Читать книгу Mystery in Red - Sidney Clark Williams - Страница 4

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The street seemed empty as Anthony and Miss Strong emerged from the hotel. Not even the honk of a distant horn, or “Clop-clop” of horse’s hoofs on asphalt.

They stood a moment, drinking the beauty of the night. Then she spoke, putting an impulsive hand on his arm.

“Oh, this is good.”

An exhalation, half-sigh.

“I’m tired.”

“Let me get a taxi,” he said, instantly solicitous.

“Tired of people, I mean. Besides, there isn’t any taxi. And I want to walk.”

“With those heels?”

“They’re not monumental. And Rose’s house isn’t far. . . . If you don’t mind giving me a little support.”

“Of course,” he said. “Glad to.”

“Then I’ll make fast.”

She tucked a hand into the crook of his arm. Thus they walked some yards in silence punctuated by her heels clicking on the venerable sidewalk. Anthony emerged from meditation.

“Please excuse my wool-gathering. You must find me stupid.”

“Oh, no, I don’t. I was just thinking you must find me brassy.”

“But I wasn’t. I don’t,” he said earnestly.

“What do you think of me?”

“I don’t know yet.”

“Are you going to find out?”

“If you let me.”

“I don’t seem to be offering any opposition.”

Suddenly she laughed, a silvery laugh like the voice of some little mountain stream abruptly released.

“What’s the joke?”

“You and I.”

“I don’t quite see,”—half-suspiciously.

“That’s what I like.”

“Then you do like me?”

“Of course . . . Silly.”

Some unfathomed impulse of mirth in her vexed him vaguely as they strolled on to the corner. She felt and met it with a slight pressure on his arm.

“Which way?” he asked, looking up and down the elm-flanked street.

“Rose’s,” she pointed, “is up there. But I don’t want to play bridge now. Let’s walk down to the water.”

“Won’t they curse us out for breaking up a table?”

“Don’t tell me you’re an infant at bridge. Now I know you are an addict.”

“I only thought,” he explained a bit stiffly, “that cutting off that way would be inconsiderate.”

“Oh, they’ll fill in,” she said carelessly. “And we’re only being a little late. . . . Don’t you want to do it?”

“Of course,” hastily.

“See all the time we’ve lost.”

He gave up bewildered.

Nothing piercingly personal was said as they walked slowly down the incline to the shore. It was mostly patter in which Anthony recognized himself with secret amusement.

“Not my line at all,” he said to himself.

But he was happy.

Once they paused in the shadow of a big tree, and watched figures whirling past the open windows of a dance hall across the street. It seemed a hectic affair, with shouts of sheer exuberance occasionally rising above the saxophone that imparted to frenetic music its dominant rhythm.

Tightening her hold on Anthony’s arm, Miss Strong executed a few little steps, like a boat tugging at its mooring.

“Do you ever feel as if you could fly?” she asked.

“No. But I have.”

“I wonder if it’s nice,” she speculated, “to be literal minded.”

“I’m afraid you will never find out.”

“No. . . . Tell me. Have you ever noted a horse that is nervous, but doesn’t know why, getting ready to run away; and it doesn’t know where?”

“Perhaps. But I didn’t know it.”

“I’m like that,” she announced.

“Only now and then, I hope.”

“I’m going to run away to the foot of this street.”

“Look out,” he said in alarm. “Those heels.”

Instantly after her, he brought the chase to its end, just as she stumbled. He saved her from a fall.

“Well,” she panted, “you certainly can run.”

“This isn’t much compared to the two-twenty.”

With an impulsive movement she pushed him away, as if to acquire a fresh perspective.

“Are you Anthony, the dash man?”

“I was,” he admitted.

“And a varsity tackle, and champion boxer.”

“How do you know?” he asked, much astonished.

“Of course I know. I’m crazy about sports. . . . Track games, baseball, football. Even rowing races, that never start on time, and almost always end with everybody wondering which crew won. . . . You know I saw you play football when I was fourteen years old, with my hair in a long pigtail down my back.”

“Venerable man,” he admitted, blushing a little in the dark.

She laughed again, with the rippling sound that came so pleasantly to his ears.

“Oh, you’re the youngest thing I ever saw.”

With perfect amiability they resumed their stroll down the street.

“I’m sorry,” she reflected presently, “I never saw you box.”

“I can’t say that I am. And I don’t suppose you ever will.”

“You might as well say, ‘I don’t want you to.’ And that makes me want to say, ‘I will.’”

“We can find more probable things to quarrel about, if you insist upon it.”

“Now that I know who you are, I’ll be afraid to quarrel with you at all. . . . Look! Isn’t that heavenly?”

