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The Deaves Affair

by Hulbert Footner · English · Gutenberg #31361 · 444,292 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: The Deaves Affair

Author: Hulbert Footner


        
Release date: February 22, 2010 [eBook #31361]
                Most recently updated: January 6, 2021

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/31361

Credits: Produced by Al Haines


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE DEAVES AFFAIR ***




Produced by Al Haines









THE DEAVES AFFAIR


By HULBERT FOOTNER



AUTHOR OF

_"The Owl Taxi," "The Substitute Millionaire,"
  "The Fur Bringers," "The Woman from Outside,"
    "Thieves' Wit," etc._




A. L. BURT COMPANY

Publishers  New York


Published by arrangement with George H. Doran Company

Printed in U. S. A.




COPYRIGHT, 1922,

BY GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY



PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA




TO

THE NOANKERS

KATHERINE FOREST

RUTH GREEN HARRIS

AND THE CHERUB WHO SITS UP ALOFT

W. SHERMAN POTTS




CONTENTS


CHAPTER

     I  A Penny Change
    II  A Rich Man's House
   III  Snooping
    IV  The New Lodger
     V  The Happy Little Family
    VI  The Little Fellow in Grey
   VII  Platonic Friendship
  VIII  Evan is Re-engaged
    IX  The Compact is Smashed
     X  Maud's Interest
    XI  The Steamboat _Ernestina_
   XII  Evan Loses a Round
  XIII  A Little Detective Work
   XIV  Number 11 Van Dorn Street
    XV  The Club House
   XVI  Back to Earth
  XVII  The _Ernestina_ Again
 XVIII  The Accident
   XIX  Four Visits from George Deaves
    XX  The Beginning of the Night
   XXI  Later that Night
  XXII  Towards Morning
 XXIII  Simeon Deaves Turns Philanthropist
  XXIV  Conclusion
        Postscript




THE DEAVES AFFAIR


CHAPTER I

A PENNY CHANGE

Evan Weir's pipe was foul; he threw it down with an exclamation of
disgust.  Its foulness was symbolic; everything was out of kilter.  He
looked at the picture he had been painting for a week--rotten!  It was
a still life; a broken jar and three books on a rag of Persian
embroidery.  Picking up his pen-knife he deliberately cut the canvas
out of the stretcher, and setting a match to a corner of it, tossed it
in the empty stove.  He paced up and down the room wondering what the
devil was the matter with him; he couldn't work; he couldn't read; his
friends bored him; life was as flat as beer dregs.

His attic studio was lighted by a dormer window at a height convenient
to receive his elbows on the sill.  He came to a pause in that position
morosely staring out on Washington Square basking in the summer morning
sunshine.  In some occult way the gilding on the green leaves stabbed
at his breast and accused him of futility.

"What the deuce am I doing up here in this dusty garret painting bad
pictures while the whole world is alive!" he thought.

He picked up his hat and went slowly down the three flights to the
street.  At the corner of the square he turned down Macdougall street
into the Italian quarter.

This intimate thoroughfare was as crowded as a bee-hive.  Happy, dirty,
big-eyed children played in the gutters while their obese mothers
squatted untidily on the stoops.  No lack of the zest of life here.  It
shamed the pedestrian without cheering him.

"They haven't much to live for," he thought, "and they're not
complaining.  Why can't I take things as they come, as they do, without
searching my soul?"

It was a point of pride with Evan not to look like a denizen of
Washington Square.  So his hair was cut, and his clothes like anybody's
else.  He even went so far as to keep his hat brushed, his trousers
creased and his shoes polished.  For the rest he was a vigorous,
deep-chested youth of middle height with rugged features and glowing
dark eyes.  He had a self-contained, even a dogged look.  Like all men
susceptible of deep feeling, he did not choose to wear his heart upon
his sleeve.

Half an hour later found him in that quaint corner of the island
bounded by Liberty street, Greenwich street and the river.  It is
generally called the Syrian quarter, though shared by the Syrians with
immigrants of all nations, whose boarding-houses abound there,
convenient to the landing station.  A feature of the neighbourhood is
the cheap clothing stores where the immigrants buy their first United
States suits.  These suits hang swinging from the awnings like wasted
gallows birds.  A hawk-eyed salesman lurks beneath; in other words the
"puller-in."

As Evan approached such a place in darkest Greenwich street a customer
issued forth of aspect so comical and strange that Evan was drawn out
of himself to regard him.  It was a tall, lean old man who moved with a
factitious sprightliness.  He was clearly no immigrant but a native of
these United States.  He was wearing a hand-me-down which hung in weird
folds on his bones.  The trousers lacked a good four inches of the
ground, and the sleeves revealed an inch of skinny wrist.  The wearer
looked like a gawky school-boy with an old, old face.  Yet he bore
himself with the conscious pride of one who wears a new suit.  On his
head he wore a brownish straw hat which was a little too small for him,
and had seen three summers.  As he walked along with his sprightly
shuffle, which did not get him over the ground very fast, his head
ceaselessly turned from side to side, and he continually looked over
his shoulder without seeming to see anything.  His mouth was fixed in
the lines of a sly smile, which had nothing to do with the expression
of his eyes.  This was furtive and anxious.  His little grey eyes
searched in all the corners of the pavement like a rag-picker's eyes.
To Evan there was something familiar about the face, but he couldn't
quite place it.

The old man turned a corner into one of the little streets leading to
the river.  Evan, bound nowhere in particular, and full of curiosity,
followed.  There was something notable about the old figure in its
ridiculous habiliments; this was no common character.  Under his arm he
carried a bundle wrapped in crumpled paper, which presumably contained
his discarded suit.

He stopped at a fruit-stand, and as Evan overtook him, was engaged in
scanning a tray of apples as if the fate of nations depended upon his
picking the best one at the price.  The fruit-vendor regarded him with
a disgusted sneer.  Evan loitered, and as the little comedy developed,
stopped outright to see it out.

The old man after an anxious period of indecision finally made his
choice.  After having satisfied himself that there was no concealed
blemish in his apple he proffered a nickel in payment and extended a
trembling hand for the change.  The Syrian dropped a penny in it, and
turned away with a suspiciously casual manner.

"Where's my other penny?" demanded the old man in a high-pitched,
creaking voice.

"What's the matter with you?" demanded the vendor with a wholly
disproportionate display of passion.  "That's all you get."

The old man pointed an indignant forefinger to the ticket on the tray.
"Two for five!" he shrilled.

"That's right.  Or four cents a piece," was the rejoinder.

"No you don't!  Half of five is two and a half.  You make half a cent
on the deal anyhow."

"Well, if y'ain't satisfied, gimme the penny and take another!"  With
an unerring eye the vendor pounced on the smallest and knobbiest apple
in the tray and offered that.

The old man would have none of it.  "Give me my other penny!" said he.

"That's all you get!"

"Give me my other penny or I'll call the police!"

"Yah!  For a penny would you!  You're a big man of business you are!
Call a cop, go on, and see what he'll say for a penny!"  The vendor
passionately searched under a shelf, and producing a ticket marked "4¢"
defiantly stuck that alongside the "2 for 5."

"No you don't!" cried the old man.  "You can't raise the price on me
after I've bought!"

"One for four, two for five!  I guess I charge what I like!  I don't
have to charge half the price for one!"

"You're a robber!"

The vendor appealed to Heaven to witness that he was maligned.  He
brandished a fist before the old man's nose.  "You lie!  You lie!" he
cried.  "Get out of here.  I don't want you by my stand!"

"Give me my penny!"

"Ain't no penny comin' to yeh!"

Evan was not the only grinning on-looker.  A crowd collected out of
nowhere as crowds do.  The anxious vendor had now not only to keep up
his end of the argument, but to watch his exposed stock as well.  But
he showed no signs of giving in.

"Get out of here!  I don't want you round me!" he cried.

"Give me my penny!"

"Ain't no penny comin' to yeh!"

They repeated it with incredible passion, over and over.

The crowd at first egged on both parties impartially:

"Go to it, men!  A penny's a penny at that!"

"Don't let him jew you, old man.  All them dagoes is robbers!"

"Soak him one, Tony, the tight-wad!"

"Sue him for the penny, Grandpa.  I'll go witness for you."

"Aw, give him his penny, Mike.  He needs a new lid."  And so on.

"Gimme my penny!"

"Ain't no penny comin' to yeh!"

Finally the old man threw the apple back on the tray.  "I won't deal
with you at all!" he cried.  "You're a robber!  Gimme my money back!"

"You bruised it!" cried the Syrian tragically.  "I don't take back no
spoiled goods.  Leave it lay at your own risk!"

"Gimme back my money!" cried the old man undaunted.

A grimy little hand slid out from the crowd and closed over the
disputed apple.  In the flick of a whip it was gone, and no man could
say where.  The crowd rocked with laughter.

The vendor shrugged.  "Ain't my loss.  It's his apple."

"Gimme my money back!" demanded the old man.

"Ah, what do you want, the apple and the money and the change too?"

The old man snapped the penny down on the glass top of the candy case.
"Gimme my nickel," he said like a bird with one note.

The vendor passionately snatched up the penny and cast it at his feet.
"Go to Hell with your penny!" he cried.

Someone put a foot on it and that likewise was seen no more.

"Gimme my nickel!" said the old man.

Suddenly a voice in the crowd was heard to say: "Gee! it's Simeon
Deaves!"

"Simeon Deaves, of course!" thought Evan.  That old face was
continually in the newspapers.

Instantly the temper of the crowd changed.  There was nobody who could
read English that was not acquainted with this man's reputation.  A
chorus of imprecations was heard:

"Miser!  Skinflint!  Tight-wad!  Robber!"

The sallies of the sidewalk wits were almost drowned in the mere cries
of rage:

"Tight-wad, did you say?  His wad is ossified to him!"

"He wants to put that penny out at interest!"

"Say, the Jews go to school to him."

"He'd skin the cream offen a baby's bottle, he would."

The old man looked down and back at them snarling.  Like a cowed
animal's, his gaze was fixed upon their feet.  Fearful of blows to
follow, he turned around, and edging away from the stand got his back
against the wall of the building.  His face was ashy, yet oddly the
mouth was still fixed in the unvarying lines of the sly smile.  The
fruit vendor made haste to shut up his stand.

A flushed and burly Irishwoman stepped in advance of the crowd.  She
looked Deaves up and down insultingly.  "What kind of a man do you call
yourself?" she cried.  "With all your millions locked up in the bank,
and dressed in a suit that my old man wouldn't sweep up manure in!
What are you doing down here anyhow?  Go back up town where you
belong!"  She shook a fist like a ham in his face.  "Do you see that?
That's an honest hand that never filched a penny.  For a word I'd plant
it in your ugly face, you Shylock!  You penny-parer!"

A youth's voice cried out: "Come on, fellows, let him have it!"

The crowd suddenly swayed forward.  No one could tell exactly what
happened.  A raised clenched fist smashed the old man's hat over his
eyes.  Deaves went down out of sight.

This was too much for Evan.  After all the man was old and it was fifty
to one against him.  His blood boiled, and the megrims were forgotten.
He rushed in on the old man's side, swinging his arms and shouting:

"Get back, you cowards!  Give the old man a chance!"

The passionately indignant voice was more effective than the blows
against so many.  The crowd drew back shamefacedly, revealing the old
man prone on the sidewalk, but not visibly injured.  He was able to
scramble to his hands and knees as soon as they gave him room.  Evan
helped him to his feet.

"Come on, I'll get you out of this," he said peremptorily.  With his
flashing eyes he searched the faces of the crowd for eyes that dared to
withstand his, but none cared to.

He started to march the dazed old man smartly towards West street.  It
was an uncomfortable moment when they were obliged to turn their backs
on the crowd.  Evan expected another rush.  But it did not come.

They had not taken ten steps when the old man pulled back.  "M-my
bundle," he stammered.  "I've lost my bundle."

Evan could not tell what the crowd might do.  There was of course no
policeman to be expected in that forgotten little street.  "Let your
bundle go!" he warned him.  "Come on."

But the old man planted himself like a child with immovable obstinacy.
"My old clothes!" he said.  "They're worth money!  I'm not going to
give them up!"

Evan with an exasperated laugh went back.  The crowd which had started
to follow backed off.  The bundle lay where the old man had fallen.  It
had come unwrapped and the deplorable garments were fully revealed.
Evan, gritting his teeth, stooped over and rolled them up.  He knew
what a chance he was providing to the wits of the crowd.

"Old clo'!  Old clo'!"

"Rags, bones, bottles!  Any rags, bones, bottles!"

"Say, fella, what do you think you'll get out of it?"

