i --- X ;.;:?





THE BLACK BAG


BY LOUIS JOSEPH VANCE
THE PRIVATE WAR
Illustrated by H. C. Edwards
12mo, Cloth $1.50
TERENCE OROURKE, GENTLEMAN
ADVENTURER
Illustrated by W. V. Cahill
12mo, Cloth $1.50
THE BRASS BOWL
Illustrated by Orson Lowell
12mo, Cloth $1.50
THE BOBBS-MERRILL COMPANY
INDIANAPOLIS


THE BLACK BAG
Bp
LOUIS JOSEPH VANCE
WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BT
THOMAS FOGARTY
INDIANAPOLIS
THE BOBBS-MERRILL. COMPANY
PUBLISHEHS


Copyright 1908
The Bobbs-Merrill Company
jANtMBT


THE BLACK BAG
.--





CONTENTS
ciiaptkh Page
I Diversions of a Ruined Gentleman . . 1
II "And Some There Be Who Have Adven-
tures Thrust Upon Them" ... 23
III Calendar's Daughter 37
IV 9 Frognall Street, W. C 51
V The Mystery of a Four-Wheeleh . . 70
VI "Below Bridge" 92
VII Diversions of a Ruined Gentleman-
Resumed 118
VIII Madame L'Intrigante 144
IX Again " Below Bridge"; and Beyond . . 170
X Desperate Measures 185
XI Off the Nore 212
XII Picaresque Passages 227
XIII A Primer of Progressive Crime . . . 259
XIV Stratagems and Spoils 285
XV Refugees 306
XVI Travels with a Chaperon .... 323
XVII Rogues and Vagabonds 360
XVIII Adventurers' Luck 390
XIX i—The Uxbridge Road .... 410
ii—The Crown and Mitre .... 417
iii— The Journey's End 433





TO MY MOTHER


1
I
I. ,
14:


2 THE BLACK BAG
resources went for nothing; he held the distinction a
quibble, mockingly immaterial,— like the store of
guineas in his pocket, too insignificant for mention
when contrasted with his needs. And his base of
supplies, the American city of his nativity, whence
— and not without a glow of pride in his secret
heart — he was wont to register at foreign hostel-
ries, had been arbitrarily cut off from him by one
of those accidents sardonically classified by insurance
and express corporations as Acts of God.
Now to one who has lived all his days serenely in
accord with the dictates of his own sweet will, taking
no thought for the morrow, such a situation
naturally seems both appalling and intolerable, at
the first blush. It must be confessed that, to begin
with, Kirkwood drew a long and disconsolate face
over his fix. And in that black hour, primitive of
its kind in his brief span, he became conscious of a
sinister apparition taking shape at his elbow — a
shade of darkness which, clouting him on the back
with a skeleton hand, croaked hollow salutations in
his ear.
"Come, Mr. Kirkwood, come!" its mirthless ac-
cents rallied him. "Have you no welcome for me?
— you, who have been permitted to live the quarter
of a century without making my acquaintance?
Surely, now, it's high time we were learning some-
thing of one another, you and I!"
(


A RUINED GENTLEMAN 8
'
"But I don't understand," returned Kirkwood
blankly. "I don't know you —"
"True! But you shall: I am the Shade of
Care —"
"Dull Care!" murmured Kirkwood, bewildered and
dismayed; for the visitation had come upon him with
little presage and no invitation whatever.
"Dull Care," the Shade assured him. "Dull Care
am I — and Care that's anything but dull, into the
bargain: Care that's like a keen pain in your body,
Care that lives a horror in your mind, Care that
darkens your days and flavors with bitter poison
all your nights, Care that—"
But Kirkwood would not listen further. Cour-
i
ageously submissive to his destiny, knowing in his
heart that the Shade had come to stay, he yet found
spirit to shake himself with a dogged air, to lift his
chin, set the strong muscles of his jaw, and smile that
homely wholesome smile which was his peculiarly.
"Very well," he accepted the irremediable with
grim humor; " what must be, must. I don't pretend
to be glad to see you, but — you're free to stay as
long as you find the climate agreeable. I warn you
I shan't whine. Lots of men, hundreds and hun-
dreds of 'em, have slept tight o' nights with you
for bedfellow; if they could grin and bear you, I
believe I can."
Now Care mocked him with a sardonic laugh, and
i:


4 THE BLACK BAG
sought to tighten upon his shoulders its bony grasp;
but Kirkwood resolutely shrugged it off and went
in search of man's most faithful dumb friend, to
wit, his pipe; the which, when found and filled, he
lighted with a spill twisted from the envelope of a
cable message which had been vicariously responsi-
ble for his introduction to the Shade of Care.
"It's about time," he announced, watching the
paper blacken and burn in the grate fire, " that I was
doing something to prove my title to a living." And
this was all his valedictory to a vanished competence.
"Anyway," he added hastily, as if fearful lest Care,
overhearing, might have read into his tone a trace
of vain repining, "anyway, I'm a sight better off
than those poor devils over there! I really have a
great deal to be thankful for, now that my attention's
drawn to it."
For the ensuing few minutes he thought it all over,
soberly but with a stout heart; standing at a window
of his bedroom in the Hotel Pless, hands deep in
trouser pockets, pipe fuming voluminously, his gaze
wandering out over a blurred infinitude of wet shin-
ing roofs and sooty chimney-pots: all of London that
a lowering drizzle would let him see, and withal by no
means a cheering prospect, nor yet one calculated
to offset the disheartening influence of the indomi-
table Shade of Care. But the truth is that Kirk-
wood's brain comprehended little that his eyes


A RUINED GENTLEMAN 5
perceived; his thoughts were with his heart, and that
was half a world away and sick with pity for an-
other and a fairer city, stricken in the flower of her
loveliness, writhing in Promethean agony upon her
storied hills. . .
There came a rapping at the door,
i Kirkwood removed the pipe from between hia
teeth.long enough to say " Come in!" pleasantly.
The knob was turned, the door opened. Kirk-
wood, swinging on one heel, beheld hesitant upon the
threshold a diminutive figure in the livery of the Pless
pages.
"Mister Kirkwood?"
Kirkwood nodded.
"Gentleman to see you, sir."
Kirkwood nodded again, smiling. "Show him up,
please," he said. But before the words were fairly
out of his mouth a footfall sounded in the corridor,
a hand was placed upon the shoulder of the page,
gently but with decision swinging him out of the
way, and a man stepped into the room.
"Mr. Brentwick!" Kirkwood almost shouted,
jumping forward to seize his visitor's hand.
"My dear boy!" replied the latter. "I'm de-
lighted to see you. 'Got your note not an hour ago,
and came at once — you see!"
"It was mighty good of you. Sit down, please.
Here are cigars. . . . Why, a moment ago I


6 THE BLACK BAG
was the most miserable and lonely mortal on the foot-
stool!"
"I can fancy." The elder man looked up, smil-
ing at Kirkwood from the depths of his arm-chair,
as the latter stood above him, resting an elbow on the
mantel. "The management knows me," he offered
explanation of his unceremonious appearance; " so I
took the liberty of following on the heels of the bell-
hop, dear boy. And how are you? Why are you
in London, enjoying our abominable spring weather?
And why the anxious undertone I detected in your
note?"
He continued to stare curiously into Kirkwood's
face. At a glance, this Mr. Brentwick was a man of
tallish figure and rather slender; with a countenance
thin and flushed a sensitive pink, out of which his
eyes shone, keen, alert, humorous, and a trace wist-
ful behind his glasses. His years were indeterminate;
with the aspect of fifty, the spirit and the verve of
thirty assorted oddly. But his hands were old, deli-
cate, fine and fragile; and the lips beneath the
drooping white mustache at times trembled, almost
imperceptibly, with the generous sentiments that
come with mellow age. He held his back straight
and his head with an air — an air that was not a
swagger but the sign-token of seasoned experience in
the world. The most carping could have found no
flaw in the quiet taste of his attire. To sum up,
1


A RUINED GENTLEMAN 7
Kirkwood's very good friend — and his only one
then in London — Mr. Brentwick looked and was
an English gentleman.
"Why?" he persisted, as the younger man hesi-
tated. "I am here to find out. To-night I leave
for the Continent. In the meantime . . ."
"And at midnight I sail for the States," added
Kirkwood. "That is mainly why I wished to see
you — to say good-by, for the time."
"You're going home —" A shadow clouded
Brentwick's clear eyes.
"To fight it out, shoulder to shoulder with my
brethren in adversity."
The cloud lifted. "That is the spirit!" declared
the elder man. "For the moment I did you the in-
justice to believe that you were running away. But
now I understand. Forgive me. . . . Pardon,
too, the stupidity which I must lay at the door of
my advancing years; to me the thought of you as a
Parisian, fixture has become such a commonplace,
Philip, that the news of the disaster hardly stirred
me. Now I remember that you are a Californian."
"I was born in San Francisco," affirmed Kirk-f
wood a bit sadly. "My father and mother were
buried there . . ."
"And your fortune —?"
"I inherited my father's interest in the firm of
Kirkwood & Vanderlip; when I came over to study


8
THE BLACK BAG
painting, I left everything in Vanderlip's hands.
The business afforded me a handsome living."
"You have heard from Mr. Vanderlip?"
"Fifteen minutes ago." Kirkwood took a cable-
form, still damp, from his pocket, and handed it to
his guest. Unfolding it, the latter read:
"Kirkwood, Pless, London. Stay where you are
no good coming back everything gone no insurance
letter follows vanderlip."
"When I got the news in Paris," Kirkwood volun-
teered, " I tried the banks; they refused to honor my
drafts. I had a little money in hand,— enough to
see me home,— so closed the studio and came across.
I'm booked on the Minneapolis, sailing from Tilbury
at daybreak; the boat-train leaves at eleven-thirty.
I had hoped you might be able to dine with me and
see me off."
In silence Brentwick returned the cable message.
Then, with a thoughtful look, "You are sure this is
wise? " he queried.
"It's the only thing I can see."
"But your partner says —"
"Naturally he thinks that by this time I should
have learned to paint well enough to support myself
for a few months, until he can get things running
again. Perhaps I might." Brentwick supported
the presumption with a decided gesture. "But have