Piercing attendant clouds, the harvest moon put a golden band upon the quiet harbor. As they looked a white sail drifted through.

“Let’s go now,” she suggested. “That’s the best. And I never believe in waiting for the rest.”

Quite silently they retraced their way up Main Street, until pulsations of jazz abruptly reasserted earth’s grosser charms. As they neared the entrance to the dance hall saxophone and banjos burst suddenly into a nerve-clutching crescendo.

Because his companion paused, so did Anthony perforce.

“Let’s go up,” she suggested.

“But you can’t,” he said aghast.

“Why not?”

“It’s no place for a lady.”

“Perhaps you will allow me to be the judge of that.”

She spoke haughtily.

“You know what I mean. I’m not trying to dictate to you.”

“Then let’s go up.”

She put a foot on the door-sill.

“You mustn’t.”

Despite his disclaimer, he was driven to the imperative.

“No one says that to me.”

“You force me to.”

Now he was frankly angry.

“Good-night, Mr. Anthony.”

As she gained the bottom stair he caught her hand.

“You can’t go up there.”

“I am going up there.”

Her voice frigid, she was looking straight ahead.

“Oh, no!” he said, and gained the step beside her.

“On the whole,” she said, “I prefer to go alone.”

“Well, you won’t,” he assured her with equal rudeness, and took his place ahead.

Somewhat slowly, because the staircase was narrow, and he would not hasten, they climbed to the second floor. And with each step the music of measured delirium grew more insistent.

“Hurry,” she said with a little push. “I want to get there before they stop.”

Now his face as he turned back was furious. Before he could speak she laughed in pure delight. And his look grew puzzled.

“Of course, you don’t intend to dance.”

“Maybe not,” she answered gayly. “But if I do, I suppose I’ll have to dance alone.”

He pushed open the hall door, and they went in. A dramatic entrance, since that instant the music stopped, so that they shared the attention of waiting couples with the orchestra. Anthony felt all eyes were on them as he escorted his imperious charge to vacant chairs in a rear corner of the room. There they were better able to pay reciprocal attention.

Through a haze of cigarette smoke supported by vigorous puffing they observed a hall of moderate size, with a fringe of chairs and settees along the sides. Established by the stage, the orchestra wailed and raged away under the draped Stars and Stripes; and a drop curtain proclaiming the power of Polchack’s cologne.

A somewhat miscellaneous assemblage. One got an impression that only the Bravas, better fitted than all the others to enjoy blessings of jazz, were barred. There were men off the scallop boats, and obvious sports of the village; finally, a small contingent Anthony could not definitely place. Some bore the stamp of urban life, with a style of dress familiar at race tracks and pool rooms. But Anthony was not familiar with the type.

With interest he noted Bjerstedt, who must have come for something besides dancing, in earnest conversation with a stout, round-faced man of middle age who presently put him under the observation of a pair of twinkling little black eyes.

“Is he all right?” the round-faced man was asking, with a guiding jerk of his head.

“I suppose so,” said Bjerstedt. “He landed with Griffis this afternoon. That looks O. K.”

“All right, if you say so. Sam just slipped me the word he’s been nosing round the wharf to-night.”

“Oh, he’s got a girl. That’s all.”

Bjerstedt grinned, and their talk took another angle.

Anthony saw first the men. But Miss Strong’s first inventory was of the women. Most of them quite obviously village girls in, or just out of, their teens. Some seemed to have come out of the kitchen. And some, only a few, wore the inquiring look of birds of passage. One such, a tall, strapping blonde with straw-colored hair, presently approached Bjerstedt. After a brief colloquy they left the hall by a door to the left of the stage.

Once more the jazz band sounded its call. And the floor immediately filled with swaying, shuffling, shimmying couples. Watching dancing of the catch-as-catch can variety, Anthony and Miss Strong did not note the appearance of Flaherty, who saw them first and gradually worked his way through the eddying crowd. A question was the announcement of his presence:

“What are you doing here, Nell?”

“And what are you doing here?”

She raised her eyes, seemingly unannoyed by his proprietary manner.

“That’s very different,” he said.

“I don’t think so,” she responded.

“I wouldn’t have brought you here.”

“For that matter, Mr. Anthony didn’t.”

“Then——”

“I just came, of course.”

“But I don’t see——”

“That you are being rude to Mr. Anthony. If you are bound to draw inferences, you might assume I came because I wanted to. If you feel you are entitled to particulars, he came when he didn’t.”

“Oh——” said Flaherty, turning with an expression of reluctant apology to Anthony, who sat flushed and silent, boiling with suppressed resentment.