"Aw, Simeon Deaves 'll give him his old clothes."

The envious note was clearly audible.  Individuals in the crowd were
beginning to ask themselves now, why they hadn't had the wit to take
the old man's part, and earn his gratitude.  Evan held himself in from
reply.

"What's the use," he thought.  "Scum!"

Rejoining the old man he led him to the West street corner.  Deaves had
had a bad shock, and he was still trembling all over, and stumbling
slightly in his walk.  He betrayed no consciousness of gratitude
towards his rescuer.  His mind was still running on the lost nickel.

"Robber!  Outrage!  Thieving scoundrel!" he was muttering.

They waited for a Belt line car.  Another man waited alongside of them,
a quiet little youth in a grey suit whom Evan had seen as an onlooker
in the crowd.

When the car came the old man was still so shaky that it seemed to Evan
only the part of common humanity to accompany him.  But on the step
Deaves turned sharply.

"You needn't come," he said.  "I can take care of myself."

"That's all right," said Evan politely.  "It's no inconvenience."

"I won't pay your fare," said Deaves.

Evan laughed.  "I'll pay the fares," he said.  To himself he thought:
"It's not often one has a chance of standing treat to a millionaire."

Deaves did allow Evan to pay the fares, and indeed seemed quite pleased
as if he had got the better of him in a deal.  But something about Evan
disconcerted him.  He continued to glance at him sideways out of his
restless, furtive little grey eyes.  Finally he said:

"I'm not going to give you anything for coming with me."

"Don't expect it," said Evan.

"What are you coming for then?" Deaves demanded.

Evan laughed in an annoyed way.  "Well, now that you put it to me, I
don't exactly know.  I suppose I owe it to myself not to let an old man
fall down in the street."

Deaves thought over this quite a long while.  Along with his shrewdness
there was something childish in the old man.  "You're a good boy!" he
announced at last.

Evan appreciated that this was an immense concession.  "Much obliged,"
he said dryly.

"Just the same, you needn't think you're going to get anything out of
me," the old man quickly added.

"I don't."

Having established this point to his satisfaction Deaves seemed
disposed to become friendly.  "What are you doing out on the street in
the middle of the morning?" he asked.

"I might ask the same of you," returned Evan good-naturedly.

"I'm retired.  I've a right to take my ease.  But all young fellows
ought to be at work.  Haven't you got any work to do?"

"I'm an artist."

"Pooh!  Waste of time!"

Evan laughed.  It was useless to get angry at the old boy.

"Why aren't you working at it now?" Deaves demanded to know.

"It wouldn't come to-day," said Evan.

"Stuff and nonsense!  You'll never get on that way!  Look at me!"

Evan did so, thinking: "I wouldn't be like you for all your millions!"

Deaves went on: "Keep everlastingly at it!  That's my motto.  That's
what's brought me to where I am to-day.  I've retired now--though I
still have my irons in the fire--but when I was your age I worked early
and late.  I didn't waste _my_ time fooling round like young men do.
No, sir!  My only thought was how to turn everything to advantage.  I
denied myself everything; lived on two bits a day, I did, and put my
savings to work.  The cents and the dollars are good and willing little
servants if you make them work for you.  I watched 'em grow and grow.
That was my young man's fun."

Evan looking at him thought: "You are an object-lesson all right, old
man, but not just the way you think."

The current of Deaves' thoughts changed.  "You're a strong boy," he
said, with a glance at Evan's stout frame.  He felt of his biceps
through the thin coat.  "Hm!" he said scornfully.  "I suppose you're
proud of your strength.  I suppose you spend the best part of your days
exercising.  Waste of time!  Waste of time!  A strong man never comes
to anything.  They're simple, mostly.  It's the head that counts!  How
many of those ruffians did you knock down?"

"Not any," said Evan carelessly.  "They ducked."

"Well, you're a good boy.  You stick to me, and I'll show you something
better than messing in colours.  I'll show you how to make money!"




CHAPTER II

A RICH MAN'S HOUSE

They rode up to Fifty-Ninth street, and transferring to a cross-town
car, got off at the Plaza.  Evan's subconsciousness registered the fact
that the little fellow in grey was still travelling their way, but he
took no particular notice of him.  Deaves led the way to one of the
magnificent mansions that embellish the neighbourhood.  He handed his
bundle to Evan.

"You carry it," he said.  "Maud always makes a fuss when I bring
bundles home."

"Who is Maud?" asked Evan.

"My son's wife; a great society woman."

"You want me to come in with you then?" said Evan.

"Yes, you're a good boy.  I want to give you something."

Evan was surprised.  "A dime, or even a quarter!" he thought, smiling
to himself.  Nevertheless he went willingly enough, filled with a great
curiosity.

The house was a showy affair of grey sandstone built in the style of a
French château.  But Evan's trained eye perceived many lapses of taste;
it was not even well-built; the window-casings were of wood when they
should have been of stone; the side of the house, plainly visible from
the street, was of common yellow brick.  It looked like a jerry-built
palace for a parvenu.  Evan wondered how the old money-lender had come
to be stuck with it.

"My son's house," said Deaves with a queer mixture of pride and scorn.
"I live with them.  Sinful waste!"

He avoided the front door with its grand grill of polished steel.  The
street widening had shorn off the original areaway of the house, and
the service entrance was now a mere slit in the sidewalk with a steep
stair swallowed up in blackness below.  Down this stair old Simeon
Deaves made his way.  Evan followed, grinning to himself.  It was
certainly an odd way for a man to enter his own home.

"We won't meet Maud this way," Deaves said over his shoulder.

The remark called up a picture of Maud before Evan's mind's eye.

In the basement of the great house they met many servants passing to
and fro, before whom the old man cringed a little.  These superior
menials turned an indifferent shoulder to him, but stared hard at Evan.
Evan flushed.  Insolence in servants galled his pride.  "If I paid
their wages I'd teach them better manners!" he thought.

Somewhere in the bowels of the house, which was full of passages like
all ill-planned dwellings, the old man unlocked a door and led Even
into a vaultlike chamber without a window.  Carefully closing the door
behind them he turned on a light.

"This is where I keep all my things," he said innocently.  "Maud never
comes down here."

Evan looked around.  A strange collection of objects met his view; old
clothes, old newspapers, old hardware, in extraordinary disorder.  It
was like the junk room in an old farmhouse.  The walls were covered
with shelves heaped with objects; old clocks, broken china ornaments,
empty cans, pieces of rope, bundles of rags.  On the floor besides,
were boxes and trunks, some with covers, some without; the latter
overflowing with rubbish.  Evan wondered whimsically if the closed
boxes were filled with shining gold eagles.  It would be quite in
keeping, he thought.  But on second thoughts, no.  Your modern miser is
too sensible of the advantages of safe deposit vaults.

Deaves found a place for his bundle of old clothes, and seeing Evan
looking around, he said with his noiseless laugh, which was no more
than a facial contortion:

"You never can tell when a thing will be wanted."

Turning his back on Evan he rummaged for a long time among his shelves.
Evan was somewhat at a loss, for his host appeared to have forgotten
him.  He was considering quietly leaving the place when the old man
finally turned around.  He had a small object in his hand which he made
as if to offer Evan, but drew it back suddenly and examined it
lovingly.  It was a pen-knife out of his collection.

"Almost new," said Deaves.  "The little blade is missing, but the big
blade is perfectly good if you sharpen it.  Here," he said, suddenly
thrusting it at Evan as if in fear of repenting of his generosity.
"For you."

Evan resisted the impulse to laugh.  After all the value of a gift is
its value to the giver.  He pocketed it with thanks.  It would make an
interesting souvenir.  To produce it would cap the climax of the funny
story he meant to make out of this adventure.  He turned to go.

"Don't be in a hurry," said Deaves.  "Sit down and let's talk."

He evidently had something on his mind.  Evan, curious to learn what it
could be, sat down on a trunk.

"You're a good boy, and a strong boy," said the old man.  "I'd like to
do something for you."

"Don't mention it," said Evan grinning.

"Why don't you come every day and go out with me.  I like to walk
about.  I can't stay cooped up here.  I like the streets.  But people
recognise me."

"And make rude remarks," said Evan to himself.

"But with you I could go anywhere."

"Ah, a body-guard," thought Evan.  The idea was not without its
attractions.  It would be an amusing job.  He said:

"If you want to hire me I'm willing.  I need the money."

"Hire you!" said the old man in a panic.  "I never said anything about
hiring you.  I just mean a friendly arrangement.  You have plenty of
time on your hands.  I'll give you good advice.  Show you how to become
a successful man."

"Thanks," said Evan dryly.  "But the labels I paint bring in ready
money."

"Many a young man would be glad of the chance to go around with Simeon
Deaves," he went on cunningly.  "It would be a liberal education for
you."

Evan got up.  It was the best argument he knew.

"You could have your meals here," Deaves said quickly.  "They eat well.
There's enough wasted in this house to feed an orphanage."

"Sorry," said Evan.  "It doesn't appeal to me."

"Well, you could have a room on the top floor.  You look pretty good;
Maud wouldn't mind you.  Your living wouldn't cost you a cent."

Evan thought of the supercilious servants.  Not for a bank president's
salary would he have lived in that house.  He said: "I'm open for an
offer as I told you, but only during specified hours.  I'd eat and
sleep at home."

"You're a fool!" said the old man testily.  "Free board and lodging!  I
haven't any money."

"All right," said Evan moving towards the door.  "No harm done."

"Wait a minute.  Maybe my son would lend me the money to pay you a
small salary.  He says I oughtn't to go out alone."

"A small salary doesn't interest me," said Evan boldly.  "Fifty dollars
a week is my figure."

Simeon Deaves gasped.  "You're crazy.  It's a fortune.  At your age I
wasn't making a third of that!"

"Very likely.  But times have changed."

The old man now opened the door for Evan.  As he did so there was a
scuttle in the passage and a figure whisked out of sight.  "Snoopers!"
thought Evan.

"Will you show me the way up-stairs?" he said.  "I don't care to use
the servants' entrance."

"Sure, that's right," said Deaves soothingly.  "I hope we won't meet
Maud.  Always picking on me."

As they headed for the stairs he said cajolingly: "Fifteen dollars a
week; that's plenty to live on.  Youngsters ought to live simply.  It's
good for their health."

"But how about putting something by?" said Evan slyly.

"Well, I think my son might go as high as seventeen-fifty if I asked
him.  Because you're a good boy and a strong boy."

"Thanks.  Nothing doing."

As Evan resolutely mounted the stairs, the old man hobbling after said:
"Well, I'll add two and a half to that myself.  But that's my last
word!  Not another cent!"

"Nothing doing," said Evan again.

At the head of the stairs Deaves said nervously: "Better let me take a
look to see if Maud's around."  He peeped out.  "All right, the coast
is clear."

They were now in a square entrance hall of goodly size, very showily
finished like a hotel with veneered panels, which already showed signs
of wear.  Imitation antique chairs stood about, and in front of the
fireplace, which was certainly never intended to contain a fire, was
spread a somewhat moth-eaten polar bear skin.  Still it was grand after
a fashion, and the old man in his hand-me-downs looked oddly out of
place.

"Better think it over!" he said.  "Twenty dollars a week!  It's a
splendid salary!"

"Nothing doing," said Evan, grinning.  In a way he liked the old
scoundrel.

Deaves affected to lose his temper.  "Oh, you're too big for your
shoes!" he cried.  "Your demands are preposterous!"

Evan continued calmly to make his way towards the front door.

Just before they reached it the old man made one last appeal.  "Twenty
dollars!" he said plaintively.

A door at the back of the hall opened and an old-young man came out;
that is to say he was young in years, but he seemed to bear the weight
of an empire on his shoulders, and looked very, very sorry for himself.
He was dressed as if he had to be a pall-bearer that day, but that was
his ordinary attire.  He looked sharply from the old man to Evan.

"Who is this, Papa?" he demanded with the air of a school-master
catching a boy red-handed.

The old man cringed.  "This--this is a young man."

"So I see."

"Well, I--I didn't exactly ask him his name."

"Evan Weir," spoke up the young man for himself.

"He came home with me," said Deaves.  "There was a little trouble."

The younger Deaves was horrified.  "Another disgraceful street scene!"
he cried.  Addressing Evan he said: "Please tell me exactly what
happened."  He glanced nervously over his shoulder.  "But not here.
Come up to my library."

He led the way up-stairs, across another and a loftier hall with an
imitation groined ceiling, and into a large room at the back of the
house, which by virtue of a case of morocco bound books, clearly not
often disturbed, was the library.  The young man flung himself into a
chair behind an immense flat-topped desk and waved his hand to Evan
with an air that seemed to say: "Now tell me the worst!"  Between the
two, Evan's sympathies were with the father.