A RUINED GENTLEMAN 9
I a right to leave Vanderlip to fight it out alone?
For Vanderlip has a wife and kiddies to support;
I—"
"Your genius!"
"My ability, such as it is — and that only. It
can wait. . . . No; this means simply that I
must come down from the clouds, plant my feet on
solid earth, and get to work."
"The sentiment is sound," admitted Brentwick,
"the practice of it, folly. Have you stopped to
think what part a rising young portrait-painter can
contribute toward the rebuilding of a devastated
city?"
"The painting can wait," reiterated Kirkwood.
"I can work like other men."
"You can do yourself and your genius grave in-
justice. And I fear me you will, dear boy. It's in
keeping with your heritage of American obstinacy.
Now if it were a question of money —"
"Mr. Brentwick!" Kirkwood protested vehement-
ly. "I've ample for my present needs," he added.
"Of course," conceded Brentwick with a sigh.
"I didn't really hope you would avail yourself of
our friendship. Now there's my home in Aspen Vil-
las. . . . You have seen it?"
"In your absence this afternoon your estimable
butler, with commendable discretion, kept me with-
out the doors^laughed the young man.
t )


10 THE BLACK BAG
"It's a comfortable home. You would not con-
sent to share it with me until —?"
"You are more than good; but honestly, I must
sail to-night. I wanted only this chance to see you
before I left. You'll dine with me, won't you?"
"If you would stay in London, Philip, we would
dine together not once but many times; as it is, I
myself am booked for Munich, to be gone a week, on
business. I have many affairs needing attention be-
tween now and the nine-ten train from Victoria. If
you will be my guest at Aspen Villas—"
"Please!" begged Kirkwood, with a little laugh
of pleasure because of the other's insistence. "I
only wish I could. Another day —"
"Oh, you will make your million in a year, and
return scandalously independent. It's in your Amer-
ican blood." Frail white fingers tapped an arm of
the chair as their owner stared gravely into the fire.
"I confess I envy you," he observed.
"The opportunity to make a million in a year?"
chuckled Kirkwood.
"No. I envy you your Romance."
"The Romance of a Poor Young Man went out
of fashion years ago. . . . No, my dear friend;
my Romance died a natural death half an hour
since."
. "There spoke Youth — blind, enviable Youth!
k . . On the contrary, you are turning the
I
ire but ti


A RUINED GENTLEMAN 11
leaves of the first chapter of your Romance, Philip."
"Romance is dead," contended the young man
stubbornly.
"Long live the King!" Brentwick laughed
quietly, still attentive to the fire. "Myself when
young," he said softly, " did seek Romance, but never
knew it till its day was done. I'm quite sure that is
a poor paraphrase of something I have read. In
age, one's sight is sharpened — to see Romance in
another's life, at least. I say I envy you. You have
Youth, unconquerable Youth, and the world before
you. ... I must go."
He rose stiffly, as though suddenly made conscious
of his age. The old eyes peered more than a trifle
wistfully, now, into Kirkwood's. "You will not
fail to call on me by cable, dear boy, if you need —
anything? I ask it as a favor. . . . I'm glad
you wished to see me before going out of my life.
One learns to value the friendship of Youth, Philip.
Good-by, and good luck attend you."
Alone once more, Kirkwood returned to his win-
dow. The disappointment he felt at being robbed of
his anticipated pleasure in Brentwick's company at
dinner, colored his mood unpleasantly. His musings
merged into vacuity, into a dull gray mist of hope-
lessness comparable only to the disnial skies then low-
ering over London-town.
Brentwick was good, but Brentwick was mistaken.
P
i
s


12 THE BLACK BAG
There was really nothing for Kirkwood to do but to
go ahead. But one steamer-trunk remained to be
packed; the boat-train would leave before midnight,
the steamer with the morning tide; by the morrow's
noon he would be upon the high seas, within ten days
in New York and among friends; and then . « ,
The problem of that afterwards perplexed Kirk-
wood more than he cared to own. Brentwick had
opened his eyes to the fact that he would be practic-
ally useless in San Francisco; he could not harbor the
thought of going back, only to become a charge upon
Vanderlip. No; he was resolved that thenceforward
he must rely upon himself, carve out his own destiny.
But — would the art that he had cultivated with such
assiduity, yield him a livelihood if sincerely practised
with that end in view? Would the mental and
physical equipment of a painter, heretofore dilet-
tante, enable him to become self-supporting?
Knotting his brows in concentration of effort to
divine the future, he doubted himself, darkly ques-
tioning alike his abilities and his temper under trial;
neither ere now had ever been put to the test. His
eyes became somberly wistful, his heart sore with re-
gret of Yesterday — his Yesterday of care-free
youth and courage, gilded with the ineffable, evan-
escent glamour of Romance — of such Romance,
thrice refined of dross, as only he knows who has
wooed his Art with passion passing the love of woman.


A RUINED GENTLEMAN' IS
Far away, above the acres of huddled roofs and
chimney-pots, the storm-mists thinned, lifting tran-
siently; through them, gray, fairy-like, the towers of
Westminster and the Houses of Parliament bulked
monstrous and unreal, fading when again the fugi-
tive dun vapors closed down upon the city.
Nearer at hand the Shade of Care nudged Kirk-
wood's elbow, whispering subtly. Romance was in-
deed dead; the world was cold and cruel.
The gloom deepened.
In the cant of modern metaphysics, the moment —
was psychological.
There came a rapping at the door.
Kirkwood removed the pipe from between his teeth
long enough to say " Come in!" pleasantly.
The knob was turned, the door opened. Kirk-
wood, turning on one heel, beheld hesitant upon the
threshold a diminutive figure in the livery of the
Pless pages.
"Mr. Kirkwood?"
Kirkwood nodded.
"Gentleman to see you, sir."
Kirkwood nodded again, smiling if somewhat per-
plexed. Encouraged, the child advanced, proffering
a silver card-tray at the end of an unnaturally rigid
forearm. Kirkwood took the card dubiously be-
tween thumb and forefinger and inspected it without
prejudice.


14. THE BLACK BAG
"' George B. Calendar,'" he read. "* George B.
Calendar!' But I know no such person. Sure
there's no mistake, young man?"
The close-cropped, bullet-shaped, British head was
agitated in vigorous negation, and " Card for Mis-
ter Kirkwood!" was mumbled in dispassionate ac-
cents appropriate to a recitation by rote.
"Very well. But before you show him up, ask
this Mr. Calendar if he is quite sure he wants to see
Philip Kirkwood."
"Yessir."
The child marched out, punctiliously closing the
door. Kirkwood tamped down the tobacco in his
pipe and puffed energetically, dismissing the inter-
ruption to his reverie as a matter of no consequence
— an obvious mistake to be rectified by two words with
this Mr. Calendar whom he did not know. At the
knock he had almost hoped it might be Brentwick, re-
turning with a changed mind about the bid to din-
ner.
He regretted Brentwick sincerely. Theirs was a
curious sort of friendship — extraordinarily close in
view of the meagerness of either's information about
the other, to say nothing of the disparity between
their ages. Concerning the elder man Kirkwood
knew little more than that they had met on ship-
board, "coming over"; that Brentwick had spent
some years in America; that he was an Englishman


A RUINED GENTLEMAN 15
by birth, a cosmopolitan by habit, by profession a
gentleman (employing that term in its most un-
compromisingly British significance), and by in-
clination a collector of "articles of virtue and big-
otry," in pursuit of which he made frequent excur-
sions to the Continent from his residence in a quaint
quiet street of Old Brompton. It had been during
his not infrequent, but ordinarily abbreviated, so-
journs in Paris that their steamer acquaintance had
ripened into an affection almost filial on the one
hand, almost paternal on the other.
There came a rapping at the door.
^ Kirkwood removed the pipe from between his teeth
long enough to say " Come in!" pleasantly.
The knob was turned, the door opened. Kirk-
wood, swinging on one heel, beheld hesitant upon the
threshold a rather rotund figure of medium height,
clad in an expressionless gray lounge suit, with a
brown "bowler" hat held tentatively in one hand,
an umbrella weeping in the other. A voice, which
was unctuous and insinuative, emanated from the —
figure.
"Mr. Kirkwood?"
Kirkwood nodded, with some effort recalling the
name, so detached had been his thoughts since the dis-
appearance of the page.
"Yes, Mr. Calendar —?"
"Are you — ah — busy, Mr. Kirkwood?"


16 THE BLACK BAG
4
"Are you, Mr. Calendar?" Kirkwood's smile
robbed the retort of any flavor of incivility.
Encouraged, the man entered, premising that he
would detain his host but a moment, and readily sur-
rendering hat and umbrella. Kirkwood, putting the
latter aside, invited his caller to the easy chair which
Brentwick had occupied by the fireplace.
"It takes the edge off the dampness," Kirkwood
explained in deference to the other's look of pleased
surprise at the cheerful bed of coals. "I'm afraid I
could never get acclimated to life in a cold, damp
room — or a damp cold room — such as you British-
ers prefer."
"It is grateful," Mr. Calendar agreed, spreading
plump and well cared-for hands to the warmth.
"But you are mistaken; I am as much an American
as yourself."
"Yes?" Kirkwood looked the man over with
more interest, less matter-of-course courtesy.
He proved not unprepossessing, this unclassifiable
Mr. Calendar; he was dressed with some care, his
complexion was good, and the fullness of his girth,
emphasized as it was by a notable lack of inches, be-
spoke a nature genial, easy-going and sybaritic.
His dark eyes, heavy-lidded, were active — curiously,
at times, with a subdued glitter — in a face large,
round, pink, of which the other most remarkable
features were a mustache, close-trimmed and show-


A RUINED GENTLEMAN 17
ing streaks of gray, a chubby nose, and duplicate
chins. Mr. Calendar was furthermore possessed of a
polished bald spot, girdled with a tonsure of silvered
hair — circumstances which lent some factitious dis-
tinction to a personality otherwise commonplace.
His manner might be best described as uneasy with
assurance; as though he frequently found it neces-
sary to make up for his unimpressive stature by* as-
suming an unnatural habit of authority. And there
you have him; beyond these points, Kirkwood was
conscious of no impressions; the man was apparently
neutral-tinted of mind as well as of body.
"So you knew I was an American, Mr. Calendar?"
suggested Kirkwood.
"'Saw your name on the register; we both hail
from the same neck of the woods, you know."
"I didn't know it, and—"
"Yes; I'm from Frisco, too."
"And I'm sorry."
Mr. Calendar passed five fat fingers nervously over
his mustache, glanced alertly up at Kirkwood, as if
momentarily inclined to question his tone, then again
stared glumly into the fire; for Kirkwood had main-
tained an attitude purposefully colorless. Not to
put too fine a point upon it, be believed that his caller
was lying; the man's appearance, his mannerisms, his
voice and enunciation, while they might have been
American, seemed all un-Californian. To one born
c