What might further have passed between the three was side-tracked by an intrusion.

“Will you gimme a turn?”

The inquirer stood at Miss Strong’s elbow.

“Thank you. But I’m not dancing to-night.”

“Oh, come on.”

“See here,” said Flaherty. “Don’t annoy this lady.”

“Chase yourself,” the accoster observed contemptuously, and rested a hand on Miss Strong’s shoulder.

Anthony’s spring and his blow were the beginning and end of a rhythmic movement. With a certain fierce pleasure he drove his right to the point of the jaw. The man fell like a tree at the decisive stroke of the axe. But falling backward he landed in a chair. As he sprawled there with helplessly extended arms neighboring dancers stopped, curiously interested in the next stage of proceedings.

“What’s the row?” asked a man who looked like a longshoreman.

Anthony did not answer. His interest seemed centered in a barked knuckle.

The man he had hit showed signs of revival. By a movement in which he drew in his legs, and brought his hands to his knees, he slowly sat up. Then he touched his chin reflectively, and located Anthony with opaque eyes.

“You hit me,” he said heavily.

“I did.”

“Think you can fight?”

“I can punch a thug.”

“Yeh. Well, you’re goin’ to get a chance.”

“Suit yourself.”

“Right now.”

“Do you think this is a fit place?”

“I’m takin’ no chance on yer runnin’ away.”

“I guess we’d better go outside.”

“Oh, that’s all right. We don’t mind a little boxing match.”

The latest observation came from a black-mustached individual who seemed to be managing the dance.

“Sure,” called somebody from the crowd. “Hot stuff.”

“Probably,” said Anthony in even tones, “you never had your head bumped on a hardwood floor.”

“Cold feet,” came a new voice.

“We’ll fix you up,” the black-mustached one assured him. “There’s canvas in the closet. Had a bout here last week.”

The man Anthony had hit was on his feet again, and came a step closer.

“Will you take your lickin’ here?” he inquired.

“If you can give it.”

“You’d better get away.”

The only attention Anthony paid to Flaherty’s advice, given in a half-whisper, was his step away from the hand laid confidentially on his shoulder. Unlike his antagonist, who tried to make the first round of all a battle of eyes, he wore a look of preoccupation.

“Please take Miss Strong home,” he said without glancing in her direction.

“I don’t want to go,” she protested.

“You will go.”

“But——” she began, stopping when she saw his eyes.

The honest gray was changed to slatey color. And pallor underlay the sunburn on neck and cheek. He was cold and strange, as he stood there waiting for her to speak. Her defiance evaporated.

“I will go,” she said meekly, “if you think I should.”

“Thank you. Good-night.”

“At least let me wish you good luck.”

She extended her hand, and he held it a moment, staring at her slim, nervous fingers.

“That will help,” he said quietly.

When she left the hall with Flaherty he seemed oblivious. Men and women made room for them respectfully enough, so that she paused on the threshold for a last look. Anthony still stood where they had left him, regarding preparations for the fight with an air of indifference.

It was evident that no question of propriety had occurred to the escorts of other women. Here and there little groups were chattering with pleased excitement.

Now Ericsson entered, bustling as usual, and came rapidly to where Anthony waited alone.

“See here,” he said excitedly. “Do you know who you’re up against?”

“No.”

From Anthony’s manner one might have thought the matter did not interest him.

“It’s Sam Lever.”

Still no manifestation of excitement.

“Professional,” Ericsson added. “Light heavy-weight.”

“That’s interesting.”

Anthony gave further attention to his slightly discolored knuckle.

“I’m afraid it’s a plant,” observed his comforter.

“No. I hit him.”

“Boozy, I suppose.”

“I think he had some liquor in him.”

“That’s his trouble, I hear. He is in bad with the New York boxing authorities. . . . How about your hand?”

Anthony flexed the hurt finger.

“All right, I think. It seems to be nothing but a slight bruise.”

“Fine. Now I’ve given you all the bad news I could, will you let me act for you?”

A trace of Anthony’s habitually frank and engaging expression lightened his face an instant.

“Thanks,” he said. “I’ll be grateful.”

“Probably I won’t be much good as a second. But I used to chore that way sometimes in college. . . . I see Lever has disappeared. So I suppose we’d better get busy. I’ll be back in a jiffy.”

As he hurried away Anthony watched the stretching of canvas for the ring. Many hands were making light work. One individual, however, spared time to accost him.

“Say, feller, do you know who you’re fightin’?”

“I don’t care.”

Anthony answered without turning his head.

“You’ll find out all right,” his would-be informant declared gloatingly, and went his way.