He was not invited to sit.  He told his story briefly, making out the
best case that he could for the old man.  The latter was not insensible
to the favour.  His little eyes twinkled.  The young man became
gloomier and gloomier as the story progressed.

"We shall hear more of this!" he said tragically.

The old man pished and pshawed.  "I offered him a steady job," he said,
"to go round with me.  But his notions are too grand."

"Why, that would be a very suitable arrangement," his son said
pompously.  "How much do you want?" he asked of Evan.

"Fifty dollars a week."

"That's ridiculous!" young Deaves said loftily.  "I'll give you
twenty-five."

The scene of down-stairs was continued, with this difference that the
son was not so naïve as the father.  Evan kept up his end with firmness
and good-humour.  After all there was some fun in contending with such
passionate bargainers, and he saw that for some reason the son was more
anxious to get hold of him than the father.  They finally compromised
on forty dollars a week, provided Evan's references were satisfactory.
Simeon Deaves was scandalised.

"It's too much! too much!" he repeated.  "It will turn his head
completely!"




CHAPTER III

SNOOPING

Young Deaves (his father addressed him as George) passed out through a
small door on the left presumably to telephone to Evan's references.
His father followed him, still protesting tearfully that the salary he
purposed paying Evan would ruin them both.  Evan was left standing in
the middle of the room.  Before he had time to take a further survey of
his surroundings the door from the hall was softly opened, and a smug,
pale young man in a sober suit sidled into the room, a servant.  Evan
learned later that "Second man" was his official title.  "Spy" was writ
large on him.  The house seemed to be swarming with them.  This fellow
had undoubtedly been listening at the door.

"Good God! who would be rich!" thought Evan.

The servant with a sly, meaning look in Evan's direction went to a
console at the left of the room, and affected to busy himself in
arranging the objects upon it.  In reality his long ears were stretched
for sounds coming through the little door.  Having satisfied himself
that the Deaves' were good for several minutes in there, he came
towards Evan with an ingratiating leer.

"Nice day," he said.

Evan's impulse was to call the fellow down, but he reflected that if he
was to become an inmate of the house, it would be just as well for his
own protection to learn what this snooping and eavesdropping signified.

"Fine," he said non-committally.

"Are you going to be one of us?"

"I don't know yet."

"It's a rummy joint."

"So I gather," said Evan dryly.

"Have you seen the Missus yet?"

"No."

The lackey cast up his eyes and whistled softly.  "Oh boy!  You've got
something to see!"

This was Evan's first experience of the below-stairs point of view.  It
was a revelation.

"Were you planted here?" the servant asked with a mysterious air.

"What do you mean?" asked Evan.

The other quickly turned it off.  "Oh nothing."  He glanced towards the
little door.  "When you work for a bunch like this you don't feel like
you owed them anything.  It's every man for himself."

"I suppose so," said Evan.

"But there's a square bunch down-stairs.  Come down to the butler's
room when you can and get acquainted."

"Thanks."

"Take it from me you won't find it such a bad house if you stand in
with the crowd down-stairs.  There's money to be made on the side if
you're smart enough."

"How?" asked Evan.

The second man winked at him knowingly.  "Let's you and I get better
acquainted before we get confidential."

"Sure," said Evan.  "I see you're a wise guy."

"Wise!" said the other.  "Solomon wasn't one two three with me."

"What do they call you?"

"Alfred.  I'll make you acquainted with the bunch down-stairs.  The
women----"  He suddenly broke off, and stiffened into the blank-faced,
deferential servant.

Young Deaves and old Deaves returned through the little door.

"If you please, sir," said Alfred quickly, "Mr. Hilton sent me to ask
what wines you would have for dinner."

"I'm busy!" snapped George Deaves.  "Tell Hilton when I want wine I'll
let him know."

"Yes, sir, very good, sir."  The rubber-shod one wafted out of the
room, shutting the door behind him as softly as a flower closes.
George Deaves looked sharply to see that it was closed, then looked as
sharply at Evan.

"Was he talking to you?" he demanded.

Evan quickly decided that the only safe hand to play in this strange
house was a lone hand; he would take no one into his confidence.
"Nothing in particular," he said.

"Why don't you fire him, George?" asked his father.

The younger man shrugged wearily.  "What's the use?  The next one would
be no better."  He turned his attention to Evan.  "Your references were
satisfactory," he said.  "You may consider yourself engaged.
Thirty-five dollars was the sum we agreed on, I believe."

"No, sir, forty dollars," said Evan firmly.

"Ah, my mistake.  It's a great deal of money.  I hope you'll be worth
it.  You will be at my father's call whenever he wants you."

"I will come at nine o'clock every morning and stay until five.
Sundays are my own of course."

George Deaves turned to his father.  "On your part, if I pay out all
this money, you must promise me that you will not go out except with
this young man."

The old man gave an ungracious assent.

"I will report at nine to-morrow," Evan said.

"But I want to go out now," the old man said like a child.

"You've had quite enough outing for to-day, Papa," George Deaves said
severely.

Simeon Deaves said to Evan spitefully like a balked child: "Well, your
wages won't begin until to-morrow, then.  To-day doesn't count."

As Evan had his hand on the door he became aware that George Deaves was
making signals to him to remain.  He lingered, wondering what was in
the wind now.  George said to his father:

"Lunch is ready.  You'd better go down."

Forgetting all about Evan, the old man hastened out of the room with an
expectant air.

When he had gone George Deaves hemmed and hawed, gazed at the ceiling,
made scratches on his desk pad and beat all around the bush.  The gist
of it as finally extracted by Evan was something as follows:

"I am not paying you all this money as a simple attendant for papa.  I
could get two at the price.  The fact is papa has an unfortunate
faculty for getting involved in street disputes.  On account of his
prominence a certain publicity is attached to it.  Very distressing to
the family.  I shall expect you to keep him out of such troubles.  You
will have to be firm.  He is very obstinate.  But I authorise you to
take any measures, any measures to save him from his own folly."

Evan was tempted to ask: "Even to cracking him on the bean?"  But
instead he said demurely: "I quite understand."


Evan made his way home down the Avenue ruminating upon what had
happened.  "In the words of Alfred it's a rummy joint," he said to
himself.  "Father and son are a pair of birds.  What do I care?  I'm
not going to let them get under my skin.  I'll give them their money's
worth for a month or so, then bid them ta-ta and hike to the blessed
country on my savings.  Meanwhile the affair has its humorous side.
Mystery, too.  Like a play."

If Evan had not recollected when he got to Thirtieth street that he
needed certain small articles of apparel to make himself presentable in
his new job, he would probably not have discovered that he was being
followed.  But as he retraced his steps to the shops his attention was
caught by a man's back, a narrow back clad in grey.  The owner of the
back was looking in a shop window.  It was the little youth that Evan
had seen before that morning.  The inference was that he had stopped
merely to give Evan time to pass him.

"By God! another snooper!" thought Evan.  "This one dogged our
foot-steps all the way up-town from the fruit-stand.  Well, I'll give
him a little run for his money."

Entering one of the big stores Evan made his purchases.  He then
hastened up one aisle and down another.  It could have been no easy
task to follow him through the crowded store, but his little grey
shadow never lost the scent.  In their gyrations Evan had an
opportunity to get a good look at his tracker.  He was not like Alfred;
he had a decent look, or rather he looked neither decent nor mean, but
simply watchful.  An impenetrable mask was drawn over his face, out of
which his eyes looked quietly, giving nothing away.  In years he was no
more than a lad.

"Not a very dangerous customer, anyway," thought Evan.

Issuing from the store Evan jumped on a moving bus bound up-town.  He
took a seat on top; the youth got in below.  At Forty-Second street
Evan changed to a cross-town car; his pursuer rode on the platform.  At
Third avenue he changed again--but without shaking the other.  Half an
hour later making his way through Waverly place towards Washington
Square, he was well aware that the grey figure was still behind him,
though pride forbade him turning his head to see.

Reaching the Square, Evan dropped on a bench and waited to see what
would happen.  The slender figure passed him, eyes calmly bent ahead,
and sat down on a bench fifty feet farther on.  Evan rose again, and
retracing his steps, walked down the east side of the Square, and
entering from the Fourth street corner, sat down again.  Once more the
youth passed him and sat down beyond.  There were but few people
around; it was hardly possible that he thought his movements had not
been perceived by the man he was following.  "As a sleuth you're an
amateur," thought Evan.  "You don't care whether I'm on to you or not.
But I must say you have your nerve with you.  I'm considerably bigger
than you."

He got up and approached the other.  The stripling looked straight
ahead, affecting to be unconscious of his coming.  Evan came to a stand
before him and said abruptly:

"What's the idea, kid?"

The youth looked up startled, then quickly drew the mask over his face.
"I don't understand you," he said.

"Come off," said Evan mockingly.  "Do you think I'm a blind man not to
notice the particular interest you are taking in my doings?  What's the
idea?"

The boy's eyes held to Evan's steadily; they were the eyes of a fanatic
rather than a crook.  "I don't know what you're talking about," he said.

"You've been trailing me for the last two hours."

"You're mistaken.  I never saw you before."

Evan laughed in exasperation.  "That's childish!  Do you mean to say
you didn't pick me up in Troy street two hours ago, after that row with
the fruit vendor?"

"I don't know where Troy street is," was the answer.

Evan changed his tactics.  Dropping into the seat beside the boy he
said: "Look here, I'm a regular fellow.  Loosen up, kid.  Give me the
dope.  What's it all about?"

The other was silent.

"God knows why anybody should take after me," Evan went on.  "I haven't
committed any crime that I know of.  And I don't own a thing in the
world anybody could covet.  Who hired you to trail me?"

"Nobody," said the boy.  "You're mistaken."

Evan began to get hot under the collar.  He got up.

"By God----!" he began, clenching his fist.  Then he stopped, because
his anger rang false to him.  In fact he couldn't work up a genuine
anger against the strange-eyed boy who neither cringed before him nor
defied him but simply looked.

"It would be a shame to hit you," he went on, "you're too little.  But
I warn you to keep away from me hereafter.  The next time I stumble
over you I won't be so gentle, see?  You keep out of my way, that's
all."

He strode off across the Square in the direction of his own place.  He
felt exasperated and helpless.  He was clearly the injured party, yet
he had come off second best in an encounter with a mere child.  To make
matters worse he was perfectly sure that the youth was still trotting
after him like a little dog that refuses to be sent home.  He would not
look around to see.  As he passed in the door of 45A he did look
around, and there sure enough was his little sleuth across the street.
Evan slammed the door and went up-stairs swearing.

The next time he had occasion to leave the house, the youth had gone.
He saw him no more--that day.  "Perhaps his game was to learn where I
lived," thought Evan.




CHAPTER IV

THE NEW LODGER

Evan's pal Charley Straiker occupied the adjoining room on the top
floor of 45A and the two pooled their household arrangements.  It was
Evan's week to cook the dinners, consequently when dinner was eaten his
was the privilege of occupying the easy chair with the stuffing coming
out and cock his feet on the cold stove while Evan washed up.

During the afternoon Evan had painted and delivered a label that had
been ordered of him, and had cleaned up generally as if in preparation
for a journey.  But he had not yet said a word to Charley of the events
of the morning.  As a matter of fact Evan had a prudent tongue, which
Charley most decidedly had not, and it had occurred to Evan that he had
better find out where he was at, before entrusting the tale to his
garrulous partner.

Evan drew at his pipe and gloomed at the wall.  Now that the mild
excitement induced by the morning's events was over, a heaviness had
returned to his spirit.  Meanwhile Charley ran on like a brook.

Charley was a lean and sprawling youth with lank blonde hair, a long
nose, and an incorrigible smile that spread to the furthest confines of
his face.  To quote himself, he was a bum artist and a squarehead.  He
took people at their own valuation and was consequently a universal
favourite.

"Carmen rented her back parlour this afternoon," he was saying--Carmen
being their own moniker for their landlady Miss Carmelita Sisson.  "To
a female.  What do you know about it?  Carmen hates 'em round the
house.  Too nosey, she says.  But the room's been vacant since spring,
and roomers in summertime are as scarce as snowballs.  So she succumbed.

"Haven't seen her yet--I mean the new roomer, but my hope and my prayer
is that she's a looker.  I think she is because Carmen sniffed.  Does
our Carmen love the beautiful of her sex?  She does--not!  She's a
singing-teacher, Madame Squallerina, Carmen called her, with the rare
wit for which she is famed.  Already moved in with her piano and all.
I heard her moving round, but the door was closed.  I'm afraid she's
not going to be sociable.  Hell! the parlor floor always looks down on
the attic!  That's a joke in case you don't know it; parlor floor
looking down on the attic!