18
THE BLACK BAG
and bred in that state, as Kirkwood had been, her sons
are unmistakably hall-marked.
Now no man lies without motive. This one chose
to reaffirm, with a show of deep feeling: "Yes;
I'm from Frisco, too. We're companions in mis-
fortune."
"I hope not altogether," said Kirkwood politely.
Mr. Calendar drew his own inferences from the
response and mustered up a show of cheerfulness.
"Then you're not completely wiped out?"
"To the contrary, I was hoping you were less un-
happy."
"Oh! Then you are —?"
Kirkwood lifted the cable message from the mantel.
"I have just heard from my partner at home," he
said with a faint smile; and quoted: "' Everything
gone; no insurance.'"
Mr. Calendar pursed his plump lips, whistling in-
audibly. "Too bad, too bad!" he murmured sym-
pathetically. "We're all hard hit, more or less."
He lapsed into dejected apathy, from which Kirk-
wood, growing at length impatient, found it neces-
sary to rouse him.
"You wished to see me about something else, I'm
sure?"
Mr. Calendar started from his reverie. "Eh?
. . . I was dreaming. I beg pardon. It seems
hard to realize, Mr. Kirkwood, that this awful ca-


A RUINED GENTLEMAN 19
tastrophe has overtaken our beloved metropolis—"
The canting phrases wearied Kirkwood; abruptly
he cut in. "Would a sovereign help you out, Mr.
Calendar? I don't mind telling you that's about the
limit of my present resources."
"Pardon me." Mr. Calendar's moon-like counte-
nance darkened; he assumed a transparent dignity.
"You misconstrue my motive, sir."
"Then I'm sorry."
"I am not here to borrow. On the other hand,
quite by accident I discovered your name upon the
register, down-stairs; a good old Frisco name, if--'
you will permit me to say so. I thought to myself
that here was a chance to help a fellow-countryman."
Calendar paused, interrogative; Kirkwood remained
interested but siJent. "If a passage across would
help you, I — I think it might be arranged," stam-
mered Calendar, ill at ease.
"It might," admitted Kirkwood, speculative.
"I could fix it so that you could go over — first- .
class, of course — and pay your way, so to speak, by
rendering us, me and my partner, a trifling service."
"Ah?"
M In fact," continued Calendar, warming up to
his theme, " there might be something more in it for
you than the passage, if — if you 're the right man,
the man I'm looking for."
"That, of .course, is the question."
t


20 THE BLACK BAG
"Eh?" Calendar pulled up suddenly in a full-
winged flight of enthusiasm.
Kirkwood eyed him steadily. "I said that it is a
question, Mr. Calendar, whether or not I am the man
you're looking for. Between you and me and the
fire-dogs, I don't believe I am. Now if you wish
to name your quid pro quo, this trifling service I'm
to render in recognition of your benevolence, you
may."
"Ye-es," slowly. But the speaker delayed his
reply until he had surveyed his host from head to
foot, with a glance both critical and appreciative.
He saw a man in height rather less than the stock
size six-feet so much in demand by the manufacturers
of modern heroes of fiction; a man a bit round-
shouldered, too, but otherwise sturdily built, self-con-
tained, well-groomed.
Kirkwood wears a boy's honest face; no one has
ever called him handsome. A few prejudiced persons
have decided that he has an interesting countenance;
the propounders of this verdict have been, for the
most part, feminine. Kirkwood himself has been
heard to declare that his features do not fit; in its
essence the statement is true, but there is a very real,
if undefinable, engaging quality in their very irregu-
larity. His eyes are brown, pleasant, set wide apart,
straightforward of expression.
Now it appeared that, whatever his motive, Mr.


A RUINED GENTLEMAN 21
Calendar had acted upon impulse in sending his card
up to Kirkwood. Possibly he had anticipated a very
different sort of reception from a very different sort
of man. Even in the light of subsequent events it
remains difficult to fathom the mystery of his choice.
Perhaps Fate directed it; stranger things have hap-
pened at the dictates of a man's Destiny.
At all events, this Calendar proved not lacking in
penetration; men of his stamp are commonly endowed
with that quality to an eminent degree. Not slow to
reckon the caliber of the man before him, the leaven
of intuition began to work in his adipose intelligence.
He owned himself baffled.
"Thanks," he concluded pensively; "I reckon
you're right. You won't do, after all. I've wasted
your time. Mine, too."
"Don't mention it."
Calendar got heavily out of his chair, reaching for
his hat and umbrella. "Permit me to apologize for
an unwarrantable intrusion, Mr. Kirkwood." He
faltered; a worried and calculating look shadowed
his small eyes. "I was looking for some one to serve
me in a certain capacity —"
"Certain or questionable?" propounded Kirkwood
blandly, opening the door.
Pointedly Mr. Calendar ignored the imputation.
"Sorry I disturbed you. G'dafternoon, Mr. Kirk-
wood."


22 . THE BLACK BAG
"Good-by, Mr. Calendar." A smile twitched the
corners of Kirkwood's too-wide mouth.
Calendar stepped hastily out into the hall. As
he strode — or rather, rolled — away, Kirkwood ma-
liciously feathered a Parthian arrow.
"By the way, Mr. Calendar —?"
The sound of retreating footsteps was stilled and
"Yes?" came from the gloom of the corridor.
"Were you ever in San Francisco? Really and
truly? Honest Injun, Mr. Calendar?"
For a space the quiet was disturbed by harsh
breathing; then, in a strained voice, " Good day, Mr.
Kirkwood "; and again the sound of departing foot-
falls.
Kirkwood closed the door and the incident simul-
taneously, with a smart bang of finality. Laugh-
ing quietly he went back to the window with its
dreary outlook, now the drearier for lengthening
evening shadows.
"I wonder what his game is, anyway. An ad-
venturer, of course; the woods are full of 'em. A
queer fish, even of his kind! And with a trick up
his sleeve as queer and fishy as himself, no doubt!"


II
"AND SOME THEEE BE WHO HAVE ADVENTUEES
THBUST UPON THEM"
The assumption seems not unwarrantable, that
Mr. Calendar figuratively washed his hands of Mr.
Kirkwood. Unquestionably Mr. Kirkwood con-
sidered himself well rid of Mr. Calendar. When the
latter had gone his way, Kirkwood, mindful of the
fact that his boat-train would leave St. Pancras at
half-after eleven, set about his packing and dismissed
from his thoughts the incident created by the fat
chevalier d'industrie; and at six o'clock, or there-
abouts, let himself out of his room, dressed for the
evening, a light rain-coat over one arm, in the other
hand a cane,— the drizzle having ceased.
A stolid British lift lifted him down to the ground
floor of the establishment in something short of five
minutes. Pausing in the office long enough to settle
his bill and leave instructions to have his luggage
conveyed to the boat-train, he received with entire
equanimity the affable benediction of the clerk, in
whose eyes he still figured as that radiant creature,
an American millionaire; and passed on to the lobby,
23


24 THE BLACK BAG
where he surrendered hat, coat and stick to the cloak-
room attendant, ere entering the dining-room.
The hour was a trifle early for a London dinner,
the handsome room but moderately filled with pa-
trons. Kirkwood absorbed the fact unconsciously
and without displeasure; the earlier, the better: he
was determined to consume his last civilized meal (as
he chose to consider it) at his serene leisure, to live
fully his ebbing moments in the world to which he
was born, to drink to its cloying dregs one ultimate
draught of luxury.
A benignant waiter bowed him into a chair by a
corner table in juxtaposition with an open window,
through which, swaying imperceptibly the closed
hangings, were wafted gentle gusts of the London
evening's sweet, damp breath.
Kirkwood settled himself with an inaudible sigh
of pleasure. He was dining, for the last time in
Heaven knew how long, in a first-class restau-
rant.
With a deferential flourish the waiter brought him
the menu-card. He had served in his time many an
"American millionaire "; he had also served this Mr.
Kirkwood, and respected him as one exalted above
*he run of his kind, in that he comprehended the art
of dining.
Fifteen minutes later the waiter departed rejoicing,
his order complete.


ADVENTURES
25
To distract a conscience whispering of extrava-
gance, Kirkwood lighted a cigarette.
The room was gradually filling with later arrivals;
it was the most favored restaurant in London, and,
despite the radiant costumes of the women, its atmos-
phere remained sedate and restful.
A cab clattered down the side street on which the
window opened.
At a near-by table a woman laughed, quietly happy.
Incuriously Kirkwood glanced her way. She was
bending forward, smiling, flattering her escort with
the adoration of her eyes. They were lovers alone in
the wilderness of the crowded restaurant. They
seemed very happy.
Kirkwood was conscious of a strange pang of
emotion. It took him some time to comprehend that
it was envy.
He was alone and lonely. For the first time he
realized that no woman had ever looked upon him as
the woman at the adjoining table looked upon her
lover. He had found time to worship but one mis-
tress — his art.
And he was renouncing her.
He was painfully conscious of what he had missed,
had lost — or had not yet found: the love of woman.
The sensation was curious — new, unique in his
experience.
His cigarette burned down to his fingers as he


26
THE BLACK BAG
sat pondering. Abstractedly he ground its fire out
in an ash-tray.
The waiter set before him a silver tureen, covered.
He sat up and began to consume his soup, scarce
doing it justice. His dream troubled him — his
dream of the love of woman.
From a little distance his waiter regarded him,
with an air of disappointment. In the course of an
hour and a half he awoke, to discover the attendant
in the act of pouring very hot and black coffee from
a bright silver pot into a demi-tasse of fragile por-
celain. Kirkwood slipped a single lump of sugar
into the cup, gave over his cigar-case to be filled,
then leaned back, deliberately lighting a long and
slender panetela as a preliminary to a last lingering
appreciation of the scene of which he was a part.
He reviewed it through narrowed eyelids, lazily;
yet with some slight surprise, seeming to see it with
new vision, with eyes from which scales of ignorance
had dropped. \
This long and brilliant dining-hall, with its quiet
perfection of proportion and appointment, had al-
ways gratified his love of the beautiful; to-night it
pleased him to an unusual degree. Yet it was the
same as ever; its walls tinted a deep rose, with their
hangings of dull cloth-of-gold, its lights discrimi-
natingly clustered and discreetly shaded, redoubled
in half a hundred mirrors, its subdued shimmer of