From the other end of the hall Ericsson beckoned. He waited there for Anthony, who picked his way leisurely. A beckoning finger waggled over Ericsson’s shoulder drew him on to a small anteroom, where on county convention days small fry candidates made large preparation to address their fellow-citizens. Now another kind of fight impended.

“Our headquarters.”

As he spoke Ericsson was closing the door.

“And here are the fixings. I never knew a scratch fight with such a complete outfit. ‘Mushy,’—that’s the black-mustached impresario, says they bought a lot of stuff for some local tryouts. Anyway, here it is; and all brand-new. . . . First choice for you. Everybody’s suspiciously pleasant.”

With both hands he extended a collection of trunks to Anthony, who made casual selection.

“Ah, the Black Knight,” rattled Ericsson. “According to Scott he was a rather good fighter. Now the gloves.”

This time Anthony gave more careful attention. And he asked his only question, as he looked at the stitching of a glove, and bent it back to test its flexibility.

“How does this professional fighter happen here?”

A film of reticence slightly veiled Ericsson’s ruddy countenance.

“Got me,” he answered. “The island seems more or less littered with strange arrivals nowadays.”

Without further comment Anthony made his toilet for the ring. Ericsson’s eyes bulged as he stepped from his street clothes.

“I’ll be darned,” said the voluble one. “You didn’t look it.”

With open admiration he surveyed the powerful shoulders and clean strength of leg; the deep chest, and easy play of rippling muscle as Anthony went through slight exercises of a loosening order.

“What’s your weight?” asked Ericsson with eager interest.

“About a hundred and seventy.”

“Well, I don’t mind saying that when I volunteered I felt like a philanthropist. Now I feel like a discoverer. That’s the way my nerve is. . . . How about yours?”

“All right.”

“Say, are you the——?”

An idea that smote Ericsson went unexpressed; the door opened in the middle of his sentence.

“Ready?” inquired the individual whose head was thrust in.

For answer Anthony moved towards the hall, his voluble second after him. As they entered they paused a moment surveying the crowd.

Not the usual assemblage in tier on tier of faces like luminous blotches in a thickening haze. But the aggregate effect of the hundred odd men and women sitting expectant was much the same. At a slight distance their utterance suggested the vocalizing in animal cages before meal-time.

Surveying it all with a feeling of detachment, Anthony felt Ericsson jogging his elbow.

“Better rest a bit,” he suggested.

“I’m all right.”

“Like to see Lever?”

“Not especially.”

“If you change your mind, he’s over there.”

With a characteristic jerk of his thumb Ericsson was off to confer with the man called “Mushy.” Presently that individual did a surprising thing. Producing a large key from his pocket, he walked to the door and carefully locked it.

Now he made his way to the ring, and stood there with his left hand raised in appeal for attention. The hum of conversation sensibly decreased.

“I want to say,” he announced, “that this fight is going to be a square fight. Anybody that tries to interfere with it will get hurt.”

In his right hand, which had dropped to a hip pocket during proclamation of fair play, he now held a revolver. It was a heavy weapon, its ominous appearance nowise lessened by his affectionate regard. He patted its barrel with his left hand, and returned it to his pocket. Nobody disputed the following conclusion:

“I’m going to run this show.”

As the self-appointed referee turned towards him Anthony felt sudden tightening in the crowd’s tension. There was fight in the atmosphere, fight on every man’s tongue. Responsive to a beckoning hand, he climbed through the ropes.

“Edward Anthony, of Boston,” announced the referee.

A ripple of perfunctory applause subsided in serious interest. Those that waited gaily for a slaughtering felt their first misgiving, as he stood at ease. A picture of compact power, with clear color of good health and the satiny skin of a well-groomed athlete.

“Looks like he’s got guts,” said a hoarse-voiced individual.

The referee turned to the other side of the ring.

“In this corner—Sam Lever, of New York.”

Mr. Lever rose and bowed to a demonstration of cordial regard. Evidently he was well known.

“This fight,” the referee went on, “will be a fight to a finish.” It was news to Anthony, who wondered if Ericsson had been informed. Now he looked at Lever with more searching interest, and a flare of the cold flame of anger. There had been no desire in his heart further to hurt the man he struck. In forcing him to fight Lever had acted according to his code. But if it was proposed to reduce him to bleeding pulp—there would be two with a say in the matter.

Lines of grimness about the mouth that had helped to quell sauciness in Nell Strong were deep again as Ericsson bent over the fastening of his gloves, and his eyes paled with fixed regard unwelcome to those that once provoked it.

“What’s your plan?” asked Ericsson sotto voce.

