, viewing and examining each feature of her lovely, intent face more earnestly than she had ever done before; and sometimes she smiled, and sometimes she frowned, and all her thought was:

"Shall I make him happy, I wonder? Can I be all he wants—all he thinks I am?"

So, after some while, she combed and brushed out her glorious hair, shyly glad because of its length and splendour; and, having crowned her shapely head with it, viewed the effect with cold, hypercritical eyes.

"Can I, oh, can I ever be all he wants—all he thinks I am?"

And then she proceeded to dress; the holey stockings were replaced by others that had seen less service; the worn frills and laces were changed for others less threadbare. This done, Hermione, with many supple twists, wriggled dexterously into her best dress, pausing now and then to sigh mournfully and grieve over its many deficiencies and shortcomings, defects which only feminine eyes, so coldly critical, might hope to behold.

Scarcely was all this accomplished when she heard a soft knock at the outer door, and at the sound her heart leapt; she flushed and paled and stood a moment striving to stay the quick, heavy throbbing within her bosom; then breathlessly she hastened along the passage and, opening the door with trembling hands, beheld Bud M'Ginnis. While she stared, dumb and amazed, he entered and, closing the door, leaned his broad back against it.

"Goin' away, Hermy?" he enquired softly, looking her over with his slow gaze.

"Yes."

"Goin' far, Hermy?"

"I don't know."

"Goin'—alone, Hermy?"

"Why are you here? What do you want?"

"T' save ye from—hell!" he answered, his voice rising loud and harsh on the last word. "Oh, I know," he went on fiercely, "I know why you're all dolled up in your best. I know as you mean t' go away to-night with—him. But you ain't goin', girl—you ain't."

"To-night," she said gently, "is my wedding night."

M'Ginnis lifted a hand and wrenched at the silken neckerchief he wore as though it choked him.

"No!" he cried, "you ain't a-goin' t' get no wedding, Hermy; he don't mean t' give ye a square deal. He's foolin' ye—foolin' ye, girl! Oh," said he through shut teeth, "ye thought I was safe out o' the way, I guess. You ought t' known better; th' p'lice couldn't hold me, they never will. Anyway, I've kept tabs on ye—I know as you've been meeting him—in a wood! I know," here M'Ginnis seemed to choke again, "I know of you an' him—kissin' an' cuddlin'—oh, I've kept tabs on ye—"

"Yes," she said gently, "I saw your spy at work."

"But y' can't deny it. Y' don't deny it! Say, what kind o' girl are you?"

"The kind that doesn't fear men like you."

"But y' can't deny meetin' him," he repeated, his hoarse voice quivering; "you don't deny—kissin' him—in a wood! Only deny it, Hermy, only say you didn't, an' I'll choke th' life out of any guy as says you did—only deny it, Hermy."

"But I don't want to deny it. If your spy had ears he can tell you that we are going to be married. Now go."

Once more M'Ginnis reached up to his throat and trenched off the neckerchief altogether.

"Married!" he cried, "an' t' him! He's foolin' ye, Hermy, by God he is! Girl, I'm tellin' ye straight an' true—he'll never marry ye. His kind don't marry Tenth Av'ner girls—Nooport an' Fifth Av'ner's a good ways from Hell's Kitchen an' Tenth Av'ner, an' they can't ever come t'gether, I reckon."

"Ah!" sighed she, falling back a step, "what do you mean?"

"Why, I mean," said M'Ginnis, twisting the neckerchief in his powerful hands much as if it had been the neck of some enemy, "I mean as this guy as comes here bluffin' about bein' down an' out, this guy as plays at sellin' peanuts is—Geoffrey Ravenslee, the millionaire."

"But—he is—Arthur's friend!"

"Friend—nothin'!" said he, wringing and wrenching at the neckerchief, "I guess you ain't found out how th' Kid an' him came t' meet, eh? Well, I'll tell ye—listen! Your brother broke in to this millionaire's swell house—through the winder—an' this millionaire caught him."

"Oh," said she, smiling in bitter scorn, "what a clumsy liar you are, Bud M'Ginnis!"

"No," he cried eagerly, "no, I ain't tellin' ye no lies; it's God's own truth I'm givin' ye."

"No, you're just a liar, Bud M'Ginnis!" and she would have turned from him, but his savage grip stayed her.

"A liar, am I?" he cried. "Why, then, you're sister to a crook, see! Your brother's a thief! a crook! You ain't got much t' be s' proud over—"

"Let me go!"

"Listen! Your brother got into this guy's house t' steal, and this millionaire guy caught him—in the act! An' havin' nothin' better t' do, he makes young Spike bring him down here—just t' see th' kind o' folks as lives in Hell's Kitchen, see? Then he meets you—you look kind o' good t' him, so he says t' th' Kid, 'Look here,' he says, 'you help me game along with y'r sister, an' we'll call it quits—'"

Breaking from his hold, Hermione entered the little parlour, and sinking down beside the table, crouched there, hiding her face, while M'Ginnis, leaning in the doorway, watched her, his strong hands twisting and wrenching at the neckerchief.

"Ah, leave me now!" she pleaded, "you've done enough, so—go now—go!"

"Oh, I'll go. I come here t' put ye wise—an' I have! You're on to it all now, I guess. Nooport and Fifth Av'ner's a good ways from Hell's Kitchen and Tenth Av'ner, an' they can't never come together. I guess there's sure some difference between this swell guy with all his millions an' a Tenth Av'ner girl as is a—thief's sister—"

Slowly Hermione lifted her head and looked up at him, and M'Ginnis saw that in her face which struck him mute; the neckerchief fell from his nerveless fingers and lay there all unheeded.

"Hermione," he muttered, "I—girl, are ye—sick?"

"Go!" she whispered, "go!"

And turning about, M'Ginnis stumbled out of the place and left her alone. For a long time she sat there, motionless and crouched above the table, staring blindly before her, and in her eyes an agony beyond tears, heedless of the flight of time, conscious only of a pain sharper than flesh can know. Suddenly a key was thrust in the lock of the outer door, footsteps sounded along the passage accompanied by a merry whistling, and Spike appeared.

"Hello, Hermy, ain't tea ready yet?" he enquired, tossing aside his straw hat and opening a newspaper he carried, "say, the Giants are sure playin' great ball this season—what, are ye asleep?"

"No, dear!"

"Why, Hermy," he exclaimed, dropping the paper and clasping an arm about her, "Oh, Hermy—what is it?"

"Oh, boy—dear, dear boy—you didn't, did you?" she cried feverishly. "You are a little wild—sometimes, dear, just a little—but you are good—and honourable, aren't you?"

"Why, yes, Hermy I—I try t' be," he answered uneasily; "but I don't know what you mean."

"You're not a thief, are you? You're not a burglar? You never broke into any one's house. I know you didn't, but—tell me you didn't—tell me you didn't!"

"No—no, o' course not," stammered Spike and, averting his head, tried to draw away, but she clung to him all the closer.

"Boy—boy dear," she whispered breathlessly, "oh, boy, look at me!"

But seeing he kept his face still turned from her, she set a hand to his cheek and very gently forced him to meet her look. For a long moment she gazed thus—saw how his eyes quailed, saw how his cheek blanched, and as he cowered away, she rose slowly to her feet, and into her look came a growing horror; beholding which Spike covered his face and shrank away from her.

"Oh, boy—" her voice had sunk to a whisper now, "oh, boy—say you didn't!"

"Hermy—I—can't—"

"Can't?"

"It's—it's all—true. Yes, I did! Oh, Hermy, forgive me."

"Tell me!"

"Oh, forgive me, Hermy, forgive me!" he cried, reaching out and trying to catch her hand. "Yes, I'll tell ye. I—I got in—through th' winder, an' Geoff caught me. But he let me go again—he said he'd never tell nobody if—ah, don't look at me like that!"

"If—what?"

"If I'd bring him back here with me—Hermy, don't! Your eyes hurt me—don't look at me that way."

"So it—is—all—true!"

"Oh, forgive me, forgive me!" he pleaded, throwing himself on his knees before her and writhing in the anguish of remorse. "They doped me, Hermy, I—didn't know what I was doin'—they didn't give me no time t' think. Oh, forgive me, Hermy; Geoff forgave me, an' you must—oh, God, you must, Hermy!" Again he sought to reach her hand, but now it was she who shrank away.

"I loved you so—I—loved—you so!" she said dully.

"Hermy," he cried, catching hold of her dress, "forgive me—just this once, for God's sake! I ain't got nobody in the world but you—forgive me!" And now his pleading was broken by fierce sobs, and he sought to hide his tear-stained face in the folds of her dress, but she drew it quickly from him, shrinking away almost as if she feared him.

"A thief!" she whispered, "oh, God—my brother a thief! I don't seem—able to—think. Go away—go away, I—must be—alone!"

"Hermy, dear, I swear—oh, I swear I'll—"

"Go away!"

"Oh, Hermy, I didn't think you'd ever—turn away—from me."

"Go away!"

"Oh, Hermy—won't you listen?"

"I can't! Not now. Go away."

Sobbing, the boy got to his feet, and taking his hat, crossed slow-footed to the door; there he paused to look back at her, but her staring eyes gazed through him and, turning hopelessly away, he brushed his sleeve across his cheek and, treading slow and heavily along the passage, was gone.

Dry-eyed she stood awhile, then sank again beside the table and crouched there with face bowed between outstretched arms, and hands tight clenched. Evening began to fall, but still she sat huddled there, motionless, and uttering no sound, and still her eyes were tearless. At last she stirred, conscious of a quick, firm step near by, and, thrilling to that sound, rose and stood with her back to the fading light as Ravenslee entered.