"Wish I could think of a good excuse to knock on her door.  It 'ud be a
stunt, wouldn't it, to raise an alarm of fire in this old tinder-box.
Say, if there's ever a fire I bags the new roomer to save--that is
until I get a look at her.  If it's over a hundred and fifty, I'll give
the job to you, Strong-arm."

This failed to draw a smile from Evan.

"Say, you're as lively as the dressing-room of a defeated team.  Wot
th' hell's the matter?  Come on out and see a movie.  I'll blow."

"I'm off pictures," said Evan.  "Go on yourself.  Maybe you'll meet
Squallerina on the stairs.  Take her."

"You've said it," said Charley.  "I'm off."

The gas made the room hot, and Evan turned it out.  The instant he did
so, he became aware of the moonlight outside, and he went and rested
his elbows on the sill in his customary attitude.

The moon herself was behind the house, but the Square beneath his
window was mantled in a tender bloom of light.  As every painter knows,
moonlight is most beautiful when the moon herself is out of the
picture.  By moonlight the dejected old trees of the Square were shapes
of perfect beauty, the grass was overlaid with a delicate scarf of
light; the very figures on the benches were as strangely still as if
the moon had laid a spell on them.

But all this beauty only had the effect of putting an edge on Evan's
dissatisfaction.  The gnawing inside him was a hundred times worse by
moonlight.  "What's the matter with me?" he thought querulously.  "I
wished for something to happen.  Well, something did happen, but
there's no fun in it.  There's no fun in anything any more.  Moonlight
makes me hate myself.  Oh, damn moonlight anyhow!  It turns a man
inside out!"

He flung away from the window and planted himself in his chair with his
back to it.

Presently he became aware of a sound new in that house.  His door stood
open for ventilation and it came floating up the old stairs.  He was
aware of a vague pleasure before he localised the sound.  It was music;
a piano--but not the usual rooming-house instrument; a piano in tune,
softly played.  It drew him to the door and to the banisters outside, a
poignant, haunting melody rippling in a minor treble, a melody that
queerly sharpened the knife that stabbed him, yet drew him on
irresistibly.

He stole down the dark stairs, guiding himself with a hand on the rail,
his eyes as abstracted as a sleep walker's.  The sounds were issuing
from the back parlour of course.  The door was partly open--so she was
not as unsociable as Charley had feared, or perhaps it was only that it
was hot.  The room was dark inside.  Evan leaned against the banisters
with bent head, scarcely daring to breathe for fear of breaking the
lovely spell.

The music came to an end and his spirit dropped back to earth.  He
lingered, silently praying for it to resume and give him wings again.
Instead, the door was suddenly opened wider and he saw the tenant of
the room on the threshold.  All he could see of her was that she was a
little woman with a lot of hair.  The moonlight shimmering through the
edges of her hair made a halo around her head.  Moonlight made two
square patches on the floor of the room.

It was too late for him to escape.  "I--I beg your pardon," he
stammered.  "I couldn't help listening."

"Oh!" she said.  "Who are you?"

"Evan Weir.  I live up-stairs."

"Oh!" she said again, but with a different inflection.

By her voice Evan knew she was young and adorable.  It was a
low-pitched voice for so little a woman, low and thrilling; a
mezzo-soprano.  His spirit went to meet that voice.

For a moment or two they stood silently facing each other in the dark.
Evan was not conscious of any embarrassment; he was too deeply moved.
His conscious self was in abeyance.  Moonlight, music and woman had
bewitched him.  He was in the grip of forces that played on him like an
instrument.  But someone had to speak in the end.  It was Evan.

"What was that you were playing?" he asked simply.

"The moonlight sonata," she answered.

"Of course!  That's why it sounded so exactly right.  Won't you play
again--please?"

She could not but have been aware how genuinely moved he was, but
however it may have pleased her, womanlike, she sought to pull down the
conversation to a safer plane.

"Oh, I can't!" she said.  "I have unpacking to do.  I was coming out to
get a match to light the gas.  I can't find any."

"I'll light the gas for you," he said eagerly.  She stood aside to let
him enter.  The simple act thrilled him anew; she was not afraid of
him; her spirit greeted his.  When she turned around he could see her
face etherealised in the moonlight, a lovely pale oval with two dark
pools.  There was a subtle perfume in the room that made him a little
dizzy.  In the act of striking a match he paused.

"Oh, it's a shame!" he said involuntarily.

"What is?" she asked.

"To light the gas on such a night."

She laughed.  It was a delicious little sound.  It seemed to bid him be
at home there.  "One must!" she said.  "What would the landlady say?"

But the tone of the denial encouraged him to insist.  "A little more
music," he begged.  "I never heard anything so lovely."

She went to the piano bench obediently.  "Sit down if you can find a
place," she said over her shoulder.

Instead he came and leaned his elbows on the edge of the piano case.
Once more her fingers rippled over the keys, and another delicate minor
air ravished his soul.  She did not seem to strike the keys, but to
draw out the sounds with the magical waving of her pale hands.  She
kept her head down, and he could not see into her face.  Nor could he
be sure of the colour of her hair, but only that it was shining.

In the middle of the piece the flying fingers began to falter.  No
doubt the intense gaze he was bending on the top of her head confused
her.  At any rate she broke off abruptly and jumped up.

A cry broke from Evan: "Oh, please go on!"

"I cannot!  I cannot!" she said.  "Light the gas."  As he still
hesitated she stamped her foot with delightful imperiousness.  "You
_must_ light the gas!"

With a sigh he struck the match.  The gas flared up with a plop.  Their
curious eyes flew to each other's faces.  Evan saw--well, he was not
disappointed.  His instinct had rightly told him in the dark that she
was adorable.  Not regularly beautiful; the most charming women are
not.  There were fascinating contradictions.  The bright hair was
gloriously red: the eyes too large for her face and brown,
extraordinary eyes revealing a strong soul.  They were capable both of
melting and of flashing, but especially of flashing; the soul was
imperious.  As for the rest of her, the dear straight little nose was
non-committal, the mouth fresh and childlike, with a slight, appealing
droop in the corners.  In short, Nature the great experimentalist had
in this case endowed a most sweet and kissable little body with the
soul of a warrior.

Evan could not have argued this all out, but his inner self perceived
it.  His feelings as he gazed at her were mixed.  The dear little
thing! the enchanting playmate; his arms fairly ached to gather her in.
At the same time the deeper sight was whispering to him that this was
no playmate for a man's idleness, but a soul as strong as his own--or
stronger, to whom he must yield all or nothing, and he was afraid.

As for her, she simply looked at him inscrutably.  He could not tell if
she were pleased with what she saw.

Finally self-consciousness returned to both with a rush.  They blushed
and turned from each other.

"You must go now," the girl said gently.

He understood from her tone that she did not greatly desire him to go,
but that it was up to him to find a reason for staying.

"Let me help you get your things in order," he said eagerly.  "You
can't shove trunks and furniture around."

She hesitated, thinking perhaps of the censorious landlady.

Evan made haste to follow up his advantage.  "This trunk.  Where will
you have it put?"

She gave in to him with the ghost of a shrug.  "It has nothing in it
that I shall want," she said.  "Shove it as far back in the closet as
it will go."

In the closet her dresses were already hanging.  The delicate perfume
he had already remarked made his head swim again.  As he bent down to
shove the trunk back, her skirts brushed his cheek like a caress.  They
were burning when he came out.  Perhaps she guessed; at any rate she
quickly turned her head.

"You don't want the sofa in the middle of the room," Evan said to
create a diversion.

"Put it with its back against the fireplace, please.  I shall not be
having a fire for months to come.  That will leave the space by the
window for my writing-table."

While they discussed such safe matters as the disposal of the furniture
they never ceased secretly to take stock of each other.  What people
say to each other at any time only represents a fraction of the
intercourse that is taking place.  Under cover of the most trifling
conversation there may be exciting reconnaisances going on, scout-work
and even pitched battles of the spirit.

Evan could not make her out at all.  She seemed to single him out, to
encourage him as far as a self-respecting woman might, yet an instinct
warned him not to bank on it.  There was an unflattering impersonal
quality in her encouragement; behind it one glimpsed formidable
reserves.  She was wrapped in reticence like a mantle.  Evan had a
feeling that if she had been really drawn to him she would not have
been so nice to him.  On the other hand "coquette" did not fit her at
all; not with those eyes.  Evan thought he knew a coquette when he saw
one; their blandishments were not such as hers.

So for a while all went swimmingly, and the moments flew.  Evan managed
to make the business of arranging the furniture last out the greater
part of the evening.  To save her face she bade him go at intervals,
but he always contrived to find an excuse to delay his departure.

There was no reticence in Evan.  He loved her at sight and his instinct
was to open his heart.  Of course he was not quite guileless; the
portrait of himself that he drew for her was not exactly an
unflattering one, but it was a pretty honest one under the
circumstances.  He was careful not to bore her, and to grace his tale
with humour.

Oddly enough the more of himself that he offered her, the less pleased
she seemed to be.  As the evening wore on she developed a tartness that
was inexplicable to Evan.  He cast back in his mind in vain to discover
the cause of his offense.  Yet she would not let him stop talking about
himself either, but drew him on with many questions, interested in his
tale it would seem, merely for the sake of making sarcastic comments.
As for talking about herself, nothing would induce her to do so.

It was a more unamiable side of her character that she revealed, but
the enamoured Evan, even while she flouted him, forgave her.
"Something is the matter," he said to himself.  "This is not her true
self."  He told her of the black dog that had been on his back all day.

"But now I'm cured," he said, looking at her full.

She chose to ignore the implication.

Evan began leading up to a desire that he had not yet dared to express.
"My partner said you were a singer," he said.

"Have you been discussing me?" she said with an affronted air.

"Why, yes.  Nothing so exciting as your coming ever happened in this
old house."

"I teach singing," she said carelessly.

"Won't you sing me a song?"

She decisively shook her head.  "Not to-night."

"But why?"

"Dozens of reasons.  One is enough; I don't feel like it."

"To-morrow night, then?"

"Aren't you taking a good deal for granted?"

"But you said not to-night.  That suggests another night."

"Oh, one doesn't weigh every word."

"Well, I'll be listening out to-morrow night on the chance."

For some reason this annoyed her excessively.  A bright little spot
appeared on each cheek-bone.  "Then you'll force me to keep silent
however I feel."

"Why--what's the matter?" said Evan blankly.

"You imply that if I happen to sing you will regard it as an invitation
to come down here."

"Why, I never thought of such a thing," he said in dismay.

His honesty was so unquestionable that she got angry all over again,
because she had made the mistake of imputing such a thought to him.
Indeed a disinterested observer could not but have seen that some
perverse little imp was playing the devil with this charming girl.
Angry at him or angry at herself--or both, she had ceased to be
mistress of the situation and her forces were thrown into confusion.
Whatever she said, it instantly occurred to her that it was the wrong
thing to say.

"You're spoiled like all the rest," she said.  "A woman cannot be
decently civil to you, but you immediately begin to presume upon it."
This was said with a smile that was supposed to be tolerant, but she
was angry clear through, and of course it showed.

It was all a mystery to Evan.  With a hand on the table he had just
moved, he was staring down at it as if he had discovered something of
absorbing interest in the grain of the wood.  He knew she was
unreasonable, but he did not blame her; he was merely trying to think
how to accommodate himself to her unreasonableness; he was pretty sure
that whatever he might say would only make matters worse, so he kept
silent.

But no red-haired woman can endure silences either.  "If you've nothing
further to say you'd better go," she said at last.

"I was wondering what I had done to offend you," said Evan.

She laughed, but it had not a mirthful sound.  "How funny you are!
Strangers don't quarrel.  They've nothing to quarrel about!"

"But you are angry."

"Nonsense!" she said languidly.  "I'm very much obliged to you for your
help.  But there's nothing else you can do."

"Meaning I'd better beat it."

She was magnificently silent.

"I'm going.  But it's hard to go, not knowing what's the matter."

She had the air of one dealing with a trying child.  "How often must I
tell you that there's nothing in the world the matter?"

"You are not the same as you were when I came."

For some reason this flicked her on the raw.  She flushed.  She stamped
her foot.  "You're--you're impossible!" she cried.  "_Will_ you go!"

As Evan backed out she all but shut the door in his face.  How
astonished would he have been could he have seen through the door how
she flung herself face down on the sofa and wept.  That was the softer
girlish part of her.  But not for long.  She sat up and digging her
chin into her palm thought long and hard.  That was the warrior.