“To lick him.”

“Ready,” called the referee.

They advanced to shake hands. In the final appraisal Anthony guessed Lever to be about his own age—perhaps younger. He had rather massive shoulders and a short neck. One might have thought Nature intended him for a six-footer, but ran short of material. He seemed light, however, on his feet, with a heavy cording of muscle. As he stared at Anthony a black forelock lent point to his scowl.

“Say you—you piece of cheese,” he announced. “I’m going to knock your block off.”

Anthony did not answer. But he stepped in a bit closer. The bell sounded, and the fight was on.

Lever came with a rush. His right, and then his left. The right grazed Anthony’s chin. The left slid harmlessly over his shoulder. In blocking, as he felt Lever out, his blood ran warmer with the zest of battle.

Taking his turn with the offensive, he penetrated Lever’s guard with a right hook that landed on the side of the jaw. An expression of pain rewarded him.

Lever rushed again, but less furiously. As they clinched after a harmless exchange he muttered, “The next round will be your finish.” Anthony smiled.

“Break away. Break clean.”

The referee came pushing between them. In a quick glance at his foe’s feet Anthony saw a shift to the left, and shot a slashing blow to the kidneys.

“Atta boy!” bellowed his hoarse admirer.

Then the gong sent them to their corners.

“Going fine,” said Ericsson with enthusiasm. “I see you had it doped all the time.”

Anthony saved his breath, while a towel was waved furiously before him. All about the crowd buzzed like a hive of excited bees.

At the sound of the gong Anthony came to his feet with a spring. And Lever was equally prompt, his ugly look intensified.

“You’re all in,” he muttered in Anthony’s ear as they came to a clinch after rapid exchange of infighting.

By this time each had felt the other out, and knew the work ahead of him. And with varying intelligence each realized he had handicapped himself in condition. After two days of sailing, and drink to which he was unaccustomed, Anthony missed the perfect coördination of eye and hand that is the boxer’s joy. And Lever, who was by no means in the best of condition after some months of varied indulgence, found the prey he proposed to maul “within an inch of his life” threatening to turn the tables.

The round ended with both wary. And the crowd disappointed.

“Bananas!” yelled a straw-hatted individual lolling comfortably on a settee.

“Yeh! Lean on yerself,” another admirer advised as Lever held Anthony cautiously to still a flailing left.

“Wait! He ain’t ready,” urged another.

Three rounds more, and both men still on their feet. Anthony was studiously encouraging Lever to set the pace. That a man whose means of livelihood was, or had been, fighting with fists could outbox him was no surprise. But he was the quicker, and able at least to offer a stout defence. There would come, he felt, some chance for a decisive blow. Burning within him was a fanatic resolve to win.

In the fifth he saw an opening, as Lever forced him back to his corner, and collected energy for a hurricane assault. For an instant his guard was low, and shifting suddenly Anthony landed on his chin. By an adroit movement Lever avoided its full force, while a glancing blow made his head ring. Momentarily dazed, he half-fell into a clinch.

It was Anthony’s second to administer the coup de grace, while the crowd roared encouragement.

What stopped him?

As Lever half-fell with upraised arms Anthony’s amazed eyes beheld in the right arm-pit a Red Triangle. Very small it was, with the look of something done by a branding-iron.

A second of amazement cost Anthony the opportunity for which he waited. As the referee came between them Lever regained sufficient poise to block attack for the minute that was left of the round.

Anthony walked wearily to his corner. Astonishment and disappointment combined to let him down. He felt a new weakness in his knees; and his hands seemed tied.

Lever came briskly in the fifth. Now his attack was changed to a stinging short-arm tattoo on the ribs. Anthony felt his body vibrate with blows. His enemy was fighting confidently, but cautiously, taking his own time to finish the work. Anthony fought on doggedly, holding him off with a still formidable left. So the round ended.

“How do you feel?” asked Ericsson, solicitously kneading his calves.

“Low,” he said wearily.

Early in the sixth a downward blow on the back of the neck temporarily paralyzed his power of reason. But his feet did not falter as he doggedly pursued the routine of battle. He fought on as one in a mist, with a vague feeling of irritation that Lever was so remote.

Another reprieve distressingly short. Vaguely grateful for cold water poured down his back, he wondered what it had to do with the waterfall roaring in his ears.

“Hang to him,” implored Ericsson.

Meantime in the opposite corner Kid Glowerville, of Harlem, sluiced Lever’s weary legs, and offered cheery counsel.

“You got him, Sambo. Just one more round.”

In languor Mr. Lever reclined against the ropes.