"Dear," said he, tender and eager, "I found the door open—did you leave it for me? Why, Hermione—oh, my love, what is it?" and he would have caught her to him, but she held him away and questioned him, quick-breathing:

"You are—Geoffrey Ravenslee—the millionaire—aren't you?"

"Why—er—I—I'm afraid I am," he stammered. "I'm sorry you found it out so soon, dearest; I wanted to tell you after we—"

"Oh, why didn't you tell me before—why didn't you? No—please wait! You—you caught my—brother, didn't you?" she went on breathlessly; "he had broken in—was burgling your house, wasn't he—wasn't he?"

"How in the world," began Ravenslee, flinching, "who told—"

"He broke into your house to—steal, didn't he—didn't he?"

"But, good heavens—that was all forgotten and done with long ago! They'd made the poor chap drunk—he didn't know what he was doing—it's all forgotten long ago! Dear heart, why are you so pale? God, Hermione—nothing can alter our love!"

"No, nothing can alter our love," she repeated in the same dull tones. "Oh, no, nothing can ever alter that; even though you deceived me I shall always love you, I can't help it. And just because I do love you so, and because I am a thief's sister, I—oh, I can never be your wife—I couldn't, could I?"

"By God, Hermione, but you shall!" As he spoke he caught her in his arms, passionate arms that drew and held her close. Very still and unresisting she lay in his embrace, uttering no word; and stooping, he kissed her fiercely—her lips, her eyes, her white throat, her hair, and, silent still, she yielded herself to his caresses.

"You are mine, Hermione, mine always and forever! You are the one woman I long for—the wife nature intended for me! You are mine, Hermione!"

Very softly she answered, her eyes closed:

"I felt at the first there was a gulf dividing us—and now—this gulf is wider—so wide it can never be crossed by either of us. Your world is not my world, after all—you are Geoffrey Ravenslee and I am only—what I am. Newport and Fifth Avenue are a long way from Hell's Kitchen and Tenth Avenue, and they can never—never come together. And I—am a thief's sister, so please, please loose me—oh, have mercy and—let me go."

His arms fell from her and, shivering, she sank beside the table, and the pale agony of her face smote him.

"But you love me, Hermione?" he pleaded.

"If I had only known," she sighed, "I might not have learned to love you—quite so much! If I had only known!" Her voice was soft and low, her blue eyes wide and tearless, and because of this, he trembled.

"Hermione," said he gently, "all this week I have been planning for you and Arthur. I have been dreaming of our life together, yours and mine, a life so big, so wonderful, so full of happiness that I trembled, sometimes, dreading it was only a dream. Dear, the gates of our paradise are open; will you shut me out? Must I go back to my loneliness?"

"I shall be lonely, too!" she murmured brokenly. "But better, oh, far better loneliness than that some day—" she paused, her lips quivering.

"Some day, Hermione?"

"You should find that you had married not only a scrubwoman but—the sister of a—thief!" Suddenly she sprang to her feet, her clinging arms held him to her bosom and, drawing down his head, she pressed her mouth to his; holding him thus, she spoke, her voice low and quick and passionate:

"Oh, my love, my love! I do love you with every thought, with every part of me—so much, so very much that my heart is breaking, I think. But, dearest, my love is such that I would be everything fair and beautiful for you, everything proud and good and noble for you if I could. But I am only Hermy Chesterton, a Tenth Avenue girl, and—my brother—So I'm going to send you away, back to your own world, back to your own kind because—because I do love you so! Ah, God, never doubt my love, but—you must go—"

"Never, Hermione, never!"

"You must! You will, I know, because your love is a big, generous love—because you are chivalrous and strong and gentle—because I beg and implore you if you have any pity for me—go—"

"But why?—Why?"

"Oh, must I tell you that—can't you understand?"

"Why must I go, Hermione?"

"Because," she murmured, her yearning arms close about him, her face close hidden against his breast, "because I'll never—marry you—now—but I love you—love you so much that I'm afraid—ah, not of you. So, I must be alone—quite alone—to fight my battle. And now—now that I've shown you all my heart, told you all my weakness, you'll go for my sake—just for my sake—won't you?"

"Yes—I'll—go!" he answered slowly.

"Away from here—to-night?"

"Yes," he answered hoarsely, "yes!"

Then Hermione fell suddenly before him on her knees, and, before he could stay her, had caught his hands, kissing them, wetting them with her tears, and pressing them passionately to her bosom.

"I knew," she cried, "I knew that you were strong and gentle and—good. Good-by—oh, my love—good-by!"

"Hermione," said he, kissing her bowed head, "oh, my Hermione, I love you with a love that will die only when I do. I want you, and I'll never lose hope of winning you—some day, never give up my determination to marry you—never, so help me God!"

Then swiftly he turned away but, reaching the door, stooped and picked up M'Ginnis's neckerchief and, recognising it, crumpled it in fierce hand; so, with it clenched in griping fingers, he hurried away and left her there upon her knees.



CHAPTER XXX

HOW GEOFFREY RAVENSLEE DEPARTED FROM HELL'S KITCHEN

"What, back again already, Mr. Geoffrey?" exclaimed Mrs. Trapes, poking her head around the kitchen door, as Ravenslee entered the flat, "back so soon?"

"Only for a minute, Mrs. Trapes."

"Supper'll be ready soon—your wedding supper, eh, Mr. Geoffrey? You'll have it here with me, you an' Hermy, o' course! Smells kind o' good, don't it?"

"Delicious, Mrs. Trapes!"

"Delicious is the word, Mr. Geoffrey—stooed beef with carrots—"

"And onions, Mrs. Trapes—onions, I'm sure?"

"Well, I'll not deny a onion here an' there, Mr. Geoffrey—a stoo needs 'em."

"Ah, I knew it!" sighed Ravenslee. "I grieve that I shan't be able to eat it."

"Not eat—what, you? Say, y' ain't sick, are you?"

"Not in body, Mrs. Trapes."

"Then why no stoo?"

"Because I shan't be here. I'm going, Mrs. Trapes—I'm leaving Mulligan's now—for good—"

"Leavin'—y' mean with Hermy?"

"No—alone. Good-by, Mrs. Trapes!"

"My land!" gasped Mrs. Trapes, "what you tellin' me?"

"Good-by, Mrs. Trapes!"

"But why? Oh, dear Lord, what is it? Who—"

"I want to thank you—for all your kindness. Good-by!"

As one in a dream Mrs. Trapes extended a limp hand and stood wide of eye and pale of cheek to watch him go; and as he descended the stairs, her look of helpless, pained surprise went with him. Swiftly he strode across that familiar court, shoulders squared, chin outthrust, and eyes that glowed ominously in his pale face beneath fierce-scowling brows. As he turned into Tenth Avenue there met him the Spider.

"What you chasin' this time, bo?" he enquired.

"M'Ginnis."

"Then you're sure chasin' trouble."

"That's what I want. D' you know where he is?"

"Sure I do, but—"

The Spider paused, drawing in his breath slowly, as with experienced gaze he viewed Ravenslee's pale, set face—the delicate nostrils wide and quivering, the relentless mouth and burning eyes and all the repressed ferocity of him and, drawing back a step, the Spider shook his head.

"Bo," said he, "that's jest what I ain't goin' t' tell ye."

"Very well, I must find him."

"Don't!" said the Spider, walking on beside him, "if I didn't think a whole lot o' ye, I'd lead ye t' him."

"Oh—I shall find him, if it takes me all night."

"An' if ye do, it'll be murder, I'm dead sure—"

"Murder?" said Ravenslee with a flash of white teeth. "Well, I shall certainly kill him—this time!"

"Is it th' Kid again?"

"No—oh, no, it's just for my own satisfaction—and pleasure."

"You ain't heeled, are ye? This ain't goin' t' be no gun-play—eh?"

"No, I haven't a gun, but I've brought his—neckerchief."

"Sufferin' Pete!" murmured the Spider in a strangely awed voice, and walked on in silence, chewing viciously.

"Bo," said he at last, "I'm thinkin' th' kindest thing I could do would be t' slip one over t' your point while you wasn't lookin', an' puttin' you t' sleep a bit—you want soothin'! Bud'll be too big fer you or any other guy t' tackle now; ye see, his stock's rose—th' Noo Jersey p'lice wasn't strong enough t' hold him—"

"That's where I'm different—I can!" said Ravenslee, opening and shutting his right hand convulsively. "Yes, I'll hold him till his last kick—and after!"

"My God!" exclaimed the Spider softly, and, beholding that clutching right hand, he edged away.

"Where you goin' t' look fer him?" he enquired after a while.

"O'Rourke's!"

"Why not try Raynor's first?" and he nodded to a saloon on the adjacent corner.

"Because I'm not a fool."

"Bo, I ain't s' sure o' that! O'Rourke's'll be full o' tough guys t'night; all th' bunch'll be there, an' if Bud tips 'em th' say-so, they'll snuff your light out quicker 'n winkin'."

"That wouldn't be such a hardship."

"Oh, so that's it, hey? You got a kiss-me-an'-let-me-die sort o' feelin', hey? Some nice bit o' stuff been turnin' ye down, bo?"

"That'll be about enough!" said Ravenslee, quick and fierce; and, meeting the flash of his eye, the Spider edged away again.

"Sufferin' Mike!" said he, "you sure ain't doin' the affable chat stunt t'night!"

But Ravenslee strode along in silence, and the Spider, heeding the pale, set ferocity of his expression, grew troubled.

"Say," said he at last, "this don't happen t' be th' night as you've fixed up t' smash th' gang, does it?"

"No—only M'Ginnis."