ADVENTURES 27
plate and glass,'its soberly festive assemblage of cir-
cumspect men and women splendidly gowned, its
decorously muted murmur of voices penetrated and
interwoven by the strains of a hidden string or-
chestra— caressed his senses as always, yet with a
difference. To-night he saw it a room populous
with lovers, lovers insensibly paired, man unto woman
attentive, woman of man regardful.
He had never understood this before. This much
he had missed in life.
It seemed hard to realize that one must forego it
all for ever.
Presently he found himself acutely self-conscious.
The sensation puzzled him; and without appearing
to do so, he traced it from effect to cause; and
found the cause in a woman — a girl, rather, seated
at a table the third removed from him, near the
farther wall of the room.
Too considerate, and too embarrassed, to return
her scrutiny openly, look for look, he yet felt sure
that, however temporarily, he was become the object
of her intent interest.
Idly employed with his cigar, he sipped his coffee.
In time aware that she had turned her attention else-
where, he looked up.
At first he was conscious of an effect of disappoint-
ment. She was nobody that he knew, even by rep-
utation. She was simply a young girl, barely out
/


28 THE BLACK BAG
of her teens — if as old as that phrase would signify.
He wondered what she had found in him to make her
think him worth so long a study; and looked again,
more keenly curious.
With this second glance, appreciation stirred the
artistic side of his nature, that was already grown
impatient of his fretted mood. The slender and
girlish figure, posed with such absolute lack of in-
trusion against a screen of rose and gilt, moved
him to critical admiration. The tinted glow of
shaded candles caught glistening on the spun gold
of her fair hair, and enhanced the fine pallor of her
young shoulders. He saw promise, and something
more than promise, in her face, its oval something
dimmed by warm shadows that unavailingly sought to
blend youth and beauty alike into the dull, rich back-
ground.
In the sheer youth of her (he realized) more than
in aught else, lay her chiefest charm. She could be
little more than a child, indeed, if he were to judge
her by the purity of her shadowed eyes and the ab-
sence of emotion in the calm and direct look which
presently she turned upon him who sat wondering at
the level, penciled darkness of her brows.
At length aware that she had surprised his in-
terest, Kirkwood glanced aside — coolly deliberate,
lest she should detect in his attitude anything more
than impersonal approval.


ADVENTURES 29
A slow color burned his cheeks. In his temples
there rose a curious pulsing.
After a while she drew his gaze again, imperiously
— herself all unaware of the havoc she was wreaking
on his temperament.
He could have fancied her distraught, cloaking an
unhappy heart with placid brow and gracious de-
meanor; but such a conception matched strangely
her glowing youth and spirit. What had she
to do with Care? What concern had Black Care,
whose gaunt shape in sable shrouds had lurked at
his shoulder all the evening, despite his rigid pre-
occupation, with a being as charmingly flushed with
budding womanhood as this girl?
"Eighteen?" he hazarded. "Eighteen, or pos-
sibly nineteen, dining at the Pless in a ravishing
dinner-gown, and — unhappy? Oh, hardly — not
she!"
Yet the impression haunted him, and ere long he
was fain to seek confirmation or denial of it in the
manner of her escort.
The latter sat with back to Kirkwood, cutting a
figure as negative as his snug evening clothes. One
could surmise little from a fleshy thick neck, a round,
glazed bald spot, a fringe of grizzled hair, and two
bright red ears.
Calendar?
Somehow the fellow did suggest Kirkwood's caller
S~


80 THE BLACK BAG
of the afternoon. The young man could not have
said precisely how, for he was unfamiliar with the
aspect of that gentleman's back. None the less the
suggestion persisted.
By now, a few of the guests, theater-bound, for
the most part, were leaving. Here and there a table
stood vacant, that had been filled, cloth tarnished,
chairs disarranged: in another moment to be trans-
formed into its pristine brilliance under the deft at-
tentions of the servitors.
Down an aisle, past the table at which the girl was
sitting, came two, making toward the lobby; the man,
a slight and meager young personality, in the lead.
Their party had attracted Kirkwood's notice as they
entered; why, he did not remember; but it was in his
mind that then they had been three. Instinctively
he looked at the table they had left — one placed at
some distance from the girl, and hidden from her
by an angle in the wall. It appeared that the third
member had chosen to dally a few moments over
his tobacco and a liqueur-brandy. Kirkwood could
see him plainly, lounging in his chair and fumbling
the stem of a glass: a heavy man, of somber habit,
his black and sullen brows lowering and thoughtful
above a face boldly "handsome.
The woman of the trio was worthy of closer atten-
tion. Some paces in the wake of her lack-luster
esquire, she was making a leisurely progress, trailing


ADVENTURES 81
the skirts of a gown magnificent beyond dispute, half
concealed though it was by the opera cloak whose
soft folds draped her shoulders. Slowly, carrying
her head high, she approached, insolent eyes reviewing
the room from beneath their heavy lids; a metallic
and mature type of dark beauty, supremely self-
confident and self-possessed.
Men turned involuntarily to look after her, not
altogether in undiluted admiration.
In the act of passing behind the putative Calendar,
she paused momentarily, bending as if to gather up
her train. Presumably the action disturbed her
balance; she swayed a little, and in the effort to
recover, rested the tips of her gloved fingers upon
the edge of the table. Simultaneously (Kirkwopd
could have sworn) a single word left her lips, a word
evidently pitched for the ear of the hypothetical
Calendar alone. Then she swept on, imperturbable,
assured.
To the perplexed observer it was indubitably evi-
dent that some communication had passed from the
woman to the man. Kirkwood saw the fat shoulders
of the girl's companion stiffen suddenly as the
woman's hand rested at his elbow; as she moved away,
a little rippling shiver was plainly visible in the mus-
cles of his back, beneath his coat — mute token of
relaxing tension. An instant later one plump and
mottled hand was carelessly placed where the woman's
r


82 THE BLACK BAG
had been; and was at once removed with fingers
closed.
To the girl, watching her face covertly, Kirkwood
turned for clue to the incident. He made no doubt
that she had observed the passage; proof of that
one found in her sudden startling pallor (of indig-
nation?) and in her eyes, briefly alight with some
inscrutable emotion, though quickly veiled by low-
ered lashes. Slowly enough she regained color and
composure, while her vis-drvis sat motionless, head in-
clined as if in thought.
Abruptly the man turned in his chair to summon
a waiter, and exposed his profile. Kirkwood was
in no wise amazed to recognize Calendar — a badly
frightened Calendar now, however, and hardly to be
identified with the sleek, glib fellow who had inter-
viewed Kirkwood in the afternoon. His flabby cheeks
were ashen and trembling, and upon the back of his
chair the fat white fingers were drumming inces-
santly an inaudible tattoo of shattered nerves.
"Scared silly!" commented Kirkwood. "Why?"
Having spoken to his waiter, Calendar for some
seconds raked the room with quick glances, as if
seeking an acquaintance. Presumably disappointed,
he swung back to face the girl, bending forward to
reach her ears with accents low-pitched and con-
fidential. She, on her part, fell at once attentive,
grave and responsive. Perhaps a dozen sentences


ADVENTURES
33
passed between them. At the outset her brows con-
tracted and she shook her head in gentle dissent;
whereupon Calendar's manner became more imper-
ative. Gradually, unwillingly, she seemed to yield
consent. Once she caught her breath sharply, and,
infected by her companion's agitation, sat back, color
fading again in the round young cheeks.
Kirkwood's waiter put in an inopportune appear-
ance with the bill. The young man paid it. When
he looked up again Calendar had swung squarely
about in his chair. His eye encountered Kirkwood's.
He nodded pleasantly. Temporarily confused, Kirk-
wood returned the nod.
In a twinkling he had repented; Calendar had left
his chair and was wending his way through the tables
toward Kirkwood's. Reaching it, he paused, offer-
ing the hand of genial fellowship. Kirkwood ac-
cepted it half-heartedly (what else was he to do?)
remarking at the same time that Calendar had re-
covered much of his composure. There was now a
normal coloring in the heavily jowled countenance,
with less glint of fear in the quick, dark eyes; and
Calendar's hand, even if moist and cold, no longer
trembled. Furthermore it was immediately demon-
strated that his impudence had not deserted him.
"Why, Kirkwood, my dear fellow!" he crowed —
not so loudly as to attract attention, but in a tone
assumed to divert suspicion, should he be overheard.


34 THE BLACK BAG
"This is great luck, -you know — to find you here."
"Is it?" returned Kirkwood coolly. He disen-
gaged his fingers.
The pink plump face was contorted in a furtive
grimace of deprecation. Without waiting for per-
mission Calendar dropped into the vacant chair.
"My dear sir," he proceeded, unabashed, "I
throw myself upon your mercy."
"The devil you do!"
"I must. I'm in the deuce of a hole, and there's
no one I know here besides yourself. I — I —"
Kirkwood saw fit to lead him on; partly because,
out of the corner of his eye, he was aware of the
girl's unconcealed suspense. "Go on, please, Mr.
Calendar. You throw yourself on a total stranger's
mercy because you're in the deuce of a hole; and —?
"It's this way; I'm called away on urgent business
— imperative business. I must go — at once. My
daughter is with me — my daughter! Think of
my embarrassment; I can not leave her here, alone,
nor can I permit her to go home unprotected."
Calendar paused in anxiety.
"That's easily remedied, then," suggested Kirk-
wood.
"How?"
"Put her in a cab at the door."
"I . . . No. The devil! I couldn't think
of it. You won't understand. I—"
55


ADVENTURES
35
"I do not understand,—" amended the younger
man politely.
Calendar compressed his lips nervously. It waa
plain that the man was quivering with impatience
and half-mad with excitement. He held quiet only
long enough to regain his self-control and take coun-
sel with his prudence.
"It is impossible, Mr. Kirkwood. I must ask you
to be generous and believe me."
"Very well; for the sake of the argument, I do be-
lieve you, Mr. Calendar."
"Hell!" exploded the elder man in an undertone.
Then swiftly, stammering in his haste: "I can't let
Dorothy accompany me to the door," he declared.
"She — I — I throw myself upon your mercy!"
"What —again?"
"The truth — the truth is, if you will have it,
that I am in danger of arrest the moment I leave here.
If my daughter is with me, she will have to endure
the shame and humiliation —"
"Then why place her in such a position?" Kirk-
wood demanded sharply.
Calendar's eyes burned, incandescent with resent-
ment. Offended, he offered to rise and go, but
changed his mind and sat tight in hope.
"I beg of you, sir—"
"One moment, Mr. Calendar."
Abruptly Kirkwood's weathercock humor shifted