"I will not give in to him--and spoil everything," she whispered.  "I
will not!"

Meanwhile, out in the dark hall Evan was leaning against the banisters
trying to puzzle out what had happened.  At first only a blank dismay
faced him.  Women were inexplicable.  But presently a slow smile began
to spread across his face.  He said to himself:

"Well, whatever it is, she's not exactly indifferent to me.  I've made
an impression.  That's something for the first meeting.  And she's in
the house.  And to-morrow's another night!"

He went up-stairs with a better heart.

He went straight to his window-sill and cooled his hot cheeks in the
night air.  The old trees still stood sentry duty in the moonlight, the
people sat still as dolls left out all night, the noises of the town
were reduced to a pleasant murmur.

"God! what a good old world it is!" thought Evan, unconscious of his
perfect inconsistency.  "How good it is to be young and alive; to see;
to feel; to laugh; to love; to know things!  I guess I'm a little drunk
on it now, but I want more, more!  I shall never have my fill!"

As he lay in bed it suddenly occurred to him that he was head over
heels in love with a woman whose name he did not know.




CHAPTER V

THE HAPPY LITTLE FAMILY

At the Deaves mansion next morning it was Alfred who opened the massive
steel grill to admit Evan.  The second man favoured him with a sly wink.

"Cheese it, kid," he murmured out of the corner of his mouth.  "They're
layin' for you."

This meant nothing to Evan.

In the centre of the house where the hall opened up he found George
Deaves walking up and down with his head bowed and his hands clasped
behind his back, the very picture of a harassed man of affairs.  There
was a histrionic quality in all young Deaves' attitudes.  The old man
in slippers was hunched in a pseudo-mediaeval chair, while a fat
servant, Hilton, the butler Evan guessed, was standing at the foot of
the stairs.  Another man in chauffeur's livery was beside him.

It all had the look of a set scene, and from the way their faces
changed at the sight of him, the inference was inescapable that it had
been set for Evan.  He wondered greatly what it was all about, but felt
no particular uneasiness.

George Deaves bent a venomous glance on him.  "Follow me," he said
hollowly.

The whole procession wended its way up the winding, shallow stairs;
first George Deaves, grasping the hand rail and planting his feet
virtuously, then old Deaves, his heels coming out of his slippers at
every step, then Evan, then the three servants.  Evan heard them
sniggering behind him.

At the door of the library George Deaves said: "You come in, Papa.
Hilton, Wilson and Alfred, you wait outside in case I call you."

"Does he expect me to assault him?" thought Evan.

In the library young Deaves flung himself back in his chair, and
placing the tips of his fingers together said pompously: "Now, my man,
I advise you to tell the truth."

Evan began to get hot.  "That is my custom," he said quietly.

Notwithstanding his pompous air the younger Deaves was visibly nervous;
he had not his father's force of character.  "It is useless for you to
feign innocence," he said.

"I don't know what you're talking about," said Evan.

Deaves said: "I may as well let you know I have a policeman waiting
down-stairs."

There is no man however sure of himself that would not be to some
degree disconcerted by this announcement.  Evan changed colour.
Deaves, quick to notice it, smiled disagreeably, and Evan's cheeks grew
hot indeed.

"Have him up-stairs," said Evan.  "I don't know what this flummery is
all about.  Hand me over to the police and maybe I'll find out."

"Give me a specimen of your handwriting," said Deaves, shoving writing
materials towards him.

"Certainly," said Evan.  "I have no reason to be ashamed of it."

"Write five thousand dollars, first in figures, then spelled out."

Evan did so, and shoved the paper back.  Deaves compared it with a
letter which lay in front of him, the old man peering over his shoulder.

"Nothing like," the latter said disappointed.

"That doesn't prove anything!" snapped the son.  "I didn't suppose that
he worked this single-handed.  He has confederates."

Evan's momentary discomfiture had subsided.  The situation was becoming
too absurd.  Was he accused of forgery or blackmail?  He began to grin.

"You said you were an artist," said George Deaves with a sapient air.
"Can you prove it?"

"Certainly," said Evan.  "If you'll come to my studio.  There are
dozens of my canvases there."

"But how would I know you painted them?"

"Oh, I'll do you one while you wait."

"Facetiousness won't do you any good," said Deaves severely.  "This is
a serious matter.  Please explain how you came to be in that little
obscure street where you met Papa yesterday?"

"There is no explanation," said Evan.  "I was just walking about."

The young man sneered.  He tossed over the letter that lay before him.
"Read that," he said.

Evan applied himself to it with no little curiosity.  Meanwhile he was
aware that the two were watching him like lynxes.  The letter was
written in a neatly-formed, highly characteristic hand on a sheet of
cheap note-paper without any distinguishing marks.  Evan read:


"Mr. George Deaves:

Dear Sir:

We take pleasure in enclosing copy of a humorous little story that has
been prepared for the press.  None will appreciate it better than you
and 'Poppa' we are sure.  If you think it is too good to be offered to
the public it will cost you five thousand dollars for the exclusive
rights, including motion pictures and dramatic.  But unless we hear
from you before the day is out we will take it that you don't want to
buy, and it will be offered to the _Clarion_ for to-morrow's edition.
The _Clarion_ is always delighted to get hold of these human interest
tales.  Copies will be mailed to everybody in the social register, and
especially to Mrs. George Deaves.

But if you want to reserve the fun to yourself bring five
one-thousand-dollar bills to the reading-room of the New York Public
Library this morning.  Call for Lockhart's History of the Crimean War
in two folio volumes and insert the bills in volume one at the
following pages: 19, 69, 119, 169, 219.  Then return the books to the
desk.

With kindest regards,

Yours very sincerely,
  THE IKUNAHKATSI."


A noiseless whistle escaped from Evan's lips; his eyes were bright.
For the moment he forgot that he was the accused.  His sole feeling was
one of the keenest curiosity.  A fascinating mystery was suggested.
The impudent letter was like a challenge.

"May I see the enclosure?" he asked.

"No," said Deaves stiffly.

Evan shrugged.  "What's the nature of it?"

"It's a would-be humorous account of the events in that little street
down-town."

"Is it a true story?"

Young Deaves turned to his elder.  "Is it true, Papa?"

"In a way it's true," was the snarling reply.  "From a certain point of
view.  But it's blackguardly just the same."

Evan stroked his lip to hide a smile.  "What makes you think I wrote
it?" he asked.

"Nobody else could have known all the circumstances."

"But we were watched and followed every step of the way."

"So you say."

"Why, you're surrounded by spies.  I expect every servant in the house
is in the pay of this gang.  I hadn't been in the house half an hour
before they approached me."

"What did I tell you?" the old man snarled to his son.  "Why don't you
fire them?"

"How many times have I fired them?  What good did it do?  As fast as we
get a new lot they're corrupted from the outside."

"Then it's been going on for some time," said Evan.  "I never had any
connection with Mr. Deaves until yesterday."

"How do we know that?"

"That's why you were so eager to get a job here," added the old man.
"To have a better chance of spying on me."

"Never thought of such a thing.  The offer came from you."

"You paid your own fare on the trolley-car, didn't you?  Mine, too!"

Evan laughed in exasperation.  "Well, if that's an incriminating
circumstance I'm guilty!" he said.

"Don't be a fool, Papa," muttered George Deaves.

Evan went on: "If I was a member of the gang would I show my hand so
clearly?  Would I betray the sources of my information?  I tell you
Alfred told me yesterday there was good money to be made on the side in
this house."

"Why didn't you tell me that yesterday?" demanded Deaves.

"I wanted to find out what was up first.  I know now."

George Deaves began to look impressed.

Evan made haste to follow up his advantage.  "Have up the policeman.  I
can tell him no more than I've told you.  But the whole affair must be
well aired, I suppose."

George Deaves winced.  He and his father exchanged a glance.  "There's
no hurry," he said.  "We may have been mistaken.  At any rate we don't
want any unnecessary publicity."

"You don't mean to say you're going to _pay_!" cried Evan involuntarily.

"Wouldn't you advise it?" asked the old man craftily.

"No!  Fight!  Call their bluff!  The nervy blackguards!  Oh, to give up
to them would be too tame!"

"I guess he isn't one of them, George," Simeon Deaves said dryly.

George apparently agreed with him, though he made no direct
acknowledgment.

Evan struck while the iron was hot.  "Look here, here's a proposition
for you.  This thing interests me a whole lot.  That letter was written
by a damn clever crook, humorous too.  I'd like to match my wits
against his.  Let me have a try at running them down.  Won't cost you a
cent more than my salary, and you won't have to let in any outsiders on
the affair.  Of course I've had no experience, but if I fail you'll be
no worse off than you are now.  If you go to the police it will be the
newspaper sensation of the year."

Father and son looked at each other again.  Evan had given them two
potent reasons for listening to his proposal.  But before they had time
to express themselves there was an interruption.

A lady swept into the room like a northwest gale, one whose attire put
the rose and the lily to shame; comely in her own person too after a
somewhat hard and glassy style.  Evan guessed this was Mrs. George
Deaves, otherwise Maud.  At the sight of her stormy brows father and
son looked like two schoolboys caught in the act.

"What's going on?" she peremptorily demanded.  "What are all the men
servants waiting in the hall for?"

"Nothing, my dear," said George Deaves in a casual tone belied by his
anxious eye.  "They are merely waiting for their orders."

"My maid told me there was a policeman sitting in the housekeeper's
room."

"Must be a friend of Mrs. Liffey's," her husband said with feeble
humour.

"Friend nothing!" was the contemptuous reply.  She marched up to her
father-in-law, who silently snarled and gave ground like a cat.
"You've been up to your old tricks!" she cried.  "Another disgraceful
street scene!  I see it in both your faces.  Another blackmailing
letter, I suppose!"

Young Deaves unobtrusively sought to turn over the letter on his desk,
but she caught the movement out of the tail of her eye, and, whirling
round, snatched it up.

"Let me see that!"

Her husband looked as helpless as a sheep.  He had lost his pomposity.
"Happy little family!" thought Evan.

Having read it, she threw back her head and laughed in bitter chagrin.
"I thought so!" she cried.  "The third time this summer!  When is this
going to end?  Where's the story?"

"My dear, what's the use?" said her husband tremblingly.  "It would
only anger you."

"Be quiet!" she cried.  "I will see it.  Where is it?"  Her eye picked
it out from among the papers on his desk, and she pounced on it.  More
harsh and bitter laughter accompanied the reading of it.

"Bought a new suit at an immigrant outfitters!  I see he has it on.
Got into a row with a fruit-vendor over a penny change.  Rescued by a
young man and taken home.  Made his rescuer pay the fares on the
trolley.  Oh, this is rich, rich!" she cried, trembling with anger.
"This is the best story yet.  This will be meat and drink to the
populace!  And this is what they're going to send to the _Social
Register_, to everybody I know.  It's enough to make me wish I'd died
before I took the name of Deaves!"

"My dear, we are not alone!" cried George Deaves in a panic.

She threw an indifferent glance at Evan.  She thought he was a servant,
and she was of that arrogant type which acts as if servants were
something less than human.  "Do you think anything can be hidden in
this house?" she said.  "The men-servants are listening at the door."

George Deaves had forgotten about them.  He hastened to the door and
sent them downstairs.

Mrs. Deaves addressed her father-in-law.  "Well, if you can't control
your avaricious tendencies you'll have to pay," she said.  "Send to the
bank and get the money so George can take it to them."

"Pay!  Pay!  Pay!  That's all anybody asks of me!" cried the old man in
a passion.  "Five thousand dollars!  None of you know what that means.
Money to you is like the winds of Heaven that come and go.  But _I_
know what five thousand dollars is.  For I have saved it up dollar by
dollar at the cost of my sweat and self-denial.  And will I give it up
to these scoundrels, these sewer rats who threaten me?  No!  I'd as
lief give them my blood!"

Mrs. Deaves' face turned crimson.  "You'll pay!" she cried, "or I leave
this house!"

"And where will you go?" sneered the old man.  "Back to share your
father's genteel poverty?"

"Who made him poor?" she cried.  "Who robbed him?"

George Deaves, with the tail of his eye on Evan, was sweating with
terror.  "Maud, I beg of you--!" he whispered.

It did seem to occur to her then that she had gone too far.  She glared
at Evan as if defying him to judge her, and marching up to him said
bluntly: "Who are you?"  This woman was magnificent in her insolence if
in nothing else.

Evan coolly met her eye.  "I'm the young man who paid the fares," he
said, smiling.

She scowled at him.  Clearly she had no humour.

Evan explained further: "I have been engaged to accompany Mr. Deaves on
his walks hereafter."