“Say, Kid,” he observed. “That’s a fighter.”

The gong that brought respite brutally brief summoned again to labor. As Anthony’s chair was pulled from under him something flared in his brain. He felt its incandescence flood his veins. Galvanized into activity, he eluded Lever’s furious right swing for the jaw, and countered heavily on the left eye.

More amazed than intimidated, Lever gave ground before a rain of short-arm blows. The crowd yelped its delight.

As Lever clinched, and held, he was conscious of slackening tension in Anthony’s arms. Eyes he looked into lost their feverish lustre. They were glazed. Once in a mining camp he had seen such pupils in the eyes of a man who lay dying, shot in a brawl. In sudden fear he broke loose, and backed away.

Then the amazing thing happened. Swaying uncertainly, Anthony uncoiled like a great spring. One moment he seemed about to fall. The next Lever was prostrate, his smitten jaw pressing the canvas. With a left flush to its point he had gone down swiftly, as one falling from a great height.

As he leaned against the ropes Anthony heard the referee intone the count. He started climbing through at the sound of the fateful ten. The crowd was quiet with an unwelcome victory, now that blood-lust was appeased. He was outside the ring when the referee called:

“Hey, Mister Anthony! Sam wants a word with yer.”

By this time Lever was half-sitting up.

“That was a sock!” he said, as Anthony looked down at him, with his elbows on the rope. “My head buzzes like a top.”

“It was a lucky one,” observed Anthony.

“Mebbe. You’re some puncher.” Lever touched his chin gingerly.

“But say—I’ll get you yet.”

He rolled over with a curious smile.

“Good-bye,” said Anthony, and turned away.

Too sore and weary to feel elation, he proceeded to his dressing-room. Ericsson waited there jubilant with reflected glory.

“I guess you’ll get the whole of the sidewalk in this old burg,” he said as Anthony towelled his aching ribs.

“More likely the gang will do me up.”

Ericsson snorted, and lighted a cigarette.

“Whither goest?” he asked with the tying of Anthony’s cravat.

“To the hotel. And to bed. I’m dead tired.”

“I suppose so,” Ericsson assented. He seemed a little disappointed.

They went out into the nearly empty hall, and down the stairs to the street, parting with a handshake, and a mutual, “So long.” Anthony stood on the sidewalk a moment, as Ericsson set out briskly in the direction of the harbor.

“Congratulations,” came a voice in his ear.

He whirled and stared in amaze. At his elbow were Nell Strong, who looked radiant, and Flaherty, a sulky appearing individual.

“I don’t understand,” he said.

“You were splendid,” she explained.

“But you don’t mean——”

He paused with a red wave mounting his forehead.

“Of course, stupid. I mean the fight.”

“But you weren’t there.”

“On the fire-escape—every minute. Looking in through the window.”

“But you were going home.”

He turned accusingly to Flaherty, who exchanged a scowl for his frown. She laughed, delighted.

“What men you are. First he blamed you because I insisted on coming here. Now you blame him because I wouldn’t go home. . . . Don’t you know I always do as I please?”

“I congratulate you.”

Anthony bowed stiffly.

“Good-night.”

“I thought you were taking me home.”

Astonishment with which she contrived to color her tone was honestly reflected in Anthony’s face.

“I understand Mr. Flaherty assumed that responsibility.”

“Don’t you want to?”

“Is that a fair question?”

In weariness of mind and body, after the ordeal just passed, his temper was getting a little out of hand. Whether Flaherty felt it, or was really disinclined to make a bad third, he promptly effaced himself.

“The fact is,” he explained, “I had an engagement. Have one still, if the man has waited for me. So, if you are free, and Miss Strong will excuse me, I’ll see.”

“Certainly,” said Anthony without the slightest elation.

They had walked a block without a word when she stopped under a street light.

“I want to know whether you are really cross with me,” she said.

Though he did not wish to unbend, he could not check a smile. She was so like a mock-contrite child.

“What I do see,” she announced, “is that you are threatened with a black eye.”

“Am I?”

“The left one. I must put some beef on it.”

She seemed quite delighted.

“It’s of no consequence,” he protested. “You mustn’t bother.”

“I like to. Come along to Rose’s. But we won’t go in. You wait outside while I slip into the kitchen, and get the cook to give me the beef.”

“I don’t like to have you do this.”

“Yes you do. Now come along.”

To enforce her order she took his arm. At the touch he yielded.

The house designated as Rose’s was soon reached. A large white house of colonial type, it stood on a hillside commanding the inner harbor. The fused scent of spacious gardens in the rear came to Anthony as he waited on the porch, feeling himself a conspicuous intruder with a quartet of rather festive appearing bridge players just inside. He was not aware of Miss Strong’s return until he heard her whisper:

“Come this way.”