I
"Permit me to introduce an old friend." Page $7


1


in
calendar's daughter
All but purring with satisfaction and relief, Cal-
endar halted.
"Dorothy, my dear, permit me to introduce an old
friend — Mr. Kirkwood. Kirkwood, this is my
daughter."
"Miss Calendar," acknowledged Kirkwood.
The girl bowed, her eyes steady upon his own.
"Mr. Kirkwood is very kind," she said gravely.
"That's rig'.t!" Calendar exclaimed irtandly.
"He's promised to see you home. Now both of you
will pardon my running away, I know."
"Yes," assented Kirkwood agreeably.
The elder man turned and hurried toward the main
entrance.
Kirkwood took the chair he had vacated. To his
disgust he found himself temporarily dumb. No
flicker of thought illuminated the darkness of his
confusion. How was he to open a diverting conver-
sation with a young woman whom he had met under
auspices so extraordinary? Any attempt to gloze
the situation, he felt, would be futile. And, some-
37


38 THE BLACK BAG
how, he did not care to render himself ridiculous in
her eyes, little as he knew her.
Inanely dumb, he sat watching her, smiling fatu-
ously until it was borne in on him that he was
staring like a boor and grinning like an idiot. Con-
vinced, he blushed for himself; something which
served to make him more tongue-tied than ever.
As for his involuntary protegee, she exhibited such
sweet composure that he caught himself wondering if
she really appreciated the seriousness of her parent's
predicament; if, for that matter, its true nature were
known to her at all. Calendar, he believed, was
capable of prevarication, polite and impolite. Had
he lied to his daughter? or to Kirkwood? To both,
possibly; to the former alone, not improbably. That
the adventurer had told him the desperate truth,
Kirkwood was quite convinced; but he now began to
believe that the girl had been put off with some fic-
titious explanation. Her tranquillity and self-con-
trol were remarkable, otherwise; she seemed very
young to possess those qualities in such eminent de-
gree.
She was looking wearily past him, her gaze prob-
ing some unguessed abyss of thought. Kirkwood
felt himself privileged to stare in wonder. Her
naive aloofness of poise gripped his imagination
powerfully,— the more so, perhaps, since it seemed
eloquent of her intention to remain enigmatic,— but


CALENDAR'S DAUGHTER 89
by no means more powerfully than the unaided
appeal of her loveliness.
Presently the girl herself relieved the tension of
the situation, fairly startling the young man by go-
ing straight to the heart of things. Without pref-
ace or warning, lifting her gaze to his, "My name
is really Dorothy Calendar," she observed. And
then, noting his astonishment, "You would be priv-
ileged to doubt, under the circumstances," she added.
"Please let us be frank."
"Well," he stammered, "if I didn't doubt, let's
say I was unprejudiced."
His awkward, well-meant pleasantry, perhaps not
conceived in the best of taste, sounded in his own ears
wretchedly flat and vapid. He regretted it spon-
taneously; the girl ignored it.
"You are very kind," she iterated the first words
he had heard from her lips. "I wish you to under-
stand that I, for one, appreciate it."
"Not kind; I have done nothing. I am glad.
. . . One is apt to become interested when
Romance is injected into a prosaic existence." Kirk-
wood allowed himself a keen but cheerful glance.
She nodded, with a shadowy smile. He continued,
purposefully, to distract her, holding her with his
honest, friendly eyes.
"Since it is to be confidences" (this she questioned
with an all but imperceptible lifting of the eye-


40
THE BLACK BAG
brows), " I don't mind telling you my own name is
really Philip Kirkwood."
"And you are an old friend of my father's?"
He opened his lips, but only to close them without
speaking. The girl moved her shoulders with a
shiver of disdain.
"I knew it wasn't so."
"You know it would be hard for a young man
like myself to be a very old friend," he countered
lamely.
"How long, then, have you known each other?"
"Must I answer?"
"Please."
"Between three and four hours."
"I thought as much." She stared past him,
troubled. Abruptly she said: "Please smoke."
"Shall I? If you wish it, of course . . ."
She repeated: "Please."
"We were to wait ten minutes or so," she con-
tinued.
He produced his cigarette-case.
"If you care to smoke it will seem an excuse."
He lighted his cigarette. "And then, you may talk
to me," she concluded calmly.
"I would, gladly, ift I could guess what would
interest you."
"Yourself. Tell me about yourself," she com-
manded.


CALENDAR'S DAUGHTER 41
"It would bore you," he responded tritely, con-
fused.
"No; you interest me very much." She made the
statement quietly, contemptuous of coquetry.
"Very well, then; I am Philip Kirkwood, an
American."
"Nothing more?"
"Little worth retailing."
"I'm sorry."
"Why?" he demanded, piqued.
"Because you have merely indicated that you are
a wealthy American."
"Why wealthy?"
"If not, you would have some aim in life — a call-
ing or profession."
"And you think I have none?"
"Unless you consider it your vocation to be a
wealthy American."
"I don't. Besides, I'm not wealthy. In point of
fact, I . . ." He pulled up short, on the verge
of declaring himself a pauper. "I am a painter."
Her eyes lightened with interest. "An artist?"
"I hope so. I don't paint signs — or houses," he
remarked.
Amused, she laughed softly. "I suspected it,"
she declared.
"Not really?"
"It was your way of looking at — things, that


42 THE BLACK BAG
made me guess it: the painter's way. I have often
noticed it."
"As if mentally blending colors all the time?"
"Yes; that and — seeing flaws."
"I have discovered none," he told her brazenly.
But again her secret cares were claiming her
thoughts, and the gay, inconsequential banter died
upon her scarlet lips as a second time her glance
ranged away, sounding mysterious depths of anxiety.
Provoked, he would have continued the chatter.
"I have confessed," he persisted. "You know every-
thing of material interest about me. And your-
self?"
"I am merely Dorothy Calendar," she answered.
"Nothing more?" He laughed.
"That is all, if you please, for the present."
"I am to content myself with the promise of the
future?"
"The future," she told him seriously, "is to-mor-
row; and to-morrow . . ." She moved rest-
lessly in her chair, eyes and lips pathetic in their
distress. "Please, we will go now, if you are
ready."
"I am quite ready, Miss Calendar."
He rose. A waiter brought the girl's cloak and
put it in Kirkwood's hands. He held it until,
smoothing the wrists of her long white gloves, she
stood up, then placed the garment upon her white


CALENDAR'S DAUGHTER 43
young shoulders, troubled by the indefinable sense
of intimacy imparted by the privilege. She per-
mitted him this personal service! He felt that she
trusted him, that out of her gratitude had grown
a simple and almost childish faith in his generosity
and considerateness.
As she turned to go her eyes thanked him with an
unfathomable glance. He was again conscious of
that esoteric disturbance in his temples. Puzzled,
hazily analyzing the sensation, he followed her to the
lobby.
A page brought him his top-coat, hat and stick;
tipping the child from sheer force of Habit, he de-
sired a gigantic porter, impressively ornate in hotel
livery, to call a hansom. Together they passed out
into the night, he and the girl.
Beneath a permanent awning of steel and glass
she waited patiently, slender, erect, heedless of the
attention she attracted from wayfarers.
The night was young, the air mild. Upon the
sidewalk, muddied by a million feet, two streams of
wayfarers flowed incessantly, bound west from Green
Park or east toward Piccadilly Circus; a well-dressed
throng for the most part, with here and there a man
in evening dress. Between the carriages at the curb
and the hotel doors moved others, escorting fluttering
butterfly women in elaborate toilets, heads bare, skirts
daintily gathered above their perishable slippers.


44 THE BLACK BAG
Here and there meaner shapes slipped silently through
the crowd, sinister shadows of the city's proletariat,
blotting ominously the brilliance of the scene.
A cab drew in at the block. The porter clapped
an arc of wickerwork over its wheel to protect the
girl's skirts. She ascended to the seat.
Kirkwood, dropping sixpence in the porter's palm,
prepared to follow; but a hand fell upon his arm,
peremptory, inexorable. He faced about, frowning,
to confront a slight, hatchet-faced man, somewhat
under medium height, dressed in a sack suit and
wearing a derby well forward over eyes that were
hard and bright.
"Mr. Calendar?" said the man tensely. "I pre-
sume I needn't name my business. I'm from the
Yard—"
"My name is not Calendar."
The detective smiled wearily. "Don't be a fool,
Calendar," he began. But the porter's hand fell
upon his shoulder and the giant bent low to bring
his mouth close to the other's ear. Kirkwood heard
indistinctly his own name followed by Calendar's, and
the words: "Never fear. I'll point him out."
"But the woman?" argued the detective, uncon-
vinced, staring into the cab.
"Am I not at liberty to have a lady dine with me
in a public restaurant?" interposed Kirkwood, with-
out raising his voice.


CALENDAR'S DAUGHTER 45
The hard eyes looked him up and down without
favor. Then: "Beg pardon, sir. I see my mis-
take," said the detective brusquely.
"I am glad you do," returned Kirkwood grimly.
"I fancy it will bear investigation."
He mounted the step. "Imperial Theater," he
told the driver, giving the first address that occurred
to him; it could be changed. For the moment the
main issue was to get the girl out of the range of the
detective's interest.
He slipped into his place as the hansom wheeled
into the turgid tide of west-bound traffic.
So Calendar had escaped, after all! Moreover, he
had told the truth to Kirkwood.
By his side the girl moved uneasily. "Who was
that man?" she inquired.
Kirkwood sought her eyes, and found them wholly
ingenuous. It seemed that Calendar had not taken
her into his confidence, after all. She was, therefore,
in no way implicated in her father's affairs. Inex-
plicably the young man's heart felt lighter. "A
mistake; the fellow took me for some one he knew,"
he told her carelessly.
The assurance satisfied her. She rested quietly,
wrapped up in personal concerns. Her companion
pensively contemplated an infinity of arid and
hansom-less to-morrows. About them the city
throbbed in a web of misty twilight, the humid fare-


46 THE BLACK BAG
well of a dismal day. In the air a faint haze swam,
rendering the distances opalescent. Athwart the west-
ern sky the after-glow of a drenched sunset lay like
a wash of rose-madder. Piccadilly's asphalt shone
like watered silk, black and lustrous, reflecting a
myriad lights in vibrant ribbons of party-colored
radiance. On every hand cab-lamps danced like fire-
flies; the rumble of wheels blended with the hollow
pounding of uncounted hoofs, merging insensibly into
the deep and solemn roar of London-town.
Suddenly Kirkwood was recalled to a sense of duty
by a glimpse of Hyde Park Corner. He turned to
the girl. "I didn't know where you wished to
go—?"
She seemed to realize his meaning with surprise,
as one, whose thoughts have strayed afar, recalled to
an imperative world.
"Oh, did I forget? Tell him please to drive to
Number Nine, Frognall Street, Bloomsbury."
Kirkwood poked his cane through the trap, repeat-
ing the address. The cab wheeled smartly across
Piccadilly, swung into Half Moon Street, and
thereafter made better time, darting briskly down
abrupt vistas of shining pavement, walled in by
blank-visagcd houses, or round two sides of one of
London's innumerable private parks, wherein spring
foliage glowed a tender green in artificial light; now
and again it crossed brilliant main arteries of travel,