"S'posin' he ain't at O'Rourke's?"

"He'll be somewhere else."

"Bo, if I was your ma, I should be prayin' you don't find Bud, yes, sir! An' I should pray—dam' hard!"

By this time they had reached Eleventh Avenue and were close upon the saloon when Ravenslee halted suddenly, for, beneath a lamp on the opposite sidewalk, he saw M'Ginnis in talk with two other men.

Drawing the neckerchief from his pocket, Ravenslee crossed over and tapped M'Ginnis on the arm, who, turning about, stared into a pallid face within a foot of his own.

"What th' hell—" he began, but Ravenslee cut him short.

"You left this behind you," said he, thrusting forward the neckerchief, "so I've brought it to twist around that foul throat of yours. Now, M'Ginnis—fight!"

Thrusting the neckerchief into his pocket, Ravenslee clenched his fists, and, saying no more, they closed and fought—not as men, but rather as brute beasts eager to maim and rend.

M'Ginnis's companions, dumbfounded by the sudden ferocity of it all, stood awhile inactive, staring at those two forms that lurched and swayed, that strove and panted, grimly speechless. Then, closing in, they waited an opportunity to smite down M'Ginnis's foe from behind. But the Spider was watching, and, before either of them could kick or strike, his fists thudded home—twice—hard blows aimed with scientific precision; after which, having dragged the fallen away from those fierce-trampling feet, he stood, quivering and tense, to watch that desperate encounter.

Once Ravenslee staggered back from a vicious flush-hit, and once M'Ginnis spun around to fall upon hands and knees; then they clenched, and coming to the ground together, fought there, rolling to and fro and hideously twisted together. But slowly Ravenslee's clean living began to tell, and M'Ginnis, wriggling beneath a merciless grip, uttered inarticulate cries and groaned aloud. And now the deadly neckerchief was about his gasping throat and in his ears his conqueror's fierce laugh—lost all at once in a roar of voices, a rush of trampling feet.

Wrenched at by fierce hands, smitten by unseen fists, Ravenslee was beaten down—was dimly aware of the Spider's long legs bestriding him, and staggering up through a tempest of blows, hurled himself among his crowding assailants, felled one with his right, stopped another with his left, and, as the press broke to the mad fury of his onslaught, felt his hand wrenched from a man's windpipe and heard a frantic voice that panted:

"Leg it, bo, leg it. Hully Chee! ain't ye had enough?" So, mechanically, he set off at a run, with his arm still gripped by the Spider. "Leg it, bo—leg it good, or here's where we snuff it sure! This way—round th' corner; only keep goin', bo, keep goin'."

Very fleetly they ran with their pursuers close on their heels, across open lots, over fences, along tortuous alleys, until the rush and patter of the many feet died away, and the Spider, pulling up at the corner of a dismal, narrow street hard by the river, stood awhile to listen.

"Jiminy Christmas! but you're some hot stuff at the swattin' business—you're a glutton, you are, bo. I been in one or two scraps meself, but I never seen a guy so hungry for—"

"Where are we?"

"Thirteenth an' Twentieth."

"Are we safe?"

"F' th' time, I reckon. But all Hell's Kitchen'll be out after us t'night, sure. So I guess it's us for th' immediate hike—"

"Us? Will they be after you, too?"

"Well," said the Spider, smiling down grimly at his damaged, knuckles, "I guess yes! Hell's Kitchen an' Tenth Av'ner's got t' get along without me from now on, I reckon. They ain't losin' much, an' I ain't leavin' much, but—"

"Why the devil had you got to follow me to-night?" demanded Ravenslee, scowling.

"Bo," said the Spider as they went on again, "there's times when my likin' f'r you gets a pain; there's times when y'r talk gives me th' earache, an' y'r lovin' looks the willies. I ain't lookin' f'r no gratitood, nor yet a gold dinner-set an' loominated address, but, not ownin' a hide like a sole-leather Saratoga, I'll jest get on me way—S' long!"

"Where are you going?"

"I dunno, but—I'm goin' there, right now."

But as the Spider turned away, his hand was caught and gripped, and Ravenslee was smiling; his features looked a bit battered, but his smile was pleasant as ever.

"Forgive my cursed temper, Spider. I owe you my life again and—I ought to be grateful, I suppose. Forgive me, I'm—not quite myself to-night."

"Sure thing!" said the Spider, returning his grasp, "but, bo, I'm kind o' wonderin' in me little mind what Bud's feelin' like! You sure swatted him good an' heavy. I never seen cleaner footwork, an' them left jabs o' yours—"

"The question is, how do you feel, Spider, and what are you going to do?"

The pugilist scratched his rough chin. "Well, that's what gets my goat; I dunno quite, bo. Y' see, I shan't be able t' get no more fights here in the East now, not wi' Bud 'n' his old man against me—y' see, Bud's old man's about the biggest—"

"I wonder if you'd care to come with me?"

"Whaffor?"

"Well, for one thing, I need another chauffeur and—"

"A—what?" The Spider halted under a lamp-post to stare at Ravenslee a little anxiously. "Say, now, take a holt of ye'self an' jest put that one over th' plate again—you need a—what?"

"Another chauffeur."

"Another shuvver—another? Bo, y' didn't happen t' get a soak on th' bean just now, did ye?"

"No."

"Well, then, I guess you're some shook up; what you want's food, right now!"

"Why, yes, now you mention it, I'm devilish hungry," agreed Ravenslee.

"Leave it t' me, bo—I know a chewin'-joint close by—soup, joint, sweets, an' coffee an' only a quarter a throw—some feed, bo! Shin right along, I'll—"

"No, you shall come home and dine with me."

"Home?" repeated the Spider, halting to stare again; "you're sure talkin' ramblin'—"

"We can discuss the chauffeur's job then—"

"Shuvver?" said the Spider uneasily. "But what's a guy like you want with a shuvver?"

"Well, to drive my car—and—"

"Car?" said the Spider, his uneasiness growing, "got a car now, have ye, bo?"

"I rather think I've got six."

"Sufferin' Sam!" The Spider scratched his chin while his keen eyes roved over Ravenslee's exterior apprehensively. "Say, bo, you quite sure none o' th' bunch booted you on th' dome—eh?"

"Quite sure."

"An' yet you got six auter-mobiles. I say—you think so."

"Now I think again, they're seven with the newest racer."

"Say, now, jest holt still a minute! Now, swaller twice, think dam' hard, an' tell me again! You got how many?"

"Seven!"

"Got anythin' else?"

"Oh, yes, a few things."

"Tell us jest one."

"Well, a yacht."

"Oh, a yacht?"

"A yacht."

"'S 'nuff, bo, 's 'nuff! But go on—go on, get it all off if you'll feel better after. Anythin' more?"

"Why, yes, about twenty or thirty houses and castles and palaces and things—"

"That settles it sure!" sighed the Spider. "You're comin' t' see a doctor, that's what! Your dome's sure got bent in with a boot or somethin'."

"No, Spider, I just happen to be born the son of a millionaire, that's all."

"Think o' that, now!" nodded the Spider, "a millionaire now—how nice! An' what do they call ye at home?"

"Geoffrey Ravenslee."

"How much?" exclaimed the Spider, falling back a step. "The guy as went ten rounds with Dick Dunoon at th' 'National?' The guy as won th' Auter-mobile Race? Th' guy as bought up Mulligan's—you?"

"Why, yes. By the way, I sat in the front row and watched you lick Larry McKinnon at 'Frisco; I was afraid you were going to recognise me, once or twice."

"Then, you—you have got a yacht, th' big one as lays off Twenty-third Street?"

"Also seven cars; that's why I want you for a chauffeur."

"Ho-ly Gee!" murmured the dazed Spider. "Well, say, you sure have got me goin'! A millionaire! A peanut cart! A yacht! Well, say, I—I guess it's time I got on me way. S' long!"

"No you don't, my Spider; you're coming home with me."

"What—me? Not much I ain't—no, sir! I ain't no giddy gink t' go dinin' with millionaires in open-faced clo'es—not me!"

"But you're coming to have dinner with that same peanut man who learned to respect you because you were a real, white man, Spider Connolly. And that's another reason why I want you for my chauffeur."

"But—say, I—I can't shuv."

"Joe shall teach you."

"Joe? Y' mean—Joe Madden?"

"He'll be chauffeur number one—and there's a cross-town car! Come on, Spider! Now—in with you!"



CHAPTER XXXI

IN WHICH SOAPY TAKES A HAND

O'Rourke's was full: its long bar, shaped something like the letter J, supported many lounging arms and elbows; its burnished foot-rail was scraped by boots of many shapes and sizes; its heavy air, thick with cigarette smoke, hummed with many voices. In one corner, a remote corner where few ventured to penetrate, Soapy leaned, as pallid and noncommittal as ever, while Spike poured out to him the story of his woes.

"She drove me out, Soapy! She drove me away from her!" he repeated for the hundredth time. The boy was unnaturally flushed and bright of eye, and his voice was as shaky as the hand which fidgeted with his whisky glass; and the sense of his wrongs was great and growing greater with every sip.

"She told me t' leave her! She drove me away from her—"

"So you come here, eh, Kid?" drawled Soapy, pendent cigarette smouldering. "You skinned over here t' Bud f' comfort, an' you'll sure get it, Kid—in a glass!"

"Bud's always good t' me—"

"'S right, Kid, 's right, Bud's an angel sure, though he ain't got no wings yet. Oh, Bud'll comfort ye—frequent, an' by an' by he'll take ye back t' Hermy good an' soused; you can get your own back that ways—eh, Kid? It'll sure make her sit up an' take notice when she sees ye come in reelin' an' staggerin'—eh, Kid? An' to-morrow you'll be sick mebbe, an' she'll have ter nurse ye—oh, Bud'll fix things fer ye, I guess." Spike glowered and pushed his half-emptied glass further away.