"Oh, locking the stable door after the horse is stolen," she sneered.
"He needs a keeper."  She indicated the typewritten sheets.  "Then you
were present at this affair?"

"I was."

"Is this story true?"

"I have not seen it."

She handed him the pages.  Evan skimmed over it hastily.  Since the
incidents have already been related, the opening paragraph will be
sufficient to convey the style of the whole:


"Our esteemed fellow-citizen, Simeon Deaves, is known as a great dandy
among his friends.  He has always refused to divulge the identity of
the creator of the svelte garments that grace his manly form, but
yesterday the secret came out.  Not in the fashionable purlieus of
Fifth Avenue or Madison does Mr. Deaves' tailor hang out his sign.  No;
it is in Greenwich Street near the Battery where the unwary immigrant
makes his first acquaintance with American business methods, that Mr.
Deaves buys his clothes.  He was seen to buy an elegant mustard
coloured suit there yesterday for $4.49.  Of course not everybody could
afford this sum, but the goods were worth it.  Take it from us,
high-water pants will be all the rage the coming Fall."


And so on.  And so on.  Evan bit his lip to keep from smiling, and
handed the sheets back.  It was easy to understand how the story
affected these people like salt in a wound.

"Is it true?" Mrs. Deaves again demanded of Evan.

"The facts are true so far as I know," he replied.  "Of course, the
humour was supplied by the author."

"This young man has offered to help us," began George Deaves.

The remark was unfortunate; Mrs. Deaves exploded again.  "I won't have
any bungling amateur detective work here!" she cried.  "There's too
much at stake.  If the story is true there's only one thing to be done,
pay!"  She addressed the old man.  "You understand; you have disgraced
us, and you shall pay."

But Simeon Deaves' dander was up and he refused to be intimidated.
"What for?" he snarled.  "I stand by my own acts.  I ain't ashamed of
them.  If people don't like it they can lump it.  What do I care what
they say about me?  They're only envious.  They'd give their eyes to
have what I've got.  Let them publish their story.  Who's hurt by it?
Nobody but your feelings.  Am I going to pay through the nose to soothe
your feelings?  Not five thousand dollars' worth!  I'll be damned if
I'll pay!"

He went out through the smaller door, slamming it behind him.

Mrs. Deaves turned hard inimical eyes on her husband.  "Then it's up to
you to find the money," she said.

"But, my dear," he whined, "you know my circumstances.  How can I?
Where?  It is out of the question!"

"I don't care where you get it; you get it," she returned callously.
"If that story is published I leave this house.  You know what that
means."

She marched out by the main door.

Evan could not but feel for the poor, crushed, flabby creature at the
desk.  In Evan's own phrase George got it coming _and_ going.  He was
like a pricked bladder; all his pomposity had escaped like gas.

"What am I to do?" he murmured.

"Get the money together," said Evan, "and pay it over according to
their orders.  Then let me see if I can't get it back again--and get
them, too."




CHAPTER VI

THE LITTLE FELLOW IN GREY

It turned out that George Deaves could lay his hands on the money,
though perhaps it was not easy for him to do so.  George's principal
fortune consisted in being the son of his father; he could get almost
unlimited credit on the strength of that connection.  When Simeon
Deaves saw that he was determined to pay the money to the blackmailers,
he urged him to accept Evan's offer to run them down, and in the end,
notwithstanding his terror of Maud Deaves, George gave in.  Father and
son, who had begun the day by accusing Evan of the crime, ended by
depending on Evan to run down the criminals.

At ten o'clock George Deaves and Evan set out for the bank.  It was not
far and they proceeded on foot down the Avenue.  Evan kept his eyes
open about him, and before they had gone more than a block or two he
spotted the well-remembered little figure in the grey suit still
dogging their footsteps.  Drawing George Deaves up to a shop window as
if to show him something inside, he called his attention to the
stripling with the pale and watchful face.  Deaves shivered.

"Do you suppose he means us personal harm?" he said.

Evan smiled to himself, seeing the size of their enemy.  "Well, I
hardly think so," he said.  "At least not as long as we seem disposed
to pay up."

Deaves was received at the bank with extreme deference.  He was not
obliged to apply at the teller's window like a common customer, but was
shown directly into the manager's office which looked on the pavement
of the Avenue.  A fine-meshed screen protected the occupants of the
room from the vulgar gaze of the populace, but those inside could see
out, and as soon as they entered the room Evan discovered the youth in
the grey suit hanging about the door of the bank, unaware of the
nearness of his victims.

Deaves introduced Evan to the manager as "My father's secretary."  "I'm
coming up in the world," thought Evan.  Five crisp one-thousand-dollar
bills were produced, and Evan perceived strong curiosity in the bank
manager's eye.  It had been agreed between Evan and Deaves that this
man was to be taken partly into their confidence, but Deaves now seemed
disposed to balk at it, and Evan ventured to take matters into his own
hands.

"You were going to tell this gentleman what the money was for."

"Yes, yes, of course," said Deaves nervously.  "You will of course
appreciate the necessity of absolute secrecy, sir."

"That is part of my business," said the manager.

But Deaves still boggled at the horrid word, and it was Evan who said:
"Somebody is trying to blackmail Mr. Deaves."

"Good gracious!" cried the horrified manager.  "Mr. Simeon Deaves or
Mr. George Deaves?"

"Either," said Evan dryly.  "They don't care as long as they get the
money."

"Have you notified the police?"

"Not yet.  We're going to take a try first at catching them ourselves.
There is one of them outside, the thin youth in the grey suit."

The manager half arose from his chair.  "What!  So close!  Perhaps he's
armed!"

"He can't see us."

The manager sank back only partly reassured.  "Can I be of any
assistance?" he asked.

"Yes," said Evan.  "I want to mark these bills in your presence."
Deaves handed them over, and the manager supplied a blue pencil.  "See!
A tiny dot following the serial number in each case.  In case they get
the money, and get away in spite of me, will you please see that all
the banks in town are supplied with the numbers of these bills, and are
instructed to have anyone arrested who presents them to be changed?"

"I certainly will," said the manager, making a note of the numbers.

They left a much startled banker peering through his window-screen.

The public library was but a few blocks from the bank.  George Deaves
wished to take a taxicab, but Evan advised against it.  Their little
grey shadow followed them to the door of the great building but did not
enter.  Having satisfied themselves of this, they got in touch with one
of the assistant librarians, and put their case up to him.

The magic name of Deaves acted like a talisman.  The plan was carefully
laid.  George Deaves proceeded to the reading-room and, calling for
Lockhart's "History of the Crimean War," retired to a corner and placed
the bills between the leaves as specified.  The books were then
returned to the desk, and Deaves with the connivance of the librarian
was spirited out of the building by the delivery entrance.  This was to
prevent the watcher outside from remarking that, whereas two entered,
only one came out.  When neither returned he would naturally suppose
that both had slipped past him.

Meanwhile Evan waited in the librarian's private office, arrangements
having been made to notify him by phone when the books were called for
again.  They would hold up the books at the delivery desk long enough
to allow Evan to reach the reading-room.  It was a long wait.  The
librarian offered him books, but he could not apply his mind.

"You're sure there's no chance of a slip-up among so many clerks?" he
said anxiously.  "One may forget."

"We're not trusting to their memories.  The librarian in charge of
delivery is a friend of mine.  Lockhart's History is in his desk, and
in its place on the shelf is pinned a ticket, 'apply to the librarian.'"

At last the message came over the phone: "Lockhart's 'History of the
Crimean War' called for from seat 433."

Evan's heart accelerated its pace a little.  "Whereabouts in the room
is that seat?"

"The last table in the south end on the right-hand side."

"Ha!  He wants to get in the corner!  Can I get there without marching
down the whole length of the room?"

"Yes, you can approach from the other side through the American History
room."

Hastening through various corridors of the vast building, they found
themselves among the American History collections gathered in the
smaller room adjoining the great hall on the south.  This room was
completely lined with books, and lighted by a skylight.  It
communicated with the main reading-room by an arched opening.

Taking care not to show themselves in this opening, the librarian
described to Evan the exact location of seat 433 outside, and pointed
out a spot where Evan could command a view of seat 433 through the
archway.  Evan proceeded to the spot, and, taking down a book at
random, affected to be lost in studying its pages.  Then, half turning
and letting his eyes rise carelessly, he glanced into the great room.

It took him an instant or two to focus his eyes.  The line of tables
seemed endless, the hundreds of figures reading, scribbling or snoozing
seemed indistinguishable from one another.  Then Evan remembered the
librarian had said: "433 is the fourth seat from the passageway between
the tables; the person sitting there will have his back to you."
Evan's eyes found the spot: he saw a familiar pair of thin, high
shoulders under a grey coat.

His first feeling was one of surprise.  Somehow he had not expected one
so young and insignificant to be given so important a part in the game.
For a moment he wondered if the strange-eyed, wary little youth could
be their sole antagonist.  That would indeed be a humorous situation.
But he did not believe it possible.  Certainly the letter had been
written by one older and more experienced.

Evan remained where he was, making believe to be absorbed in his book,
and letting his eyes rise from time to time as if in contemplation.  He
was about sixty feet from the youth in an oblique line.  Once the
little fellow looked around, but Evan saw the beginning of the movement
and was deep in study in plenty of time.  The sober background of
filled bookshelves afforded Evan good protective colouring.  Across the
smaller room the librarian was likewise affecting to be reading, while
he nervously watched Evan and awaited the outcome.

Finally Evan perceived the library attendant coming down the long room
bearing the two big volumes in their faded purple calf binding.  He
speculated whimsically on what a sensation would be caused should he
drop one and a thousand-dollar bill flutter out.  But library
attendants know better than to drop books.

He laid the books on the table beside the youth, and went back.  The
grey-clad one, with another casual, sharp glance around him, took up
volume one, the thicker of the two, and, slouching down in his chair,
stood the tall, open book on his lap in such a way that no one either
in front or behind him could see exactly what he was doing.  "Not badly
managed," thought Evan.  Evan could only guess that he was turning to
the specified pages and slipping out the bills.  There was one action
that Evan recognised from the movement of the shoulders.  He had
slipped his hand in his inner breast pocket.

"He's got them now," thought Evan.

Sure enough the youth presently let the book fall on the table and
wiped his face with his handkerchief.

"I bet his little heart is beating," thought Evan.  Evan's was.

The youth wasted no further time in making believe to read his books.
Letting them lie on the table he got up and started to walk out at a
leisurely pace.  Evan followed him, knowing of course that the first
time the youth turned his head he must discover him, but it did not
matter much now.  Their footsteps fell noiselessly on the thick rubber
matting of the reading-room.

Half-way down the great room the youth did turn, and saw Evan behind
him.  A spasm passed over the thin little face and his teeth showed
momentarily.  One could fancy how sharply he caught his breath.  He
increased his pace a little, but by no means ran out of the room.  He
had his nerves under pretty good control.  Evan made no effort to
overtake him in the reading-room.  He hated to make an uproar there.

The youth went soberly down the two flights of the great stairway with
Evan as soberly at his heels.  He did not look around again.  To have
refrained from doing so indicated no little strength of will.  Crossing
the entrance hall, they passed out the main entrance and down the
sweeping steps to Fifth Avenue.

"He'll make a break to escape in the crowd," thought Evan.

On the little esplanade between the two flights of steps Evan sprang
across the space that separated them and laid a heavy hand on the
youth's shoulder.

He shrank away with a terrified gasp.  "What do you want?" he demanded.

"You come with me," said Evan, sternly.

"I won't!  You've no right to lay hands on me!"

"You come along," said Evan, "or I'll call the policeman yonder."

He marched him down the remaining steps.  The boy offered no
resistance.  For that matter he would have stood but a small chance
against the muscular Evan.  The passers-by began to stop and stare and
shove and ask what was the matter.

Evan greatly desired to avoid a street disturbance.  Steering his
captive across the pavement to the curb, he hailed the first passing
taxicab and bundled the unresisting youth inside.  In low tones he
ordered the chauffeur to drive to the nearest police station.  It was
all over in half a minute.  They left the curiosity seekers goggling
from the pavement.

During the drive the two exchanged no word.  The youth shrank back in
his corner, staring straight ahead of him out of his pale and
impenetrable mask.  Occasionally he moistened his lips.  Clearly he was
terrified, but a determined spirit held him to the line he had chosen.

Evan made no attempt to search him for the money, for he wished to have
a witness present when the marked bills were taken from him.  But he
watched him throughout with lynx eyes, prepared to forestall any
attempt to make away with the bills.