CALENDAR'S DAUGHTER 47
and eventually emerged from a maze of backways into
Oxford Street, to hammer eastwards to Tottenham
Court Road.
Constraint hung like a curtain between the two; a
silence which the young man forbore to moderate,
finding more delight that he had cared (or dared)
confess to, in contemplation of the pure girlish pro-
file so close to him.
She seemed quite unaware of him, lost in thought,
large eyes sober, lips serious that were fashioned for
laughter, round little chin firm with some occult reso-
lution. It was not hard to fancy her nerves keyed
to a high pitch of courage and determination, nor
easy to guess for what reason. Watching always,
keenly sensitive to the beauty of each salient line be-
trayed by the flying lights, Kirkwood's own con-
sciousness lost itself in a profitless, even a perilous
labyrinth of conjecture.
The cab stopped. Both occupants came to their
senses with a little start. The girl leaned out over
the apron, recognized the house she sought in one
swift glance, testified to the recognition with a hushed
exclamation, and began to arrange her skirts. Kirk-
wood, unheeding her faint-hearted protests, jumped
out, interposing his cane between her skirts and the
wheel. Simultaneously he received a vivid mental
photograph of the locality.
Frognall Street proved to be one of those by-ways,


48 THE BLACK BAG
a short block in length, which, hemmed in on all sides
by a meaner purlieu, has (even in Bloomsbury!)
escaped the sordid commercial eye of the keeper of
furnished lodgings, retaining jealously something of
the old-time dignity and reserve that were its pride
in the days before Society swarmed upon Mayfair
and Belgravia.
Its houses loomed tall, with many windows, mostly
lightless — materially aggravating that air of
isolate, cold dignity which distinguishes the English-
man's castle. Here and there stood one less bedrag-
gled than its neighbors, though all, without exception,
spoke assertively of respectability down-at-the-hcel
but fighting tenaciously for existence. Some, van-
guards of that imminent day when the boarding-
house should reign supreme, wore with shamefaced
air placards of estate-agents, advertising their sus-
ceptibility to sale or lease. In the company of the
latter was Number 9.
The American noted the circumstance subcon-
sciously, at a moment when Miss Calendar's hand,
small as a child's, warm and compact in its white
glove, lay in his own. And then she was on the side-
walk, her face, upturned to his, vivacious with excite-
ment.
"You have been so kind," she told him warmly,
"that one hardly _knows how to thank you, Mr. Kirk-
wood."


CALENDAR'S DAUGHTER 49
"I have done nothing — nothing at all," he mum-
bled, disturbed by a sudden, unreasoning alarm for
her.
She passed quickly to the shelter of the pillared
portico. He followed clumsily. On the door-step
she turned, offering her hand. He took and retained
it.
"Good night," she said.
"I'm to understand that I'm dismissed, then? " he
stammered ruefully.
She evaded his eyes. "I — thank you — I have no
further need —"
"You are quite sure? Won't you believe me at
your service?"
She laughed uneasily. "I'm all right now."
"I can do nothing more? Sure?"
"Nothing. But you — you make me almost sorry
I can't impose still further upon your good nature."
"Please don't hesitate ..."
"Aren't you very persistent, Mr. Kirkwood?"
Her fingers moved in his; burning with the reproof,
he released them, and turned to her so woebegone a
countenance that she repented of her severity.
"Don't worry about me, please. I am truly safe
now. Some day I hope to be able to thank you ade-
quately. Good night 1"
Her pass-key grated in the lock. Opening, the
door disclosed a dark and uninviting entry-hall,


50 THE BLACK BAG
through which there breathed an air heavy with the
dank and dusty odor of untenanted rooms. Hesi-
tating on the threshold, over her shoulder the girl
smiled kindly upon her commandeered esquire; and
stepped within.
He lifted his hat automatically. The door closed
with an echoing slam. He turned to the waiting cab,
fumbling for change.
"I'll walk," he told the cabby, paying him off.
The hansom swept away to a tune of hammering
hoofs; and quiet rested upon the street as Kirkwood
turned the nearest corner, in an unpleasant temper,
puzzled and discontented. It seemed hardly fair
that he should have been dragged into so promising
an adventure, by his ears (so to put it), only to be
thus summarily called upon to write "Finis" be-
neath the incident.
He rounded the corner and walked half-way to the
next street, coming to an abrupt and rebellious pause
by the entrance to a covered alleyway, of two minds
as to his proper course of action.
In the background of his thoughts Number 9,
Frognall Street, reared its five-story facade, sinister
and forbidding. He reminded himself of its un-
lighted windows; of its sign, "To be let"; of the
effluvia of desolation that had saluted him when the
door swung wide. A deserted house; and the girl
alone in it! — was it right for him to leave her so?


\
IV
9 FEOGNALL STREET, W. C.
The covered alleyway gave upon Quadrant Mews;
or so declared a notice painted on the dead wall of the
passage.
Overhead, complaining as it swayed in the wind,
hung the smirched and weather-worn sign-board of
the Hog-in-the-Pound public house; wherefrom es-
caped sounds of such revelry by night as is indulged
in by the British working-man in hours of ease.
At the curb in front of the house of entertainment,
dejected animals drooping between their shafts', two
hansoms stood in waiting, until such time as the lords
of their destinies should see fit to sally forth and
inflict themselves upon a cab-hungry populace. As
Kirkwood turned, a third vehicle rumbled up out of
the mews.
Kirkwood can close his eyes, even at this late day,
and both see and hear it all again — even as he can
see the unbroken row of dingy dwellings that lined
his way back from Quadrant Mews to Frognall
Street corner: all drab and unkempt, all sporting
51


THE BLACK BAG
in their fan-lights the legend and lure, "Furnished
Apartments."
For, between his curiosity about and his concern
for the girl, he was being led back to Number 9, by
the nose, as it were,— hardly willingly, at best. Pro-
foundly stupefied by the contemplation of his own
temerity, he yet returned unfaltering. He who had
for so long plumed himself upon his strict super-
vision of his personal affairs and equally steadfast
unconsciousness of his neighbor's businesses, now
found himself in the very act of pushing in where
he was not wanted: as he had been advised in well-
nigh as many words. He experienced an effect of
standing to one side, a witness of his own folly, with
rising wonder, unable to credit the strength of the
infatuation which was placing him so conspicuously
in the way of a snubbing.
If perchance he were to meet the girl again as she
was leaving Number 9,— what then? The contin-
gency dismayed him incredibly, in view of the fact
that it did not avail to make him pause. To the
contrary he disregarded it resolutely; mad, imperti-
nent, justified of his unnamed apprehensions, or sim-
ply addled,— he held on his way.
He turned up Frognall Street with the manner of
one out for a leisurely evening stroll. Simultane-
ously, from the farther corner, another pedestrian
debouched into the thoroughfare — a mere moving


9 FROGNALL STREET, W. C. 58
shadow at that distance, brother to blacker shadows
that skulked in the fenced areas and unlively entries
of that poorly lighted block. The hush was some-
thing beyond belief, when one remembered the near-
ness of blatant Tottenham Court Road.
Kirkwood conceived a wholly senseless curiosity
about the other wayfarer. The man was walking
rapidly, heels ringing with uncouth loudness, cane
tapping the flagging at brief intervals. Both
sounds ceased abruptly as their cause turned in be-
neath one of the porticos. In the emphatic and
unnatural quiet that followed, Kirkwood, stepping
more lightly, fancied that another shadow followed
the first, noiselessly and with furtive stealth.
Could it be Number 9 into which they had passed?
The American's heart beat a livelier tempo at the
suggestion. If it had not been Number 9 — he was
still too far away to tell — it was certainly one of the
dwellings adjacent thereunto. The improbable pos-
sibility (But why improbable?) that the girl was
being joined by her father, or by friends, annoyed
him with illogical intensity. He mended his own
pace, designing to pass whichever house it might be
before the door should be closed; thought better of
this, and slowed up again, anathematizing himself
with much excuse for being the inquisitive dolt that
he was.
Approaching Number 9 with laggard feet, he


54. THE BLACK BAG
manufactured a desire to light a cigarette, as a cover
for his design, were he spied upon by unsuspected
eyes. Cane under arm, hands cupped to shield a
.vesta's flame, he stopped directly before the portico,
'turning his eyes askance to the shadowed doorway;
and made a discovery sufficiently startling to hold
him spellbound and, incidentally, to scorch his gloves
before he thought to drop the match.
The door of Number 9 stood ajar, a black interval
an inch or so in width showing between its edge and
the jamb.
Suspicion and alarm set his wits a-tingle. More
distinctly he recalled the jarring bang, accompanied
by the metallic click of the latch, when the girl had
shut herself in — and him out. Now, some person or
persons had followed her, neglecting the most obvi-
ous precaution of a householder. And why? Why
but because the intruders did not wish the sound of
closing to be audible to her — or those — within?
He reminded himself that it was all none of his
iaffair, decided to pass on and go his ways in peace,
and impulsively swinging about, marched straight
away for the unclosed door.
"'Old'ard, guvner!"
Kirkwood halted on the cry, faltering in inde-
cision. Should he take the plunge, or withdraw?
Synchronously he was conscious that a man's figure
had detached itself from the shadows beneath the


9 FROGNALL STREET, W. C. 55
nearest portico and was drawing nearer, with every
indication of haste, to intercept him.
"'Ere now, guvner, yer mykin' a mistyke. You
don't live 'ere."
"How do you know?" demanded Kirkwood
crisply, tightening his grip on his stick.
Was this the second shadow he had seemed to see
— the confederate of him who had entered Number 9;
a sentry to forestall interruption? If so, the fellow
lacked discretion, though his determination that the
American should not interfere was undeniable. It
was with an ugly and truculent manner, if more war-
ily, that the man closed in.
"/ knows. You clear hout, or —"
He flung out a hand with the plausible design of
grasping Kirkwood by the collar. The latter lifted
his stick, deflecting the arm, and incontinently landed
his other fist forcibly on the fellow's chest. The man
reeled back, cursing. Before he could recover Kirk-
wood calmly crossed the threshold, closed the door
and put his shoulder to it. In another instant,
fumbling in the darkness, he found the bolts and
drove them home.
And it was done, the transformation accomplished;
his inability to refrain from interfering had encom-
passed his downfall, had changed a peaceable and
law-abiding alien within British shores into a busy-
body, a trespasser, a misdemeanant, a — yes, for all