"I ain't goin' home soused!" he muttered.

"No?" said Soapy, faintly surprised. "Bud'll feel kind o' hurt, won't he?"

"I ain't goin' home soused—not for Bud nor nobody else!"

"Why, then, if I was you, Kid, I should beat it before Bud comes in."

"I guess I will," said Spike, rising.

But now was sudden uproar of voices in the street hard by, a running and trampling of feet, and, the swing doors opening, a group of men appeared, bearing among them a heavy burden; and coming to the quiet corner they laid M'Ginnis there. Battered, bloody, and torn he lay, his handsome features swollen and disfigured, his clothes dusty and dishevelled, while above him and around him men stooped and peered and whispered.

"Why, it's—it's—Bud!" stammered Spike, shrinking away from that inanimate form, "my God! It's—Bud!"

"'S right, Kid!" nodded Soapy imperturbably, hands in pockets and, though his voice sounded listless as ever, his eyes gleamed evilly, and the dangling cigarette quivered and stirred.

"Ain't—dead, is he?" some one questioned.

"Dead—not much!" answered Soapy, "guess it's goin' to take more 'n that t' make Bud a stiff 'un. Besides, Bud ain't goin' t' die that way, no, not—that way, I reckon. Dead? Watch this!" So saying, he reached Spike's half-emptied glass from the bar and, not troubling to stoop, poured the raw spirit down upon M'Ginnis's pale, blood-smirched face.

"Dead?" said Soapy. "Well, I guess not—look at him!"

And, sure enough, M'Ginnis stirred, groaned, opened swollen eyelids and, aided by some ready arm, sat up feebly. Then he glanced up at the ring of peering faces and down upon his rent and dusty person, and fell to a sudden, fierce torrent of curses; cursing thus, his strength seemed to return all at once, for he sprang to his feet and with clenched fists drove through the crowd, and lifting a flap in the bar, opened a door beyond and was gone.

"No," said Soapy, shaking his head, "I guess Bud ain't dead—yet, fellers. I wonder who gave him that eye, Kid? An' his mouth too! Did ye pipe them split lips! Kind o' painful, I guess. An' a couple o' teeth knocked out too! Some punchin', Kid! An' Bud kind o' fancied them nice, white teeth of his a whole heap!"

Here the bartender glanced toward the corner where they stood, and, lifting an eyebrow, jerked his thumb at the door behind him with the words: "Kid, I reckon Bud wants ye."

For a moment Spike hesitated then, lifting the mahogany flap, crossed the bar, and opened the door.

"Guess I'll come along, Kid," and, hands in pockets, Soapy followed.

They found M'Ginnis sprawling at a table and scowling at the knuckles of his bruised right hand while at his elbow were a bottle and two glasses. He had washed the blood and dirt from him, had brushed and straightened his dusty garments, but he couldn't hide the cuts and bruises that disfigured his face, nor his scratched and swollen throat.

"What you here for?" he demanded, as Soapy closed the door, "didn't send for you, did I?"

"No, that's why I come, Bud."

"But, say, Bud, what—what's been th' matter?" stammered Spike, his gaze upon M'Ginnis's battered face, "who's been—"

"Matter? Nothin'! I had a bit of a rough-house as I come along—"

"'S right," nodded Soapy, "you sure look it! Never seen a fatter eye—"

"Well, what you got t' beef about?"

"Nothin', Bud, only—"

"Only what?"

"It's kind o' tough you losin' them couple o' teeth—or is it three?"

M'Ginnis turned on him with a snarl. "A-r-r-, you—! Some day I'm goin' t' kick the insides out o' ye!"

"Some day, Bud, sure. I'll be waitin'! Meantime why not get some doctor-guy t' put ye face back in shape—gee, I hate t' see ye—you look like a butcher's shop! An' them split lips pains some, I guess!"

Here, while M'Ginnis choked in impotent rage, Soapy lit a fresh cigarette from the butt of the last and held out the packet.

"Try a coffin-nail, Bud? No? Well, I guess y' couldn't smoke good with a mouth on ye like that."

"Who did it, Bud?" questioned Spike eagerly. "Who was it?"

"Hush up, Kid, hush up!" said Soapy, viewing M'Ginnis's cuts and bruises with glistening eyes. "I guess that guy's layin' around somewheres waitin' f'r th' coroner—Bud wouldn't let him make such a holy mess of his face an' get away with it—not much! Bud's a killer, I know that—don't I, Bud?"

"You close up that dog's head o' yours, Soapy, or by—"

"'S all right, Bud, 's all right. Don't get peeved; I'll close up tighter 'n a clam, only—it's kinder tough about them teeth—"

"Are ye goin' t' cut it out or shall—"

"Aw, calm down, Bud, calm down! Take a drink; it'll do ye good." And filling a glass with rye whisky, Soapy set it before M'Ginnis, who cursed him, took it up, and turned to Spike.

"Fill it up, Kid," he commanded.

"Not me, Bud, I—I ain't here for that," said Spike. "I come t' tell ye as some dirty guy's been an' blown th' game on me t' Hermy; she—she knows everything, an' to-night she—drove me away from her—"

"Did she, Kid, oh, did she?" said M'Ginnis, a new note of eagerness in his voice. "Drove ye out onto th' streets, Kid? That's dam' hard on you!"

"Yes, Bud, I—guess she—don't want me around—"

"Kind o' looks that way!" nodded M'Ginnis, and filling Spike's glass, he put it into the boy's unwilling fingers. "Take a drink, Kid; ye sure need it!" said he.

"'S right," murmured Soapy, "told ye Bud 'ud comfort ye, didn't I, Kid?"

"So Hermy's drove ye away?" said M'Ginnis, "throwed ye out—eh?"

"She sure has, Bud, an' I—Oh, I'm miserable as hell!"

"Why, then, get some o' Bud's comfort into ye, Kid," murmured Soapy. "Lap it up good, Kid; there's plenty more—in th' bottle!"

"Let him alone," growled M'Ginnis, "he don't want you buttin' in!"

"'S right, too, Bud!" nodded Soapy, "he's got you, ain't he? An' you—got him, ain't you?"

"I didn't think Hermy 'ud ever treat me—like this!" said Spike tearfully.

"You mean—throwin' ye out into th' streets, Kid? Why, I been expectin' it!"

"Expectin' it?" repeated Spike, setting down his glass and staring, "why?"

"Well, she's a girl, ain't she, an' they're all th' same, I reckon—"

"An' Bud knows all about girls, Kid!" murmured Soapy. "Bud's wise t' all their tricks—ain't you, Bud?"

"But whatcher mean?" cried Spike. "What ye mean about expectin' it?"

"Well, she don't want ye no more, does she?" answered M'Ginnis, his bruised hands fierce clenched, his voice hoarse and thick with passion. "She's got some one else now—ain't she? She's—in love—ain't she? She's all waked up an' palpitatin' for—for that dam'—" he choked, and set one hand to his scratched throat.

"What d'ye mean, Bud?"

"Ah!" said Soapy, softer than before, "I'm on, Bud; you put me wise! He means, Kid, as Hermy's in love with th' guy as has just been punchin' hell out of him—he means your pal Geoff." With a hoarse, strangling cry, M'Ginnis leapt up, his hand flashed behind him, and—he stood suddenly very still, staring into the muzzle of the weapon Soapy had levelled from his hip.

"Aw, quit it, Bud, quit it," he sighed, "it ain't come t' that—yet. Besides, the Kid's here, so loose ye gun, Bud. No, give it t'me; you're a bit on edge t'night, I guess, an' it might go off an' break a glass or somethin'. So gimme ye gun, Bud. That's it! Now we can sit an' talk real sociable, can't we? Now listen, Bud—what you want is t' get your own back on this guy Geoff, an' what th' Kid wants is t' show his sister as he ain't a kid, an' what I want is t' give ye both a helpin' hand—"

But while M'Ginnis stood scowling at the imperturbable speaker, Spike rose, a little unsteadily, and turned to the door.

"I'll be gettin' on me way, Bud," said he.

"Where to?"

"Home."

"What! Back t' Hermy? After she turned ye out?"

"But I—I got t' go somewheres—"

"Well, you stay right here with me, Kid; I'll fix ye up all right—"

"'S right, Kid!" nodded Soapy. "Bud'll fix ye all right, same as I said; we'll have in another bottle when that's empty!"

"What about your sister, Kid?" demanded M'Ginnis fiercely. "What about Hermy an' this swell guy? Are y' goin' t' sit around an' do nothin'?"

"But Geoff's goin' t' marry her."

"Marry her! What, him? A millionaire marry your sister? You think so, an' she thinks so, but I know different!"

"But Hermy ain't that sort. Hermy's—good—"

"Sure, but this guy's got her fazed—she thinks he's square all right—she'll trust him an' then—s'posin' he ain't?"

"I—I ain't s'posin' nothin' like that!" said Spike, gulping his whisky.

"Well, s'posin' he's been meetin' her—in a wood—on the sly—eh? S'posin' they been huggin' an' kissin'—"

"Say now—you cut that out—" stammered Spike, his voice thick. "I tell ye—she ain't—that kind."

"S'posin'," continued Bud, refilling the lad's glass, "s'posin' I could show 'em to ye in a wood—eh? Ah! What she want t' meet him in a wood for, anyway—nice an' quiet, eh?"