He followed around a corner, to a secluded spot in a side garden.

“Now stand still,” she commanded. “And you’d better close your eyes.”

He felt her light touch about his head, binding a handkerchief and something soothingly cool over the damaged eye. Then something so feathery on the tip of his nose. Was it a kiss? . . . He opened the available eye.

“Now we’re ready,” she said in a businesslike fashion.

“For what?”

She answered over her shoulder, as he followed at her heels.

“Don’t be afraid. You’re not being abducted.”

From the shadows of a closed car standing in the driveway a liveried man materialized at their approach, and touched his cap as he opened the door.

“Home,” she said, and Anthony followed in.

In silence framed by encompassing stillness of the night they rode out of the driveway, and half-way down a cobbled highway climbing from the principal square. Then she spoke:

“What are you thinking about?”

“It’s a queer evening, Miss Strong.”

“Don’t you think you might call me ‘Nell’?”

“I wouldn’t presume so on first meeting.”

“Not even after you’ve fought for me? And I’ve done up your eye.”

“Well——”

Again the ripple of sheer mirth he was learning to anticipate with pleasure.

“All right,” he assented.

“That’s nice. Now we are friends.”

With complete content she settled against his shoulder. And Anthony found himself offering a superfluously protective arm.

“Let’s not talk now,” she said. “I want to listen.”

They were running smoothly along the cliff road, fringed with trees on either side, and flanked on the upper by houses set far back; so they were invisible by night, save here and there some chimney or gable picked out in electric light. Below the sea droned, with a slow beat of mighty meditation.

“Don’t you think it’s like a soliloquy?” she said presently.

“You mean——?”

“The water. I love it most like this. When it seems to be talking to itself. One feels that it understands—everything.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to feel that way,” he said.

“Why not?” she demanded.

“Oh, it’s hard to say. But I would have guessed you cared more for the mountains. That they gave you a feeling of peace through being so big and still.”

“They don’t. Instead they seem so terribly big and stolid. Like a giant you can never escape; and he never speaks. . . . The sea, even if it is cruel at times, has something for all our moods. And it is never twice the same. . . . I don’t like ticketed things.”

“I’m afraid,” said Anthony with a moment’s reflection, “you are going to find me very dull.”

“That’s funny.”

Again her laugh.

“You’re not half so literal as you think you are.”

What he might have answered remained unsaid. For at that moment the car swung sharply into a gravelled entrance on the left, and stopped with a shock that sent them flying forward. By a convulsive effort Anthony managed to regain his balance and check his companion’s impetus; so they were not thrown against the front of the car.

Looking out, he saw a dark mass with which the car had evidently been in collision, just to the right and under a big tree. And he heard the chauffeur in indistinct colloquy with some invisible person.

“Let me find out what it is,” he said, and stepped into the driveway.

Then he noted an accent of anger in the chauffeur’s voice. In the other’s, one of surly apology.

“I thought it was Harrington’s,” the second voice explained.

“Well, ’tis not,” the chauffeur rejoined. “And may I ask, do you deliver goods by the front entrance?”

“If I feel like it,” the unknown retorted as Anthony drew near enough to see a burly individual in a turtle-neck sweater. A cap was pulled down over his eyes.

“What are you doing here?” Anthony asked.

“Groceries,” said the unknown.

The chauffeur snorted.

With eyes by this time adjusted to dim light Anthony surveyed the truck that had stopped them. It was piled high with cases. . . . Of what?

He moved a bit nearer, and the unknown stepped in his way.

“I guess I’d better be goin’,” he said.

“How about my damages?” the chauffeur irately demanded.

“I couldn’t help it, could I?”

The man had climbed to the seat of the truck.

“You’ll bear me witness, sir,” the chauffeur appealed to Anthony. “’Twas no fault of mine.”

Loudly snorting, the truck started with a jerk, and narrowly missed hitting the limousine again. Then it went thundering down the road to the town.

“What was it, Bruce?”

Miss Strong had also alighted for personal inspection.

“I don’t know, ma’am,” he said. “Some of those rum runners, I think.”

“Is the car hurt much?”

“It don’t seem so, ma’am. I think it will turn over.”

“If it doesn’t, use another in the garage. I want you to drive Mr. Anthony back to the village. He will take me to the house.”

“Are you sufficiently protected?” asked Anthony as they reached the first turn of the double curve by which they reached the house steps.

“What are you thinking of—rum runners?”

She seemed amused at the suggestion.