Arriving at the station house the chauffeur, full of curiosity, was for
helping Evan take his prisoner in.  But Evan paid him off and told him
he needn't wait.  The man lingered, joining the little crowd that
always hangs around the station house steps when a prisoner is brought
in.

By this time the youth seemed to have recovered from the worst of his
fears.  He went up the steps quite willingly in front of Evan.  Within,
a bored and lordly police lieutenant sat enthroned at his high desk.
Evan, who had been holding himself in all this time, burst out:

"This man is a blackmailer.  I want you to search him.  You'll find the
money he extorted in the inside breast pocket of his coat.  The bills
are marked."

The Lieutenant declined to become excited.  Such dramatic entrances
were part of his daily routine.  "Hold on a minute," he said, opening
his book.  "Proceed in order."  He addressed the prisoner: "What is
your name?"

"I decline to give it," said the youth--his voice was breathless but
determined still.  "I have done nothing wrong.  This man suddenly
seized me on the street.  I think he's crazy.  Search me.  If you find
anything, then let him make a charge."

The Lieutenant spoke to a patrolman across the room: "Ratigan, search
him."

The youth spread his arms wide to facilitate the search.  Evan, taken
aback by his assurance, waited the result anxiously.  The patrolman
thrust his hand in his breast pocket.

"Nothing here," he said indifferently.

Evan's heart sank.  "Are you sure?" he said.

"Look for yourself if you want."

"Search him thoroughly," commanded the Lieutenant.

But Evan already guessed that he had been tricked.

No money was found except a dollar bill and some change.

"Is this it?" asked the patrolman solemnly.

The youth smiled.

Evan waved it away.

"Well, what are the circumstances?" asked the Lieutenant.  "Will you
make a charge?"

"I've been fooled!" Evan said bitterly.  Suddenly a light broke on him;
he struck his forehead.  "I see it now!  This man's job was simply to
lead me away while another came and got the money!"

"Well, will you make a charge?"

Evan quickly reflected.  There was not much use airing the case in
court if the principal evidence was gone.  "Let him go," he said.
"He's not the one I want."

Without more ado Evan hastened out.  The youth presumably was allowed
to follow.  The taxicab was at the curb.  Evan flung himself in.

"Back to the library!" he ordered.

He sought out his friend the librarian.  A hasty investigation showed
that Lockhart's History had been collected in due course from the table
and returned to the shelves.  It had not been called for since.  The
money was gone, of course.

"His confederate was waiting there in the reading-room, perhaps at the
same table," Evan said gloomily.  "As soon as I was out of the way he
got the money.  What a fool I was!"

"But how could you have foreseen that?" said the librarian.

Evan then had the pleasant task of returning to the Deaves house and
telling them what had happened.  Father and son were waiting for him in
the library.  They instantly saw by his face that things had not gone
well, and each snarled according to his nature.  When he heard that the
money was gone the old man broke into piteous lamentations.

"Five thousand dollars!  Five thousand dollars!  All that money!  Flung
to the rats of the city to gnaw!"

"What's the matter with you?" snapped his son.  "It was my money."

"I earned it, didn't I?  You have nothing but what I gave you!"

"We may get them yet through the banks," suggested Evan.

"Yah!  We'll never get them now!"

But however they might quarrel with each other, father and son united
in blaming Evan.

"Look at him!" cried the old man, beside himself.  "He knows where the
money's gone!  Of course he didn't catch them.  I believe he engineered
the whole thing!"

"Be quiet, Papa," said George Deaves in a panic.  He turned to Evan
with an anxiety almost obsequious.  "Don't mind him," he said.  "He's
excited.  You'd better go now.  But I'll see you later."

Evan was not deceived.  It was clear that George no less than his
father believed that he was a party to the crime, but was afraid to say
so outright.

"I live at 45A South Washington Square," he said curtly.  "You'll find
me there any time you want me."




CHAPTER VII

PLATONIC FRIENDSHIP

Charley Straiker came in to dinner that night in a highly effervescent
state.  This was not at all unusual.

"Listen, Ev!" he cried.  "I've seen her!  Oh, a peach! a little queen!
Her name is Corinna Playfair.  Isn't that mellifluous?  Corinna
Playfair!  Corinna Playfair!  Like honey on the tongue!  Listen, when I
came in a while ago I heard a woman's voice talking to Carmen in her
room on the ground floor.  So I went back, making out I wanted to see
Carmen.  And there she was!  Bowled me over completely.  Red hair, you
old misogynist!  Piles and piles of it like autumn foliage.  It's the
colour of a horse chestnut fresh out of the bur--and her skin's like
the inside of the bur--you know--creamy!  Oh, ye gods!

"Well, she was telling old Carmen this and that; her blinds wouldn't
work, and the gas-jet in the dressing-room was out of order, and your
Uncle Dudley sees his chance and speaks up.  'I'll fix the gas-jet and
the blinds,' says I.  There was nothing free and easy about her,
though.  Made her eyebrows go up like two little crescent moons.
Looked at me as much as to say: 'What is this that the cat has brought
in?'  'Oh, thank you very much,' says she in a voice as friendly as a
marble headstone.  'I couldn't think of troubling you.  Miss Sisson
will attend to it.'

"But of course old Carmen wasn't going to miss the chance of getting
her odd jobs done for nothing.  She took my part.  'Mr. Straiker, Miss
Playfair,' says she, grinning like the cat who's turned over the
goldfish bowl.  'He will fix you up, I'm sure.  I wouldn't be able to
get a man in before next week.'

"Well, to make a long story short, I fixed the blinds so's they'd roll
up, and cleaned out the gas burners.  She didn't unbend any.
Discouraged all my efforts to make conversation.  Thanked me all over
the place, and gave me to understand that I needn't build on it, you
know.  But I swear I'll make her thaw out.  I've thought of a scheme.
I tried all her burners--to gain time, you understand--and the one she
mostly uses whistles like a peanut stand.  So I'm going out to get her
a swell gas mantle to-night, and say Carmen sent it, see?  Trust l'il
Charley to find a way!"

Evan, of course, had his own ideas as to entertaining Miss Playfair
this evening.  "How about the life class at the League?" he suggested
casually--too casually.

This was a sore subject with Charley.  Evan had him there.  "Oh, blow
the class!" he said, scowling.  "A fellow doesn't get a chance like
this once in a lifetime."  He boiled over again.  "I say, I didn't
mention her eyes, did I?  Lord!  They're like immense brown stars!--Oh,
that's rotten!  I mean velvety, glowing--oh, words fail me!  You'll
have to take her eyes on trust!"

Evan refused to be diverted.  "You cut the class last time," he said.
"What do you expect to get out of it?"

"Lord!  One would think you wanted to get me out of the way so you
could make up to her yourself!" said Charley, frowning.

Evan glanced at him sharply.  This, however, was a random hit.  Charley
was quite unsuspicious.

"Only I know you're a hermit-crab, a woman-hater!" he went on.

"It's only last week you were chasing after a blonde," Evan persisted
remorselessly.  "When she threw you down you swore you'd go to work."

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

Evan breathed freely again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

"Good evening," said Evan.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"But why?"

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

"What have I done?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Is it wrong?"

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

"You can do what you like with me."

"You don't mean that really."

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

"Then be my brother, my dear brother."

Evan frowned.  "You mean----?"

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

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

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

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

"Swear it," she murmured.

"You dictate the oath."

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

"I swear it."

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

"You must go now."

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

"Oh!" she rebuked him.

"But you're my sister now."

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

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

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

"How can I wait twenty-four hours?"

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

"I'd like it above all things."

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

"Great!"

"Now go."

"Say good-night, Evan."

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

"But try it just for an experiment."

"Well--good-night, Evan."

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

"Good-night, Corinna."




CHAPTER VIII

EVAN IS RE-ENGAGED

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

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

He was not prepared to make explanations just then.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Come to-morrow night," she said.

He bowed stiffly.

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

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

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

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

"Out," said Evan stiffly.

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

"What did he want?"

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

"Who was he?"

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

"What sort of looking man?"

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

This meant nothing to Evan.  He looked blank.

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

The sound of the door-bell interrupted her.

"Here he is now!"

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

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

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

"They sent me for you," said Alfred.

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

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

"Anything new?"

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

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

They left a furiously unsatisfied Miss Sisson behind them.

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

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

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

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

"Where have you been all morning?"

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

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

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

"I will not," said Evan coolly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


"Mrs. George Deaves:

Dear Madam:

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

With best wishes,

Yours most sincerely,
  THE IKUNAHKATSI."


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

George Deaves nodded.

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

Another nod answered him, a somewhat sheepish nod.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Better show him the letter," said Evan.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You surely don't suspect----"

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

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

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

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

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

Deaves nodded shamefacedly.

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

"Shall we go with you?" asked Deaves.

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

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

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

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

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

"Other servants then?"

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

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

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

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

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

"Let me attend to it if you please."

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

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

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

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

"Ah!" said Hassell with ironical eyebrows.

"I will tell her about them."

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

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

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

His son briefly told him what had occurred.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Deaves paled as his eyes fell on the superscription.

"The same handwriting!" he murmured.

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

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

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

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

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

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




CHAPTER IX

THE COMPACT IS SMASHED

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Two nights ago."

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

"What was there to say?"

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

"That was for your own good!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Believe I will go."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"May I come in?" he asked stiffly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I like your singing better," said Evan.

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

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

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

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

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

"Fond of music, Mr. Anway?"

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

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

"I have no favourite."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You must both go," said Corinna calmly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The whispered colloquy was perfectly audible to Evan.

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

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

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

"I will put him straight as to that."

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

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

"But, Corinna----"

"Go!"

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

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

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

"You may go," she said.

He smiled.  "Not so easily!"

"Then I will."

"Where will you go?"

"To Miss Sisson's room."

Evan laughed.  He had not much fear of that.

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

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

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

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

They stared at each other.

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

She made an indignant movement.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Not till we come to an understanding."

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

Evan's only reply was another cadenza.

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

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

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

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

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

Evan stared.  "How did you guess that?"

"They generally do," said Charley airily.

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

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

"The one what?" asked Evan innocently.

"Florist."

Evan blushed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Miss Playfair has gone!" she cried.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




CHAPTER X

MAUD'S INTEREST

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


"Dear Mr. Deaves:

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

Yours as ever,
  THE IKUNAHKATSI."


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

"It's a bluff!" said Evan.

"Can you assure me of that?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You advise me to ignore this then?"

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

Evan read:


"Mrs. George Deaves:

Dear Madam:

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

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

Yours most respectfully,
  THE IKUNAHKATSI."


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

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

"You advised me!" said Deaves.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Papa, be quiet!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

The newsdealer demanded his two cents.

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

Evan averted an explosion by hastily paying for both copies.

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

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

"It's all right!" said Evan.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"No, he didn't!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




CHAPTER XI

THE STEAMBOAT _ERNESTINA_

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"A wonderful little woman!"

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

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

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

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

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

"Sure thing!"

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

"I get you," said Evan.

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

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

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

"What's your name, boy?"

"Ikey O'Toole."

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

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

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

The surprised and jubilant urchins hurried aboard.

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

"Are you waiting for somebody?" he asked.

A shake of the head.

"Haven't you got any tickets?"

Another shake.

"Do you want to go anyway?"

An energetic pair of nods.

"What will your mother say?"

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

"All right.  Skip on board."

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

"How often do you make these trips?"

"Twice a week--Tuesdays and Saturdays."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Anway flushed.

Corinna resumed her feeding of the baby.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




CHAPTER XII

EVAN LOSES A ROUND

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

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

Meanwhile the good ship _Ernestina_ was industriously wig-wagging her
walking-beam down the upper Bay.  She was a quaint, crablike little
craft.  Her tall and skinny smokestack was like a perpetual exclamation
point.  Her gait resembled that of a sprightly old horse who makes a
great to-do with his feet on the road but somehow gets nowhere.  At the
end of each stroke of her piston she seemed to stop for an instant and
then with a wheeze and a clank from below, and a violent tremor from
stem to stern, started all over.  Her paddle-wheels kicked up alarming
looking rollers behind, but with it all she travelled no faster than a
steam canal-boat.  Not that it mattered; the children got just as much
ozone as on the deck of the _Aquitania_.

Evan's patience was not inexhaustible.  By the time they reached
Norton's Point he was obliged to go in to see how the story was
progressing.  It was no nearer its end, as far as he could judge.
Corinna's Dorothy Dolores was donning a party dress of pink messaline
with a panne velvet girdle.  The children's interest flagged and they
drifted away, but there were always others to take their places.

Ikey O'Toole and his pal happened to pass through the saloon bound on
some errand of their own, and Evan had a wicked idea.  "Come here,
boys," said he, "and I'll tell you a story about robbers."