"Say now, Bud, I—I ain't goin' t' listen t' no more!" said Spike, rising and clutching at the table, "I—I'm goin' home!" And swaying on unsteady feet, he turned to the door, but M'Ginnis gripped his shoulder.

"Wait a bit, Kid."

"N-no, I'm—goin' home—see!" said Spike, setting his jaw obstinately, "I'm goin'—r-right now!"

"That's just what you ain't!" snarled M'Ginnis. "Sit down! Hermy's only a work-girl—don't forget that, Kid—an' this guy's a millionaire. I guess he thinks Hermy'll do—till he gets tired of her an'—then what?"

"He—told me he's goin' t' marry her!" said Spike slowly, speaking with an effort, "an' I guess Geoff ain't a liar. An' I wanter—go home."

"Home—after she throwed ye out? Ain't ye got no pride?"

"Aw, say, Bud," sighed Soapy, "I guess d' Kid ain't soused enough for pride yet; sling another glass int' him—that'll fix him good, I reckon."

"I ain't g-goin' t' drink no more," said Spike, resting heavy head between his hands, "I guess I'll b-beat it home, f'lers."

"Bud," suggested Soapy, "ain't it about time you rang in little Maggie on him?"

M'Ginnis whirled upon the speaker, snarling, but Soapy, having lighted another cigarette, nudged Spike with a sharp elbow.

"Kid," said he, "Bud's goin' t' remind ye of little Maggie Finlay—you remember little Maggie as drowned herself." Spike lifted a pale face and stared from the placid Soapy to scowling Bud and shrank away.

"Yes," he whispered hoarsely, "yes—I'll never forget how she looked—pale, so pale an' still, an' th' water—runnin' out of her brown curls—I—I'll never forget—"

"Well," growled M'Ginnis, "watch out Hermy don't end th' same way."

"No!" cried Spike. "Oh, my God—no!"

"What's she meetin' this millionaire in a wood for—on the sly?"

"She don't! Hermy ain't like that."

"I tell ye she does!" cried M'Ginnis, "an' him kissin' an' squeezin' her an'—nobody by—"

"It's a lie, Bud—she—she wouldn't!"

"S'posin' I could show ye? S'pose you see him there—waitin' for her—"

"If—if he means any harm t' Hermy, I—I'll kill him!"

"Aw—you wouldn't have the nerve, Kid!"

"I'd shoot him dead—by God, I would!"

"You ain't man enough, Kid."

"You g-give me a gun an' see. I'd shoot any one t' save my sister from—th' river. Oh, my God—I—I'd die for her, an' she don't love me no more!" And leaning his head upon his arms, Spike burst into a passion of tears. M'Ginnis watched him awhile, then, filling the boy's glass, clapped him on the shoulder and held it to his lips.

"Neck this, Kid," said he, "neck it all—so, that's good, ain't it? To-morrow evenin' I'll take ye where they meet; maybe you'll ketch him waitin' for her—but instead of Hermy an' kisses there'll be you an' me, hey? Will ye come?"

"S-sure I will if—you'll gimme—your gun."

"Pshaw, Kid—what's a kid like you want with a gun?"

"T'shoot him—"

"Eh? What? D'ye mean—?"

"If he's after my sister, I'll—kill him! I will, by God, I will!"

"'S right," nodded Soapy, staring into the boy's drawn face, "'s right, Bud; if ever I see a killer—th' Kid's sure it!"

Slowly the glare died out of Spike's eyes, his body drooped, and sighing, he pillowed his heavy head upon the table and fell into a drunken slumber. For a while the two men sat there hearkening to his stertorous breathing, then Soapy laughed soft and mirthlessly. "You sure got th' Kid all worked up an' mad enough t'—kill, eh, Bud? If he does get up against this guy Geoff—this guy Geoff's sure goin' t' cash in—sudden. Consequently, I guess you'll be wantin' paper an' pencil—both here!"

"What th' hell—" began M'Ginnis.

"Telegram, Bud. You're goin' t' frame up a nice little telegram t' this guy Geoff—oh, you sure are th' fly gazebo! A nice little message—'meet me t'morrow in the wood at sunset—Hermy?' Somethin' nice 'n' romantic like that'll bring him on th' run—eh, Bud? Then, 'stead of Hermy, comes you an' th' Kid, eh, Bud? An' 'stead of kisses, this guy Geoff gets a lead pill—eh, Bud? Th' Kid can't miss if you get him close enough. It sure is some scheme, Bud; I couldn't have thought it out better myself. Paper 'n' pencil, Bud—get busy an' I'll sashay over an' send it off for ye—t'night."

During Soapy's unusually long speech, M'Ginnis sat staring at him under frowning brows, but now he turned and scowled down at the sheet of paper, picked up the pencil, laid it by again and sat opening and shutting his big hands, while Soapy, lighting another cigarette, watched him furtively. When at last he spoke, his voice was thick, and he didn't lift his scowling gaze.

"Send that kid Larry t' me, an' say—you don't have t' come back."

"All right, Bud, all right—only you'd best send two telegrams t' make sure—one t' Fift' Av, an' one t' his place up th' river. S' long, Buddy!"

Some fifteen minutes later, the boy Larry, stepping out of O'Rourke's, was swung to the wall in Soapy's grip.

"Aw—say, cheese it now! Is that you, Soapy?"

"'S right, my bucko. Fork out that telegram—quick!"

"Aw, say, what yer mean—'n' say, Bud told me to hustle, 'n' say—"

"Dig it out—quick!" said Soapy, the dangling cigarette glowing fiercely. "I want it—see?"

"But say—" whimpered Larry, "what'll Bud say—"

"Nothin'! Bud ain't goin' t' know. You take this instead—take it!" And Soapy thrust another folded paper into the boy's limp hand, who took it whimpering.

"Bud tol' me t' bring it back."

"Well, you tell him you lost it."

"Not much—I'll skin right back an' tell him you pinched it."

"You won't, my sport, you won't!" said Soapy, and speaking, moved suddenly; and the boy, uttering a gasp of terror, shrank cowering with the muzzle of Soapy's deadly weapon against the pit of his stomach. "You ain't goin' t' say a word t' Bud nor nobody else, are ye, Larry boy, are ye?"

"No—no—"

"Because if ye ever did, old sport, I should give it ye there—right there in the tum-tum, see? Now chase off, an' see ye get them addresses right. S'long, Larry boy, be good now!" When the boy had scudded away, Soapy opened the paper and scanned the words of M'Ginnis's telegram and, being alone, smiled as he glanced through it.

"You got th' Kid, Bud," he murmured, "you got th' Kid—but if th' Kid gets the guy Geoff, why—I've sure got you, Bud—got ye sure as hell, Bud!"



CHAPTER XXXII

OF HARMONY AND DISCORD

Mr. Brimberly, comfortably ensconced in Young R.'s favourite armchair, nodded ponderously and beat time to the twang of Mr. Jenkins's banjo, whereto Mr. Stevens sang in a high-pitched and rather shaky tenor the latest musical success yclept "Sammy." Thus, Mr. Jenkins strummed, Mr. Stevens trilled, and Mr. Brimberly alternately beat the tempo with a plump white finger and sipped his master's champagne until, having emptied his glass, he turned to the bottle on the table beside him, found that empty also, crossed to the two bottles on the mantel, found them likewise void and had tried the two upon the piano with no better success, when, the song being ended, Mr. Jenkins struck in with:

"All dead men, Brim! Six of 'em between us—not bad going, what?"

"And very good fizz too, on the whole!" added Mr. Stevens. "I always sing better on champagne. But come, Brim my boy, I've obliged with everything I know, and Jenk, 'e 's played everything 'e knows, and I must say with great delicacy an' feelin'—now it's your turn—somethin'."

"Well," answered Mr. Brimberly, squinting at an empty bottle, "I used to know a very good song once, called 'Let's drownd all our sorrers and cares.' But good 'eavens! we can't drownd 'em in empty bottles, can we?"

"Oh, very good!" chuckled Mr. Jenkins, "oh, very prime! If I might suggest, there's nothin' like port—port's excellent tipple for drowndin' sorrer and downing care—what?"

"Port, sir?" repeated Mr. Brimberly, "we 'ave enough port in our cellars to drownd every sorrer an' care in Noo York City. I'm proud of our port, sir, and I'm reckoned a bit of a connysoor—"

"Ah, it takes a eddicated palate to appreciate good port!" nodded Mr. Jenkins loftily, "a eddicated palate—what?"

"Cert'nly!" added Mr. Stevens, "an' here's two palates waitin', waitin' an' ready to appreciate till daylight doth appear."

"There's nothin' like port!" sighed Mr. Brimberly, setting aside the empty champagne bottle, "nothin' like port, and there's Young Har 'ardly can tell it from sherry—oh, the Goth! the Vandyle! All this good stuff would be layin' idle if it wasn't for me! Young Har ain't got no right to be a millionaire; 'is money's wasted on 'im—he neglects 'is opportoonities shameful—eh, shameful! What I say is—what's the use of bein' a millionaire if you don't air your millions?"

Hereupon Mr. Jenkins rocked himself to and fro over his banjo in a polite ecstasy of mirth.

"Oh, by Jove!" he gasped, "if that ain't infernal clever, I'll be shot! Oh, doocid clever I call it—what!"

"Er—by the way, Brim," said Mr. Stevens, his glance roving toward the open window, "where does he happen to be to-night?"

"Where?" repeated Mr. Brimberly, fingering a slightly agitated whisker, "where is Young Har, sir? Lord, Mr. Stevens, if you ask me that, I throws up my 'ands, and I answers you—'eavens knows! Young Har is a unknown quantity, sir—a will o' the wisp, or as you might say, a ignus fattus. At this pre-cise moment 'e may be in Jerusalem or Jericho or—a-sittin' outside on the lawn—which Gawd forbid! But there, don't let's talk of it. Come on down into the cellars, and we'll bring up enough port to drownd sorrer an' care all night."