“Well,” he persisted, “some of those fellows I saw at the hall to-night I wouldn’t trust far—if at all.”

“I’m not in the least afraid. And I’ll tell you a secret.”

“What is it?”

“I keep a revolver.”

“Great Scott! You’ll hurt yourself.”

“Not I. Maybe somebody else. I’m a very good shot.”

“But I’d be glad——”

“Only there is no need. . . . I would like, though, to see you to-morrow. Are you awake as early as nine?”

“Any time at all,” he assured her.

“I’ll expect you here then. I want to take you to some of my pet spots on the moors. They’re best in the morning, when the night has left them all clean. . . . Till then.”

Before he completely realized it, with a soft closing of the great door she vanished within. Turning, he walked slowly towards the spot where they left the chauffeur repairing the car. As he reached the second curve he cut across the greensward. It was just then a rustling as of foliage agitated came to his ears. It was repeated when he paused. And as he advanced to investigate he heard a soft thud like that of some one landing in a leap on turf.

Covering some fifty yards, he came to a breast-high stone wall. It was absolutely still then, save for the beat of the sea. After listening for a minute or so he dismissed what he had heard as the passage of some small animal; a dog or cat, maybe, magnified to overwrought imagination. Retracing his steps, he followed the course of the drive down to the gate.

There was the car and the waiting chauffeur, perched on the wall with a glowing cigarette. He threw it away hastily as he heard the crunch of Anthony’s feet on the gravel. Then he hopped down, and stood at attention.

“Is the car all right?”

“Yes, sir. ’Twas only the fender bent, and some paint scraped off. . . . By the mercy of God, sir.”

Anthony got in.

“Where to, sir?”

“The Stimson House, thank you.”

They had hardly started when strained attention to which events of the evening had keyed Anthony yielded to deepening lethargy of sheer fatigue. He could not even concentrate on Nell, much as he wished to do so.

His mind skipped whimsically, this way and that. And there were blanks when the thread of thought was broken abruptly. So he was only casually conscious of the interruption of smooth driving when Bruce grazed the edge of a gutter by an abrupt turn to avoid collision with a great car that came up behind at high speed, and passed with a single sharp summons of its horn.

That was in the outskirts of the village, where meadows began, and the little houses, some of them partly supported by piles that had rather the look of hind-legs in the water. Muttering angrily as he continued to drive with care, Bruce brought his somnolent passenger to the hotel gate. Anthony still lounged inside, not quite conscious of arrival. And he was by no means alert when, having tipped the chauffeur like a nabob, he went up the flagged walk to the white door.

He opened and entered. There was no one about. For the island air, soft and heavy, is a drug to strangers; and native philosophy is nourished with much sleep.

With a look into the empty office, where a gas jet flickered and the open book reminded him that he was an unregistered intruder, he forced his feet up the stairs. There he stopped again, clearing in his mind the location of the room offered by Ericsson.

Apparently, he remembered correctly. For he made the turn, recalled the step down, and concentrated to the best of his ability on doors along one side of the hall. It was a considerable exertion, since by rule or inadvertence the light had been turned off.

Now for the first time it occurred to him that he had no key. To get one he would have to locate and rouse somebody. He did not know who, or where the keeper of keys might be found.

Better test a chance that the door remained unlocked. He thought it had been when he left with Caswell and Delancey. He recalled it as the third to the left. He felt his way along and counted.

As the knob turned under his hand the door opened easily. He closed it behind him. Then he fumbled for the light, but did not find it. After a futile minute or so he gave up.

With the window-shade raised there was a little reflected light of the moon. Sufficient to make out the white spread of the bed, and pallid crockery of the wash-stand. A small rocking-chair he found by hitting an ankle against a corner.

A little disgusted because he lacked necessities of the toilet, he poured a generous measure of water into the wash-bowl located by touch more than the eye, and splashed it over his face. Then he felt for a towel, and picked his way to bed.

His last conscious act was to straighten Nell’s bandage over his eye. It was dripping a little on his nose. . . . He sighed, he yawned, and slept.

Seemingly, no one saw Anthony enter the hotel. And no one saw a tall man with a slight limp come from somewhere in the rear of the house about fifteen minutes later. Not venturing on the piazza until he came opposite the door, he took the few steps to it with extreme care, and entered. It appeared the door was never locked.

Slowly, but without hesitation, he ascended to the second floor, and followed Anthony’s course of a short time before. In his turn he counted doors, until he came to the one in mind. Then he stooped to the keyhole to listen.

Apparently satisfied by what he heard, or did not hear, he tried the door, which opened easily. Leaving it slightly ajar, he stepped in.