Their eyes brightened.  Evan took a seat opposite Corinna's and began:

"There was a band of train-robbers and cattle-rustlers who lived in a
cave out in Arizona, and they had for a leader a guy named
Three-fingered Pete.  Pete could draw a gun quicker with his three
fingers than any other man with five."

And so on.  There was magic in it.  Let it not be supposed that little
girls are proof against a story of robbers however they may make
believe.  They came drifting across the saloon.  In ten minutes there
were twenty children surrounding Evan, while Corinna's audience had
dwindled to four and they were restive.  Corinna kept on.  Her pale,
calm profile revealed nothing to Evan, but he doubted if she were pale
and calm within.  Corinna was not red-headed for nothing.

When her hearers were reduced to two she abruptly rose.  Evan wondered
if sweet Dorothy Dolores had been brought to a violent end.  He got up
too.

"To be continued in our next," he said.

"Aw, Mister!  Aw, Mister!" they protested, clinging to his coat.

"After lunch," he promised, freeing himself, and hastening down the
saloon after Corinna.

He thought he had her cornered in the bow, but she dropped into a seat
beside a woman with a sick baby and enquired how it was getting on.
The two women embarked on what promised to be an endless discussion of
the infant's symptoms.  Evan felt decidedly foolish, but stubbornly
stood his ground.

Denton unexpectedly came to his assistance.  "Miss Playfair," he said,
"I've got a seat for you in the dining-room, and one for Mr. Weir.
Won't you come down now?"

Two seats!  Together, naturally.  Evan's heart went up with a bound.
But Corinna was not going to be led into any such trap.  She asked the
woman beside her if she had had her lunch.  The answer was a shake of
the head.

"Then I'll hold the baby, and you go with these gentlemen," said
Corinna blandly.

"Let me hold the baby," said Evan.

"Oh, thank you, sir; but he don't like men."

Evan went down with Denton and the woman, but he did not mean to be put
off so easily.  Seeing the crowd in the dining-saloon, he said:

"They're rushed here.  Let me help serve for a while.  Save two seats
when Miss Playfair comes down."

"Sure," said Denton amiably.

Down the length of the lower saloon there was a double row of tables,
each with an end to the side wall.  Every seat was taken.  In addition
to Denton the waiters were Anway and a black-haired youth with a hot
eye who greeted Evan with a frank scowl.  Denton introduced him as
Tenterden.  "Another of Corinna's 'brothers'," thought Evan.  "The boat
is manned with her family!"  He turned in to help with a will.

Nearly an hour passed before Corinna appeared for her lunch, and the
dining-saloon was beginning to empty.  Seeing Evan there, she naturally
supposed he had finished eating and had remained to help.  She took a
seat next the window at one of the tables, and thus protected herself
on one hand.  Indicating the chair on the other side of her she said to
Denton:

"Sit here.  You can be spared now."

"Thanks, but I promised this seat to Weir," said Denton innocently.

Corinna bit her lip.  The said Weir made haste to slip into the seat,
before anything further could be said.  Corinna quickly started a
conversation with a youth across the table, another helper, and
supposedly a "brother"--at least he looked at Corinna with sheep's eyes.

Evan, determined not to allow himself to be eliminated, said firmly: "I
have not met this gentleman."

Corinna said coldly: "Mr. Domville, Mr. Weir."

Next to Domville sat another helper, an older man with a queer, clever,
bitter face, Mr. Dordess.  Some belated mothers made up the tableful.
Anway waited on them.  As he placed a plate of soup before Evan with
set face, Evan suspected he would rather have poured it down the back
of his neck.  Evan thanked him ironically.

Corinna did her best to keep the conversation of the whole tableful in
her hands, but of course it was bound to escape her sometimes.  And
there were lulls.  At such moments Evan could speak to her without
anybody overhearing.

"Corinna, what's the use?"

Affecting not to hear him, she asked a question across the table.  Evan
patiently bided his time.

"'What's the use?' I said."

"I don't understand you."

"What's the use of trying to evade something that's got to be faced in
the end."

"What's got to be faced?"

"Me."

"Is that a threat?"

"No.  You know, yourself, after what happened you owe me an
explanation."

"The explanation is obvious."

"Then I must be very dense."

"If you were the least bit sorry, I could talk to you; but to glory in
it, to try to trade on it----"

"Sorry for what?"

"Oh, of course you have nothing to be sorry for."

"You're talking in riddles.  You know I love you."

She laughed three notes.  He frowned at the sound.

"It's a funny way you have of showing it," she said.  "To try to humble
me further!"

"But you ask for it, Corinna--with your high and mighty way.  I told
you that before."

Silence from Corinna.

"I don't know what cause you have to be sore at me," he resumed when he
got another opportunity.  "It seems to me I'm the one----"

"Oh, you'll get over it, I suspect."

"Corinna, why did you run away?"

She rolled a bread ball.  "Because I was ashamed."

He looked at her in honest surprise.  "Ashamed!  Of what?"

"You know very well what I mean."

"I swear I do not!"

"I will hate you if you force me to say it."

"I'll take my chance of that," he said grimly.

"Very well.  Don't you understand that a person may be carried away for
the moment, and do things and say things that they bitterly regret
afterwards.  Of course if you have no standards of right and wrong you
wouldn't understand."

"Thanks for the compliment."

"What happened that night," she went on, "that sort of thing is
horrible to me!"

At last he understood--and frowned, for it was his deepest feelings
that she slandered.  But he was not fully convinced that she was
sincere.  "Then you lied when you said you loved me?"

"I was carried away.  That sort of thing isn't love."

This angered Evan--but he held his tongue.  He sought to find out from
her face what she really thought.  She looked out of the window.

"Now I hope you understand," she said loftily.

"You have a lot to learn," said Evan, "about love and other things."

"At any rate I hope I have made you see how useless it is to follow
me," she said sharply.

"It is useless," said Evan--"to talk to you," he added to himself.
"When I get you off this confounded steamboat we'll see what we'll see."

"Don't stare at me like that," said Corinna.  "It's attracting
attention."

Evan thought: "If there was only another girl on board that I could
rush!  That might fetch her!"

Evan saw indeed that Dordess was regarding him quizzically.  Of all the
men (saving Denton) Dordess was the only one who did not scowl at Evan.
Evan was not deceived thereby into thinking that he had inspired any
friendliness in this one.  It was simply that Dordess was more
sophisticated, and had his features under better control.  To create a
diversion, Evan asked him:

"What has your particular job been to-day?"

"Serving at the water-cooler," was the response, with a wry smile, "to
keep down the mortality from colic."

Thereafter Evan took part in the general conversation, and when the
time came to rise from the table, he let Corinna go her way unhindered.
He pitched in with a good will to help wash dishes, and to pack up the
Ozone Association's property in the galley.  But let him work and joke
as he might, he won no smiles from the "brothers."

"Lord, if it was me, I'd put up a better bluff to hide my feelings," he
thought.

Later he took over part of the deck to watch and keep the children from
climbing the rails and precipitating themselves overboard.  Later
still, as they neared home and the small passengers became weary and
obstreperous, he resumed the tale of the bandits in the saloon to an
immense audience.  Evan, perhaps because of his casual air towards the
children, became the most popular man on the boat.  He did not try to
win them, and so they were his.

Corinna could not quite fathom his changed attitude towards her.
During the whole afternoon he let her be.  More than once he caught her
glancing at him, and laughed to himself.  He was taking the right line.

On one occasion the sardonic Dordess joined him on deck.  Dordess had
excited more than a passing interest in Evan.  He was different and
inexplicable.  He had eyebrows that turned up at the ends like a
faun's, giving him a devilishly mocking look.  The essence of
bitterness was in his smile.  He had the look of a man of distinction,
yet his clothes were a thought shabby.  "Clever journalist gone to
seed," was Evan's verdict.

Dordess said very offhand: "How do you like your job of nursemaid?"

"First-rate!" said Evan.

"How did you happen to stumble on our deep-sea perambulator?"

Evan was wary.  "I just happened to be passing, and saw the kids
crowding aboard.  I stopped to look, and Denton asked me if I wanted a
job."

Dordess cocked one of his crooked eyebrows in a way that suggested he
didn't believe a word of it.  Evan didn't much care whether he did or
not.

Dordess said dryly: "Denton said you were a friend of Anway's."

"He misunderstood," said Evan carelessly.

"Are you going to be with us regularly?" asked Dordess with a meaning
smile.

"I only volunteered for to-day."  Evan's tone implied that the future
could take care of itself.

Dordess said deprecatingly: "I hope the boys haven't made you feel like
an outsider."

"Not at all," said Evan cheerfully.  "I wouldn't mind if they did," he
added.  "The main thing is for the kids to have a good time."

"Sure," said Dordess dryly.  "You see, the boys get the idea that these
excursions are a sort of family affair, and they're apt to resent the
help of strangers."

"I see," said Evan.  "Are you one of Miss Playfair's 'brothers' too?"

"No; I'm an uncle," said Dordess with his bitter smile.

He walked away.  There had been nothing in his words to which Evan
could take offence, nevertheless as plainly as one man could to another
he had conveyed the intimation that Evan was not wanted on board, and
that if he ventured on board again it would be at his peril.

"The brotherhood evidently fears that I'm going to break up the
organization," thought Evan.

As they approached the end of their journey Evan began to consider what
measures he should take upon landing.  His part was a difficult one to
play with good humour; that is, to force himself on a young lady who
said she detested him, and who had half a dozen brothers and an uncle
to take her part.

"She'll do her best to give me the slip," he said to himself.  "When we
tie up I'll stand by the gangway on the pretext of keeping the kids
from falling overboard.  Some of them or all of them will take her
home, no doubt.  I'll tag along, too.  They can't very well openly
order me away, and I don't give a damn for their black looks and
meaning hints.  The main thing is to find out where she lives.  I can
choose my own time to call.  Perhaps she won't open the door to me.
Well, my patience is good."

As they approached the pier Evan went down to the main deck.  Corinna
was not visible at the moment.  Only the forward gangway of the
_Ernestina_ was used.  Her shape was so tubby that she couldn't bring
any two points alongside a straight pier simultaneously.  While they
were making a landing all the children were kept roped off in the stern
and up in the saloon.  The only persons in the bow space beside Evan
were Denton, Anway, Domville, Tenterden, two other "brothers" and two
deckhands to stand by the lines.

Up forward there was an additional stairway from the saloon.  This was
enclosed and had a door at the bottom, locked at the moment to keep the
children out of the way.  In the centre of the deck was a hatch for
freight, used presumably when the _Ernestina_ served as a carrier.

As the steamboat sidled up to her pier Evan heard Corinna's voice call
down the stairway: "Oh, Mr. Denton; will you come up here for a moment?"

Denton unlocked the door and disappeared upstairs.  The door was locked
after him.  At the same moment Domville and one of the unidentified
young men threw back the hatch cover.  The latter said: "Let's get the
cargo ashore first."

Evan wondering what cargo the excursion boat could be carrying, stepped
forward in idle curiosity to look down the hatch.  Suddenly he became
aware that the young men were circling behind him.  Before he could so
much as turn around, he was seized from each side and a hand clapped
over his mouth.  With a concerted rush they swept him into the hole in
the deck, falling on their knees at the edge, and letting him drop in.
He fell on a mattress and was not in the least hurt.  From above he
heard a loud guffaw from the deckhands.  Then the hatch cover was
clapped down, and he heard heavy objects being piled upon it.

Evan raged silently in his prison.  Pride restrained him from making
any outcry.  He had no fear that his murder was contemplated.  They'd
have to let him out again.  In the meantime they'd get no change out of
him.  And the future could take care of his revenge.

He was in a small cargo space between two transverse bulkheads.  He
could touch the beams over his head.  The place was perfectly empty
except for the mattress.  The mattress suggested that this had been
carefully planned.  It was not dark, being lighted by a fixed porthole
on either side, not much bigger than an orange.  These lights were only
a foot or two above the waterline, and when the _Ernestina_ reversed
her engine in making the pier, the water washed up over the glass.

Evan could hear all the sounds attendant upon making a landing; the
casting lines thrown ashore, the hawsers pulled over the deck, the
jingle to the engine room signalling that all was fast.  Then the
gangway was run out and the feet poured over it.

Evan found that through the porthole on the pier side he was able to
catch a brief glimpse of the passengers as they stepped ashore.  He saw
the children scurry away, never dreaming that the admired story-teller
was immured below.  The big girls followed more sedately, and after
them the mothers with backs sagging under the weight of babies.  Last
of all he had the unspeakable chagrin of seeing 

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