"With all my heart!" said Mr. Jenkins, laying aside his banjo.

"Ditto, indeed!" nodded Mr. Stevens, slipping a hand in his host's arm, and thus linked together they made their way out of the room.

Scarcely had their hilarious voices died away when a muscular brown hand parted the hangings of an open window, and Geoffrey Ravenslee climbed into the room. His rough clothes and shabby hat were powdered with dust, and he looked very much out of place amid his luxurious surroundings as he paused to glance swiftly from the bottles that decorated the carved mantel to those on table and piano. Then, light-treading, he crossed the room, and as the hilarious three were heard approaching, vanished in his turn.

"'Ere we are, Jubilee Port!" exclaimed Mr. Brimberly, setting down two cobwebbed bottles with elaborate care, "obleege me with the corkscrew, somebody."

"Won't forget as you promised us a song, Brim!" said Mr. Jenkins, passing the necessary implement.

"Oh, I won't disappoint ye," answered Mr. Brimberly, drawing the cork with a practised hand; "my father were a regular songster, a fair carollin' bird 'e were, sir."

"'Ow about 'Knocked 'em in the Old Kent Road'?" Mr. Stevens suggested.

"Sir!" exclaimed Mr. Brimberly, pausing in the act of filling the glasses, "that's rather a—a low song, ain't it? What do you think, Mr. Jenkins?"

"Low?" answered Mr. Jenkins, "it's as low as—as mud, sir. I might say it's infernal vulgar—what?"

"Why, I don't care for it myself," Mr. Stevens admitted rather humbly, "it was merely a suggestion."

"With your good favour," said Mr. Brimberly, after a tentative sip at his glass, "I'll sing you a old song as was a rare favourite of my father's."

"Why, then," said Mr. Jenkins, taking up his banjo, "oblige us with the key."

"The key, sir?" answered Mr. Brimberly, pulling down his waistcoat, "what key might you mean?"

"The key of the note dominant, Brim."

Mr. Brimberly stared and felt for his whisker.

"Note dominant," he murmured; "I don't think my song has anything of that sort—"

"Oh, well, just whistle a couple o' bars."

"Bars," said Mr. Brimberly, shaking his head, "bars, sir, is things wherewith I do not 'old; bars are the 'aunt of the 'umble 'erd, sir—"

"No, no, Brim," explained Mr. Stevens, "Jenk merely means you to 'um the air."

"Ah, to be sure, now I appre'end! I'll 'um you the hair with pleasure."

Mr. Brimberly cleared his throat vigorously and thereafter emitted certain rumbling noises, whereat Mr. Jenkins cocked a knowing head.

"C sharp, I think?" he announced.

"Not much, Jenk!" said Mr. Stevens decidedly, "it was D flat—as flat a D as ever I heard!"

"It was C!" Mr. Jenkins said, "I appeal to Brim."

"Well," said Mr. Brimberly ponderously, "I'm reether inclined to think I made it a D—if it wasn't D it was F nat'ral. But if it's all the same to you, I'll accompany myself at the piano-forty."

"What," exclaimed Mr. Stevens, emptying and refilling his glass, seeing which Mr. Jenkins did the same, "what—do you play, Brim?"

"By hear, sir—only by hear," said Mr. Brimberly modestly, as, having placed bottle and glass upon the piano within convenient reach, he seated himself upon the stool, struck three or four stumbling chords and then, vamping an accompaniment a trifle monotonous as to bass, burst forth into song:

"It was a rich merchant that in London did dwell, He had but one daughter, a beautiful gell, Which her name it was Dinah, scarce sixteen years old, She'd a very large fortune in silver and gold."

Chorus:

"Ri tooral ri tooral ri tooral i-day, Ri tooral ri tooral ri tooral i-day."

It was now that Mr. Ravenslee, his rough clothes replaced by immaculate attire, entered unostentatiously, and, wholly unobserved by the company, seated himself and lounged there while Mr. Brimberly sang blithely on:

"As Dinah was a-walking in her garden one day, Her father came to her and thus he did say: 'Come wed yourself, Dinah, to your nearest of kin, Or you shan't have the benefit of one single pin!'"

"Ri tooral ri too—"

Here Mr. Jenkins, chancing to catch sight of that unobtrusive figure, let fall his banjo with a clatter, whereupon Mr. Brimberly glancing around, stopped short in the middle of a note, and sat open-mouthed, staring at his master.

"Enjoying a musical evening, Brimberly?"

Mr. Brimberly blundered to his feet, choked, gasped, groped for his whiskers, and finally spoke:

"Why, sir, I—I'm afraid I—we are—"

"I didn't know you were such an accomplished musician, Brimberly."

"Mu-musician, sir?" Brimberly stammered, his eyes goggling; "'ardly that, sir, oh, 'ardly that, I—I venture to—to tinkle a bit now an' then, sir—no offence I 'ope, sir?"

"Friends musical too, it seems."

"Y-yes, sir, music do affect 'em, sir—uncommonly, sir."

"Yes, makes them thirsty, doesn't it?"

"Why, Mr. Ravenslee, sir, I—that is, we did so far venture to—er—I mean—oh, Lord!" and mopping perspiring brow, Mr. Brimberly groaned and goggled helplessly from Mr. Jenkins who stood fumbling with his banjo to Mr. Stevens who gaped fishlike.

"And now," said Young R., having viewed them each in turn, "if these—er—very thirsty musicians have had enough of—er—my wine to—er—drink, perhaps you'll be so obliging as to see them—off the premises?"

"I—I beg parding, sir?"

"Please escort your friends off the premises."

"Certingly, sir—at once, sir—"

"Unless you think you ought to give them each a handful of my cigars—"

But Mr. Brimberly had already bundled his dazed guests to the door, out of the door, and out of the house, with very little ceremony.

It was a very deferential and officiously eager Brimberly who presently knocked and, bowing very frequently, begged to know how he might be of further service.

"Might I get you a little supper, sir? We 'ave 'am, sir, we 'ave beef, cold, salmon and cucumber likewise cold, a ditto chicken—"

"That sounds rather a quaint bird," said Ravenslee.

"Yes, sir, very good, sir, chicken an' a nice slice of 'am, sir, say, and—"

"Thank you, Brimberly, I dined late."

"Why then, sir, a sandwich or so, pray permit me, sir, cut nice an' thin, sir—"

"Thank you—no."

"Dear, dear! Why then, sir, whisky? Brandy? A lick-your?"

"Nothing."

"A cigar, sir?"

"Hum! Have we any of the Garcias left?"

"Y-yes, sir. Ho, certingly, sir. Shall I—"

"Don't bother, I prefer my pipe; only let me know when we get short, Brimberly, and we'll order more—or perhaps you have a favourite brand?"

"Brand, sir," murmured Brimberly, "a—er—certingly, sir."

"Good night, Brimberly."

"Good night, sir, but first can't I do—hanything?"

"Oh, yes, you do me, of course. You do me so consistently and well that I really ought to raise your wages. I'll think about it."

Mr. Brimberly stared, coughed, and fumbled for his whisker, whence his hand wandered to his brow and hovered there.

"I—I bid you good night, sir!"

"Oh, by the way, bring me the letters."

"Certingly, sir!" and crossing the room, Mr. Brimberly returned, bearing a salver piled high with letters, which he set at his master's elbow; this done, he bowed and went from the room, one hand still at his dazed brow.

Left alone, Ravenslee took up the letters one by one. Some he threw aside, some few he opened and glanced at carelessly; among these last was a telegram, and the words he saw were these:

"Meet me to-morrow sunset in the wood all shall be explained Hermy."

For a while he sat staring at this, then, laying it by, drew out a letter case from which he took another telegram bearing precisely the same message. Having compared them, he thrust them into his pocket, and filling his pipe, sat awhile smoking and lost in thought. At last, his pipe being out, he rose, stretched, and turned toward the door, but in the act of leaving the room, paused to take out and compare the telegrams again and so stood with puckered brow.

"'Hermy!'" he said softly. "'Hermione' is so much prettier. 'All shall be explained.' A little trite, perhaps! Oh, well—" So saying, he folded up the telegrams, switched off the lights and went to bed.



CHAPTER XXXIII

OF TRAGEDY

It was close on the hour of sunset when Ravenslee stopped his car before a quiet hotel in Englewood and sprang out.

"Will you be long, sir?" enquired Joe, seating himself at the wheel and preparing to turn into the garage.

"Probably an hour, Joe."

"Very good, sir."

But as the big car turned, Ravenslee spoke over his shoulder.

"By the way, if I shouldn't be back in an hour, come and meet me." Then, having given Joe full and particular directions as to the little wood, he turned and went upon his way.

It had been a stifling day, and even now, though a soft air was abroad tempering the humid heat, when this light wind languished there was over all things a brooding stillness, foreboding storm. But Ravenslee strode on, unheeding dust and heat, hastening on to that which awaited him, full of strength and life and the zest of life, glad-hearted, and with pulses that throbbed in expectation. Thus, as the sun sank in fiery splendour, he reached the little wood. Evening was falling, and already, among the trees, shadows were deepening to twilight, but in the west was a flaming glory; and, upon the edge of the wood he turned to glance back at this radiance, splashes of gold and pink flushing to an ominous red. For a long moment he stood to stare around about the solitary countryside, joying in life and the glory of it. Then he turned, with a smile on his lips, and stepped into the gloom of the wood. On he went, forcing his way through the under-brush until, reaching the clearing, he halted suddenly and faced about, fancying he had heard a rustle in the leaves hard by. Spike, cowering behind a bush with M'Ginnis's fingers gripping his arm, shivered and sweated and held his breath until Ravenslee moved on again, and, coming to a fallen tree, seated himself there and sat chin on fist, expectation in every tense line of him.