56 THE BLACK BAG
he knew to the contrary, in the estimation of the
Law, a burglar, prime candidate for a convict's
stripes!
Breathing hard with excitement he turned and laid
his back against the panels, trembling in every muscle,
terrified by the result of his impulsive audacity,
thunder-struck by a lightning-like foreglimpse of its
possible consequences. Of what colossal imprudence
had he not been guilty?
"The devil!" he whispered. "What an ass,
what an utter ass lam!"
Behind him the knob was rattled urgently, to an
accompaniment of feet shuffling on the stone; and
immediately — if he were to make a logical deduction
from the rasping and scraping sound within the
door-casing — the bell-pull was violently agitated,
without, however, educing any response from the bell
itself, wherever that might be situate. After which,
as if in despair, the outsider again rattled and jerked
the knob.
Be his status what it might, whether servant of the
household, its caretaker, or a night watchman, the
man was palpably determined both to get himself in
and Kirkwood out, and yet (curious to consider) de-
termined to gain his end without attracting undue
attention. Kirkwood had expected to hear the
knocker's thunder, as soon as the bell failed to give
tongue; but it did not sound, although there wat a


9 FROGNALL STREET, W. C. 57
knocker,— Kirkwood himself had remarked that anti-
quated and rusty bit of ironmongery affixed to the
middle panel of the door. And it made him feel sure
that something surreptitious and lawless was in proc-
ess within those walls, that the confederate without,
having failed to prevent a stranger from entering,
left unemployed a means so certain-sure to rouse the
occupants.
But his inferential analysis of this phase of the
proceedings was summarily abrupted by that identical
alarm. In a trice the house was filled with flying
echoes, wakened to sonorous riot by the crash and
clamor of the knocker; and Kirkwood stood fully two
yards away, his heart hammering wildly, his nerves
a-jingle, much as if the resounding blows had landed
upon his own person rather than on stout oaken
planking.
Ere he had time to wonder, the racket ceased, and
from the street filtered voices in altercation. Listen-
ing, Kirkwood's pulses quickened, and he laughed
uncertainly for pure relief, retreating to the door
and putting an ear to a crack.
The accents of one speaker were new in his hear-
ing, stern, crisp, quick with the spirit of authority
which animates that most austere and dignified limb of
the law to be encountered the world over, a London
bobby.
"Now then, my man, what do you want there?


58 THE BLACK BAG
Come now, speak up, and step out into the light,
where I can see you."
The response came in the sniffling snarl of the Lon-
don ne'er-do-well, the unemployable rogue whose
chiefest occupation seems to be to march in the ranks
'of The Unemployed on the occasion of its annual
demonstrations.
"Le' me alone, carntcher? Ah'm doin' no 'arm,
officer,—"
"Didn't you hear me? Step out here. Ah, that's
better. . . . No harm, eh? Perhaps you'll ex-
plain how there's no harm breakin' into unoccupied
'ouses?
"Gorblimy, W was I to know? 'Ere's a toff
'ands me sixpence fer hopenin' 'is cab door to-dye,
an', sezee, 'My man,' 'e sez, 'yer've got a 'oncst
fyce. W'y don'cher work?' sezee. ''Ow can I?'
sez I. ''Ere 'm I hout of a job these six months,
lookin' fer work every dye an' carn't find it.' Sezee,
'Come an' see me this hevenin' at me home, Noine,
Frognall Stryte,' 'e sez, an'—"
"That'll do for now. You borrow a pencil and
paper and write it down and I'll read it when I've got
more time; I never heard the like of it. This 'ouse
hasn't been lived in these two years. Move on, and
don't let me find you round 'ere again. March, I
say!"
There was more of it — more whining explanations


9 FROGNALL STREET, W. C. 59
artfully tinctured with abuse, more terse commands
to depart, the whole concluding with scraping foot-
steps, diminuendo, and another perfunctory rattle of
the knob as the bobby, having shoo'd the putative
evil-doer off, assured himself that no damage had
actually been done. Then he, too, departed, satisfied
and self-righteous, leaving a badly frightened but
very grateful amateur criminal to pursue his self-
appointed career of crime.
He had no choice other than to continue; in point
of fact, it had been insanity just then to back out,
and run the risk of apprehension at the hands of that
ubiquitous bobby, who (for all he knew) might be
lurking not a dozen yards distant, watchful for just
such a sequel. Still, Kirkwood hesitated with the
best of excuses. Reassuring as he had found the
sentinel's extemporized yarn,— proof positive that
the fellow had had no more right to prohibit a tres-
pass than Kirkwood to commit one,— at the same time
he found himself pardonably a prey to emotions of
the utmost consternation and alarm. If he feared to
leave the house he had no warrant whatever to as-
sume that he would be permitted to remain many
minutes unharmed within its walls of mystery.
The silence of it discomfited him beyond measure;
it was, in a word, uncanny.
Before him, as he lingered at the door, vaguely
disclosed by a wan illumination penetrating a dusty
-.


60
THE BLACK BAG
and begrimed fan-light, a broad hall stretched in-
definitely towards the rear of the building, losing
itself in blackness beyond the foot of a flight of
stairs. Save for a few articles of furniture,— a hall
table, an umbrella-stand, a tall dumb clock flanked
by high-backed chairs,— it was empty. Other than
Kirkwood's own restrained respiration not a sound
throughout the house advertised its inhabitation; not
a board creaked beneath the pressure of a foot, not a
mouse rustled in the wainscoting or beneath the floors,
not a breath of air stirred sighing in the stillness.
And yet, a tremendous racket had been raised at
the front door, within the sixty seconds past! And
yet, within twenty minutes two persons, at least, had
preceded Kirkwood into the building! Had they not
heard? The speculation seemed ridiculous. Or had
they heard and, alarmed, been too effectually hobbled
by the coils of their nefarious designs to dare reveal
themselves, to investigate the cause of that thunder-
ous summons? Or were they, perhaps, aware of
Kirkwood's entrance, and lying perdu in some dark
corner, to ambush him as he passed?
True, that were hardly like the girl. True, on
the other hand, it were possible that she had stolen
away while Kirkwood was hanging in irresolution by
the passage to Quadrant Mews. Again, the space
of time between Kirkwood's dismissal and his return
had been exceedingly brief; whatever her errand, she


9 FROGNALL STREET, W. C. 61
could hardly have fulfilled it and escaped. At that
moment she might be in the power and at the mercy,
of him who had followed her; providing he were not
friendly. And in that case, what torment and what
peril might not be hers?
Spurred by solicitude, the young man put per-
sonal apprehensions in his pocket and forgot them,
cautiously picking his way through the gloom to the
foot of the stairs. There, by the newel-post, he
paused. Darkness walled him about. Overhead the
steps vanished in a well of blackness; he could not
even see the ceiling; his eyes ached with futile effort
to fathom the unknown; his ears rang with unre-
warded strain of listening. The silence hung invio-
late, profound.
Slowly he began to ascend, a hand following the
balusters, the other with his cane exploring the ob-
scurity before him. On the steps, a carpet, thick
and heavy, muffled his footfalls. He moved noise-
lessly. Towards the top the staircase curved, and
presently a foot that groped for a higher level failed
to find it. Again he halted, acutely distrustful.
Nothing happened.
He went on, guided by the balustrade, passing
three doors, all open, through which the undefined
proportions of a drawing-room and boudoir were
barely suggested in a ghostly dusk. By each he
paused, listening, hearing nothing.


62 THE BLACK BAG
His foot struck with a deadened thud against the
bottom step of the second flight, and his pulses flut-
tered wildly for a moment. Two minutes — three —
he waited in suspense. From above came no sound.
He went on, as before, save that twice a step yielded,
complaining, to his weight. Toward the top the
close air, like the darkness, seemed to weigh more
heavily upon his consciousness; little drops of per-
spiration started out on his forehead, his scalp
tingled, his mouth was hot and dry, he felt as if
stifled.
Again the raised foot found no level higher than
its fellows. He stopped and held his breath, op-
pressed by a conviction that some one was near him.
Confirmation of this came startlingly — an eerie whis-
per in the night, so close to him that he fancied he
could feel the disturbed air fanning his face.
"Is it you, Eccles?"
He had no answer ready. The voice was mascu-
line, if he analyzed it correctly. Dumb and stupid
he stood poised upon the point of panic.
"Eccles, is it you?"
The whisper was both shrill and shaky. As it
ceased Kirkwood was half blinded by a flash of light,
striking him squarely in the eyes. Involuntarily he
shrank back a pace, to the first step from the top.
Instantaneously the light was eclipsed.
"Halt or —or I fire!"


9 FROGNALL STREET, W. C. 63
By now he realized that he had been scrutinized by
the aid of an electric hand-lamp. The tremulous
whisper told him something else — that the speaker
suffered from nerves as high-strung as his own. The
knowledge gave him inspiration. He cried at a ven- r
ture, in a guarded voice, " Hands up! "— and struck
out smartly with his stick. Its ferrule impinged upon
something soft but heavy. Simultaneously he heard
a low, frightened cry, the cane was swept aside, a
blow landed glancingly on his shoulder, and he was
carried fairly off his feet by the weight of a man
hurled bodily upon him with staggering force and
passion. Reeling, he was borne back and down a
step or two, and then,— choking on an oath,—drop-
ped his cane and with one hand caught the balusters,
while the other tore ineffectually at wrists of hands
that clutched his throat. So, for a space, the two
hung, panting and struggling.
Then endeavoring to swing his shoulders over
against the wall, Kirkwood released his grip on the
hand-rail and stumbled on the stairs, throwing his
antagonist out of balance. The latter plunged down-
ward, dragging Kirkwood with him. Clawing, kick-
ing, grappling, they went to the bottom, jolted vio-
lently by each step; but long before the last was
reached, Kirkwood's throat was free.
Throwing himself off, he got to his feet and
grasped the railing for support; then waited, pant-


64 THE BLACK BAG
ing, trying to get his bearings. Himself painfully
shaken and bruised, he shrewdly surmised that his
assailant had fared as ill, if not worse. And, in
point of fact, the man lay with neither move nor
moan, still as death at the American's feet.
And once more silence had folded its wings over
Number 9, Frognall Street.
More conscious of that terrifying, motionless pres-
ence beneath him, than able to distinguish it by power
of vision, he endured interminable minutes of trem-
bling horror, in a witless daze, before he thought of
his match-box. Immediately he found it and struck
a light. As the wood caught and the bright small
flame leaped in the pent air, he leaned forward, over
the body, breathlessly dreading what he must dis-
cover.
The man lay quiet, head upon the floor, legs and
hips on the stairs. One arm had fallen over his
face, hiding the upper half. The hand gleamed
white and delicate as a woman's. His chin was
smooth and round, his lips thin and petulant. Be-
neath his top-coat, evening dress clothed a short
and slender figure. Nothing whatever of his ap-
pearance suggested the burly ruffian, the midnight
marauder; he seemed little more than a boy old
enough to dress for dinner. In his attitude there was
something pitifully suggestive of a beaten child,
thrown into a corner.