"Now!" whispered M'Ginnis hoarsely, "get him now—before Hermy comes t' him!" Shuddering, Spike levelled the weapon he held, but at that moment Ravenslee was filling his pipe, and something in this homely action checked the lad, paralysed finger on trigger, and shrinking, he cowered down upon the grass despite the fierce hand that gripped him. "Get him now, Kid—get him now! Aim f'r his chest—y' can't miss at this distance—"

"I—I can't, Bud!" gasped the boy, writhing, "I can't do it—I can't!" Dropping the revolver, he hid his face in sweating hands and shivered.

From somewhere near by a woodpecker was tapping busily, but save for this no sound broke the pervading stillness, for the gentle wind had died away. But suddenly the quiet was rent and shivered, and Spike, deafened by the report, glanced up to see Ravenslee rise to his feet, stagger forward blindly, then, with arms outflung, pitch forward upon his face and lie there.

"By God, you—you've shot him, Bud!" he whimpered, "you—you've killed dear old Geoff—oh, my God!"

"Aw, quit—quit all that!" whispered M'Ginnis breathlessly, "that's what we came for, ain't it? What you lookin' at?"

"It lays so—still! so awful still!" Spike gasped.

"Well, what ye got t' go starin' at it that ways for? Come on—let's beat it; it's us for th' quick get-away in case any one heard. Come on, Kid!"

"But you've—killed Geoff!"

"I guess he don't need no more—'n' say, Kid, you're in on this job too, don't forget! Come on, it's little old N' York for ours!"

Though M'Ginnis dragged at him, Spike huddled limply on his knees, his glaring eyes always staring in the one direction; whereupon M'Ginnis cursed and left him.

But all at once, finding himself alone, to horror came fear, and stumbling to his feet Spike began to draw away from that awful thing that held his gaze; slowly he retreated, always going backwards, and though he stumbled often against tree and sapling, yet so long as it was in sight needs must he walk backwards. When at last a kindly bush hid it from his sight, he turned and ran—ran until, panting and wild-eyed, he burst from the wood and was out upon the open road. Even then he paused to stare back into that leafy gloom but saw and heard nothing. Then, uttering a moan, he turned and ran sobbing along the darkening road.

But, within that place of shadows, from amid the leaves of a certain great tree, dropped one who came beside that motionless form, and knelt there awhile. When at last he rose, a ring lay upon his open palm—a ring in the shape of two hands clasping each other; then, with this clenched in a pallid fist, he also turned and left that still and awful thing with its face hidden in last year's dead and rotting leaves.



CHAPTER XXXIV

OF REMORSE

For three miserable days Spike had remained indoors, eating little, sleeping less, venturing abroad only at dusk to hurry back with the latest paper and, locked within his bedroom, to scan every scare head and column with eyes dilating in dreadful expectation of beholding the awful word—MURDER.

For three interminable days Hermione, going about her many duties slow of foot and listless, had scarcely heeded him, conscious only of her own pain, the agony of longing, the yearning ache that filled her, throbbing in every heart-beat—an ache that would not be satisfied. Thus, lost in her own new sorrow, she spoke seldom, sighed often, and sang not at all; often sitting at her sewing machine with hands strangely idle and gaze abstracted. Spike, watching furtively, had seen her eyes brim over with great, slow-falling tears; more than once he had heard her bitter weeping in the dawn. At such times he had yearned to comfort her, but between them was memory, dividing them like a wall—the memory of a still form with arms wide-tossed and face hidden among dead leaves. And at such times Spike writhed in the grip of horror and groaned under the gnawing fangs of remorse; sometimes he prayed wild, passionate prayers, and sometimes he wetted his pillow with unavailing tears, while in his ears, like a small voice, soft and insistent, repeated over and over again, was the dread word MURDER. By day it haunted him also; it stared up at him from the white cloth of the breakfast table, forbidding him to eat; he read it on floor and walls and ceiling; he saw it in bloody characters that straggled across the very sky; wherever he turned his haggard gaze there he needs must read it.

And then—there were the footsteps. All day long they tramped up and down the stairs outside—everyday sounds that he had never heeded before, but now they were warnings to hearken to and shudder at, and he would sit pretending to read but with ears straining for the sound of feet upon the landing or on the stair. Now they were feet that crept—the stealthy steps of one that lurked to catch him unaware; or again, they were the loud tramp of those who came with authority to drag him to doom, and he would watch the door, staring wide-eyed, waiting for the thundering knock he expected yet which never came. All day long they haunted him, and at night, locked within his bedroom, he must needs lift heavy head from the pillow to hearken with ears straining even yet, until, haggard and worn, he had shivered and groaned and wept himself to sleep, only to awake and start up in sweating terror, thinking he heard a fierce hand knocking, knocking upon the outer door.

Thus, for three long days Spike had lived in torment, and to-night, as he leaned throbbing head between clutching hands, his haggard eyes sought vainly for that fell word which he could read everywhere except in the newspaper before him; his sufferings had grown almost beyond his strength, for to his old torments was added harrowing suspense.

"Why?" "Why?" "Why" was the word that stared at him from ceiling and walls and blue expanse of heaven; why was it there and not in the papers? Could it be that it was lying there yet, that awful, still thing, lying as he remembered it, as he could see it now, its ghastly features hidden among the leaves that rotted, its long arms outflung and strong hands griped among the grass with clutching fingers—could it be?—

"Arthur—boy—what's the matter?"

Spike started and looked up to find Hermione beside him, and instinctively he shrank away.

"Arthur—oh, what is it? Are you sick?"

"N-no, why?"

"You were moaning."

"Oh, well, I—I'm all right, I guess. Got a headache, that's all."

"Why have you avoided me lately, Arthur? I'm not angry any more, I'm only—disappointed."

"Y' mean because I lost me job? They don't want my kind; I—oh, I'm too mean—too rotten, I guess."

"I heard you cry out in the night, Arthur. What was it?"

"Nothin'—I didn't cry out las' night, I tell ye."

"I heard you!"

"Oh, well, I—I was only dreamin', I guess."

"Why have you acted so strangely lately? You don't eat, you don't go out; you sit around staring and seem to be listening—almost as if you were afraid—"

"I ain't—I ain't afraid. Who says I'm afraid? An' I don't want you to go worryin' y'self sick over me—I ain't a kid no more."

"No, I'm afraid you're not." And sighing, she turned away. But as she crossed the room, her step slow and listless, he spoke, his head down-bent and face hidden between clenched hands, voicing, almost despite himself, the questions that had tortured him so long.

"Say, Hermy, where's—Geoff? How is he—I mean you—you ain't—heard anything—have you?"

"No," she answered softly, without turning, "what should I hear? I only know he's—gone. How should I hope to hear anything any more?"

"I—I thought he was—goin' t' marry you."

"So he was, but I—couldn't let him—marry—a thief's sister," she said in the same low, even voice.

"Ah!" cried Spike, writhing, "why did he go an' tell ye about me after he told me he never would—why did he tell ye?"

"He didn't tell me!" cried Hermione, with curling lip.

"Didn't he—oh—didn't he?" said Spike, his voice high and quivering, "didn't Geoff tell ye? Then—say, Hermy, who—who did?"

"It was Bud M'Ginnis, and for once it seems he told the truth!"

"Bud!" cried Spike, stumbling to his feet. "Oh, my God!" At sound of his voice she turned, and seeing his face, cried out in sudden fear: "Arthur—oh, Arthur, what is it?"

"Bud told ye?" he gasped. "Wasn't it Geoff—oh, wasn't it Geoff?"

"No!"

Spike was down on his knees. "Oh, God! Oh, Geoff—dear old Geoff, forgive me!" He was huddled upon the floor, his face pressed to the worn rug, his clenched fingers buried in his curls, while from his lips issued gasping sobs harshly dry and awful to hear.

"Forgive me, Geoff, forgive me! I thought you told her! I thought you meant t' steal her from me! Oh, forgive me, Geoff—I wish I was dead like you."

"Arthur!"

She was down beside him on her knees, shaking him with desperate hands.

"Arthur! Arthur! What—are you saying?"

"Nothin'—nothin'!" he stammered, staring up into her face, suddenly afraid of her. "Nothin', I—I was only—thinkin'—I—"

"What did you mean?" she cried, her grasp tightening. "Tell me what you meant—tell me, tell me!"

"Nothin'," he mumbled, trying to break her hold. "Lemme go, I—I didn't mean anything—"

"Tell me what you meant—tell me, tell me!"

"No—I can't—I—"

His voice failed suddenly, his whole frame grew tense and rigid, and lifting a stiff arm he pointed a trembling finger toward the open doorway.

"Hush—hush!" he panted, "oh, for God's sake, hush! There—don't you hear—there's some one outside on th' landing—footsteps—hark! They're coming to our door! They're stoppin' outside—oh, my God, it's come at—"

The word ended in a scream, drowned all at once in a thunderous knocking on the outer door, and Spike, crouching upon his knees, clutched at her as she rose.

"Don't,—don't open—the door!" he gasped, while Hermione gazed at him, terrified by his terror, as again the thunderous summons was heard. Then, despite the boy's passionate prayers and desperate, clutching hands, she broke from him, and hastening into the little passage, opened the door.

Upon the threshold stood a little old man, very smartly dressed, who saluted her with a gallant flourish of his dapper straw hat and bowed with his two small and glittering patent leather shoes posed at position number one in waltzing.

"Ma'am," said he, "miss, respectful greetin's. Your name's Hermione, ain't it?"

"Yes," she answered, wondering.

"Knowed it was. And a partic'ler fine gal too! Though not 'oldin' wi' marridge, I don't blame the Guv—'e always 'ad a quick eye for beauty—like me."

"But who are you? What do you want—"

"Miss, I want you—leastways—'e does. Been callin' for you the last three days 'e has, ever since 'e ketched one as fair doubled 'im up—"

"I—I don't understand. Who are you?"

"A admirer of the Guv, ma'am. A trusted friend of 'is, miss—come t' take ye to 'is poor, yearnin' arms, lady—"

"But who—oh, what do you mean?"

"Mr. Ravenslee, ma'am."

"Mr. Ravenslee!" she echoed, her colour changing.

"Yes. Y' see—he's dyin', miss!"

Hermione gasped and leaned against the wall as if suddenly faint and sick, perceiving which, the Old Un promptly set his arm about her waist and led her unresisting into the parlour. There, having aided her tenderly into a chair and nodded to pale-faced Spike, he sighed, shook his ancient head, and continued:

"Ho, Lor lumme, lady, it fair wrung my old 'eart to 'ave to tell ye, but, 'aving to tell ye (Joe couldn't) I told ye almighty quick to get it over—sharp an' quick's my motter. Fate's crool 'ard when Fate takes the gloves off, miss, an' I know as Fate's been an' took ye one in the wind wot's fair doubled you up—but take time, miss, take time—throw back your pretty 'ead, breathe deep an' reg'lar, an' you'll soon be strong enough to go another round. If I'd got a towel handy I'd fan ye a bit—not 'avin' none, no matter. Fate's 'ard on you, so fair an' young, miss, but Fate's been 'arder on the Guv—ketched the pore young Guv a fair spiflicator—"

"Oh, please—please," cried Hermione, reaching out appealing hands, "oh, tell me, is he hurt—sick—dying? Oh, quick, quick—tell me!"

"Lady, ma'am—my pretty dear," said the Old Un, taking those pleading hands to pat them tenderly, "that's what I'm tryin' to do. The Guv ain't dead yet—no, not—yet—"

"You mean he's dying?"

"My dear," said the old man, blinking at her through sudden tears, "that's what the doctors say." Here he loosed one hand to rub at each bright eye with a bony knuckle. "An' 'im so young—so game an' strong—three days ago."

"How—did it—happen?" she questioned, her voice low and steady.

"It was Fate!" said the old man, taking her hand again. "Three days ago Fate (the perisher) sends him a telegram—two on 'em—tellin' 'im to meet you in a wood an' signed with—with your name, both on 'em—"

At this she cried out and would have risen, but his kindly clasp checked her.

"I—sent no telegram!" she whispered.

"Me an' Joe an' the Spider know that now, miss. But anyway, to this 'ere wood the Guv do 'aste away, an' in this wood Fate's a-layin' for 'im wir a gun, an' down goes the pore Guv wi' a perishin' bullet in 'is gizzard. An' there Joe finds 'im, an' 'ome Joe brings 'im in the car, an' Joe an' me an' the Spider 'ushes things up. An' now in bed lays the Guv with nurses an' doctors 'anging over 'im—a-callin' for you—I mean the Guv, d' ye see? So now for you I've come. I've brought Joe an' the car for you—Joe's across wi' Mrs. Trapes, an' the car's below—both waitin'. So you'll come t' th' pore young Guv, miss, won't ye, lady?"

"Have you—any idea—who—did it?" she questioned, speaking as with an effort.

"We got our suspicions, ho, yus!" the Old Un nodded. "Joe's got a wonnerful gift o' suspicion—oh, a rare 'ead 'as my lad Joe. Joe an' the Spider's on the track, an' they're goin' to track Fate to doom, ma'am—to perishin' doom! Y' see," here the old man leaned suddenly nearer, "y' see, Joe's found a cloo!"

"A clew! Yes—yes!" she whispered breathlessly, moistening lips suddenly dry, and conscious that Spike's lax form had stiffened to painful alertness.

"Well, ma'am, Joe an' the Spider's been a-seekin' an' a-searchin' of that there wood, an' they found," here the Old Un leaned nearer yet and whispered harshly, "they found—a coat button! Lorgorramighty!" he exclaimed suddenly, pointing a trembling bony finger, "what's took th' lad—look!"

Spike had risen and now stood, breathing loudly, one hand clenched upon his breast, and turning swiftly, took a stumbling pace toward the open window, tripped, and fell prone upon his face.

"Oh, poor lad, poor lad!" cried the Old Un, rising hastily. "Fate's been an' ketched him one too—a fair knock-out! Leave him to me, miss, I'll bring 'im round—bitin' 'is years is good, or vinegar on a sponge—leave 'im to a old fightin' man—"

"No!" cried Hermione passionately, "no, I say. Leave him to me!" Quelled by something in her tone and manner, the old man sank back in his chair, while she, kneeling beside Spike, lifted him in her strong young arms so that he was hidden from the Old Un's bright, piercing eyes. Holding him thus, she loosed Spike's rigid fingers and drew away that clutching hand; then, seeing what that hand had striven to hide, she shrank suddenly away, letting the boy's inanimate form slip from her clasp; and, as she knelt there above him, her shapely body was seized with fierce tremors.

So she knelt for a long moment until Spike sighed, shivered, and sat up, but beholding the look in her wide eyes, uttered a hoarse sound that was like a cry of fear and, starting from her nearness, crouched down, huddled upon his knees.

Then Hermione rose and, turning to the old man, smiled with pallid lips.

"You see—he's all right—now!" she said. "If you'll please go and tell Mrs. Trapes I'm leaving, I'll get ready." Obediently the Old Un rose.

"Mrs. Trapes is a-gettin' into her bonnet to come along wi' us!" said he, and putting on his hat with a flourish, took his departure. When he was gone, Hermione turned and looked down at Spike, who, meeting her eyes, flinched as from a blow and made no effort to rise from his knees. So she packed her grip and dressed for the journey, while he watched her with eyes of mute appeal. Twice he would have spoken, but her look smote him to silence. At last, as she took up her suit case and turned to go, he implored her in a hoarse whisper, reaching out his arms to her: "Hermy!"

But she shrank from his contact and, hastening from the room and along the little passage, closed the door and left him to his hopeless misery. As one in a dream she followed the old man down the stairs, was aware of his ushering her through the crowd of women and children who thronged about the big car. As one in a dream she found herself seated beside Mrs. Trapes, whose motherly solicitude she heeded no more than the bustle and traffic of the streets through which the swift car whirled her on and on until, turning, it swung in between massive gates and pulled up before a great, gloomy house.

As one in a dream she ascended the broad steps, crossed a stately hall, was ushered up a noble stairway and along thick-carpeted corridors until at last she found herself in a darkened chamber where, his dark head conspicuous upon the white pillow, he lay. A nurse rose from beside the bed as Hermione entered and softly withdrew. Left alone, she stood for a long moment utterly still, her hands tightly clasped, her breath in check, gazing at that dark head upon the pillow, at that outstretched form lying so silent and so very still.

"Hermione!"

A feeble whisper, a sigh faintly breathed, but at the sound she had crossed the wide chamber on feet swift and noiseless, had sunk upon her knees beside the low bed to lean above him all murmurous love and sighing tenderness, while she stole a timid hand to touch the hair that curled upon his pallid brow; then, for all his helplessness, she flushed beneath his look.

"How beautiful—you are!" he said faintly, "and I—weak as—confounded rat! Hermione—love, they tell me I—must die. But first I want you for—my very own if only for—a little while!"

"Oh, my dear," she whispered, soft mouth against his pale cheek, "I always was yours—yours from the very first; I always shall be."

"Then you'll—marry me?"

"Yes, dear."

"Now?"

"Yes, dear."

"I—hoped you would, so—I arranged—minister's waiting now. Will you—ring?" And he motioned feebly toward an electric bell-push that stood upon a small table beside the bed.

And now once again as one in a dream she obeyed, and was presently aware of soft-treading figures about her in the dim chamber—among them the Old Un whose shoes for once creaked not at all. As one in a dream she made the responses, felt the feeble clasp of that hand whose strength and masterful power had thrilled her, heard the faint echo of that loved voice that had wooed her so passionately once, yet wooed in vain, while now—

She was alone again, alone with him who lay so very still and pale with eyes closed wearily; from him she glanced to that which gleamed so bright and new upon her finger and bending her head she pressed the wedding ring to her lips.

"Wife!" he whispered; the weary eyes were open, and his look drew her. So she knelt beside the bed again, stooping above him low and lower until her head lay beside his upon the pillow. Slowly, slowly his feeble hand crept up to her glowing cheek, to the soft waves of her hair, and to the little curl that wantoned above her eyebrow.

"Hermione—wife—kiss me!"

Tenderly her arms enfolded him, and with a soft little cry that was half a sob she kissed him, his brow, his hair, his lips, kissed him even while she wetted him with her falling tears.

"Beloved," he murmured, "my glorious—scrubwoman—if I must—leave you—these dear hands need never—never slave again. Never—any—more, my Hermione."

Long after he had fallen to sleep she knelt there, cradling his weakness in her arms, looking down on him with eyes bright with love.

After this were days and nights when the soul of him wandered in dark places filled with chaotic dreams and wild fancies; but there was ever one beside him whose gentle voice reached him in the darkness, and whose tender hand hushed his delirium and soothed his woes and troubles.