9 FROGNALL STREET, W. C. 65
Conscience-smitten and amazed Kirkwood stared on
until, without warning, the match flickered and went
out. Then, straightening up with an exclamation
at once of annoyance and concern, he rattled the box;
it made no sound,— was empty. In disgust he swore
it was the devil's own luck, that he should run out
of vestas at a time so critical. He could not even
say whether the fellow was dead, unconscious, or
simply shamming. He had little idea of his looks;
and to be able to identify him might save a deal of
trouble at some future time,— since he, Kirkwood,
seemed so little able to disengage himself from the
clutches of this insane adventure! And the girl —
what had become of her? How could he continue
to search for her, without lights or guide, through
all those silent rooms, whose walls might inclose a
hundred hidden dangers in that house of mystery?
But he debated only briefly. His blood was young,
and it was hot; it was quite plain to him that he
could not withdraw and retain his self-respect. If
the girl was there to be found, most assuredly
he must find her. The hand-lamp that had dazzled
him at the head of the stairs should be his aid, now
that he thought of it,— and providing he was able
to find it.
In the scramble on the stairs he had lost his hat,
but he remembered that the vesta's short-lived light
had discovered this on the floor beyond the man's


66 THE BLACK BAG
body. Carefully stepping across the latter he re-
covered his head-gear, and then, kneeling, listened
with an ear close to the fellow's face. A softly reg-
ular beat of breathing reassured him. Half rising,
he caught the body beneath the armpits, lifting and
dragging it off the staircase; and knelt again, to feel
of each pocket in the man's clothing, partly as an
obvious precaution, to relieve him of his advertised
revolver against an untimely wakening, partly to
see if he had the lamp about him.
The search proved fruitless. Kirkwood suspected
that the weapon, like his own, had existed only in
his victim's ready imagination. As for the lamp, in
the act of rising he struck it with his foot, and
picked it up.
It felt like a metal tube a couple of inches in
diameter, a foot or so in length, passably heavy. He
fumbled with it impatiently. "However the dickens,"
he wondered audibly, "does the infernal machine
work?" As it happened, the thing worked with dis-
concerting abruptness as his untrained fingers fell
hapchance on the spring. A sudden glare again
smote him in the face, and at the same instant, from
a point not a yard away, apparently, an inarticulate
cry rang out upon the stillness.
Heart in his mouth, he stepped back, lowering the
lamp (which impishly went out) and lifting a pro-
tecting forearm.


9 FROGNALL STREET, W. C. 67
"Who's that?" he demanded harshly.
A strangled sob of terror answered him, blurred
by a swift rush of skirts, and in a breath his shat-
tered nerves quieted and a glimmer of common sense
penetrated the murk anger and rear had bred in his
brain. He understood, and stepped forward, catch-
ing blindly at the darkness with eager hands.
"Miss Calendar!" he cried guardedly. "Miss Cal-
endar, it is I — Philip Kirkwood!"
There was a second sob, of another caliber than the
first; timid fingers brushed his, and a hand, warm
and fragile, closed upon his own in a passion of relief
and gratitude.
"Oh, I am so g-glad!" It was Dorothy Calen-
dar's voice, beyond mistake. "I — I didn't know
what t-to t-think. . . . When the light struck
your face I was sure it was you, but when I called,
you answered in a voice so strange,— not like yours
at all! . . . Tell me," she pleaded, with palpa-
ble effort to steady herself; "what has happened?"
"I think, perhaps," said Kirkwood uneasily, again
troubled by his racing pulses, "perhaps you can do
that better than I."
"Oh!" said the voice guiltily; her fingers trembled
on his, and were gently withdrawn. "I was so
frightened," she confessed after a little pause, "so
frightened that I hardly understand . . . But
you? How did you—?"
f


68 THE BLACK BAG
"I worried about you," he replied, in a tone ab-
surdly apologetic. "Somehow it didn't seem right.
It was none of my business, of course, but . . .
I couldn't help coming back. This fellow, whoever
he is —' don't worry; he's unconscious — slipped into
the house in a manner that seemed to me suspicious.
I hardly know why I followed, except that he left the
door an open invitation to interference . . ."
"I can't be thankful enough," she told him Warmly,
"that you did interfere. You have indeed saved
me from . . ."
"Yes?"
"I don't know what. If I knew the man —"
"You don't know him?"
"I can't even guess. The light —?"
She paused inquiringly. Kirkwood fumbled with
the lamp, but, whether its rude handling had im-
paired some vital part of the mechanism, or whether
the batteries through much use were worn out, he
was able to elicit only one feeble glow, which was
instantly smothered by the darkness.
"It's no use," he confessed. "The thing's gone
wrong."
"Have you a match?"
"I used my last before I got hold of this."
"Oh," she commented, discouraged. "Have you
any notion what he looks like?"
Kirkwood thought briefly. "Raffles," he replied


9 FROGNALL STREET, W. C. 69
with a chuckle. "He looks like an amateurish and
very callow Raffles. He's in dress clothes, you
know."
"I wonder!" There was a nuance of profound
bewilderment in her exclamation. Then: "He
knocked against something in the hall — a chair, I
presume; at all events, I heard that and put out the
light. I was ... in the room above the draw-
ing-room, you see. I stole down to this floor — was
there, in the comet by the stairs when he passed
within six inches, and never guessed it. Then, when
he got on the next floor, I started on; but you came
in. I slipped into the drawing-room and crouched
behind a chair. You went on, but I dared not move
until . . . And then I heard some one cry out,
and you fell down the stairs together. I hope you
were not hurt —?"
"Nothing worth mention; but Tie must have got a
pretty stiff knock, to lay him out so completely."
Kirkwood stirred the body with his toe, but the man
made no sign. "Dead to the world . . . And
now, Miss Calendar?"
If she answered, he did not hear; for on the heels
of his query banged the knocker down below; and
thereafter crash followed crash, brewing a deep and
sullen thundering to rouse the echoes and send them
rolling, like voices of enraged ghosts, through the
lonely rooms.


y
THE MYSTEEY OF A FOUE-WHEELEE
"What's that?" At the first alarm the girl had
caught convulsively at Kirkwood's arm. Now, when
a pause came in the growling of the knocker, she
made him hear her voice; and it was broken and vi-
brant with a threat of hysteria. "Oh, what can it
mean?"
"I don't know." He laid a hand reassuringly
over that which trembled on his forearm. "The po-
lice, possibly."
"Police!" she iterated, aghast. "What makes
you think —?"
"A man tried to stop me at the door," he an-
swered quickly. "I got in before he could. When
he tried the knocker, a bobby came along and stopped
'him. The latter may have been watching the house
since then,— it'd be only his duty to keep an eye on
it; and Heaven knows we raised a racket, coming
head-first down those stairs! Now we are up against
it," he added brightly.
But the girl was tugging at his hand. "Come!"
70


MYSTERY OF A FOUR-WHEELER 71
she begged breathlessly. "Come! There is a way!
Before they break in —"
"But this man — ?" Kirkwood hung back, trou-
bled.
"They — the police are sure to find and care for
him."
"So they will." He chuckled. "And serve him
right! He'd have choked me to death, with all the
good will in the world!"
"Oh, do hurry!"
Turning, she sped light-footed down the staircase
to the lower hall, he at her elbow. Here the uproar
was loudest — deep enough to drown whatever sounds
might have been made by two pairs of flying feet.
For all that they fled on tiptoe, stealthily, guilty
shadows in the night; and at the newel-post swung
back into the unbroken blackness which shrouded the
fastnesses backward of the dwelling. A sudden
access of fury on the part of the alarmist at the
knocker, spurred them on with quaking hearts. In
half a dozen strides, Kirkwood, guided only by in-
stinct and the frou-frou of the girl's skirts as she
ran invisible before him, stumbled on the uppermost
steps of a steep staircase; only a hand-rail saved him,
and that at the last moment. He stopped short,
shocked into caution. From below came a contrite
whisper: "I'm so sorry! I should have warned
you."
f


78 THE BLACK BAG
He pulled himself together, glaring wildly at
nothing. "It's all right —"
"You're not hurt, truly? Oh, do come quickly."
She waited for him at the bottom of the flight —
happily for him, for he was all at sea.
"Here — your hand — let me guide you. This
darkness is dreadful . . ."
He found her hand, somehow, and tucked his into
it, confidingly, and not without an uncertain thrill of
satisfaction.
"Come!" she panted. "Come! If they break
in —"
Stifled by apprehension, her voice failed her.
They went forward, now less impetuously, for it was
very black; and the knocker had fallen still.
"No fear of that," he remarked after a time.
"They wouldn't dare break in."
A fluttering whisper answered him: "I don't
know. We dare risk nothing."
They seemed to explore, to penetrate acres of laby-
rinthine chambers and passages, delving deep into
the bowels of the earth, like rabbits burrowing in a
warren, hounded by beagles.
Above stairs the hush continued unbroken; as if
the dumb Genius of the Place had cast a spell of
silence on the knocker, cr else, outraged, had smitten
the noisy disturber with a palsy.
The girl seemed to know her way; whether guided


74
THE BLACK BAG
the assurance that, whatever her trouble, he would
stand by her and protect her. ... It were fu-
tile to try to laugh it off; he gave over the endeavor.
.Even at this critical moment he found himself re-
peating over and over to his heart the question:
"Can this be love? Can this be love? . . ."
Could it be love at an hour's acquaintance? Ab-
surd! But he could not laugh — nor render himself
insensible to the suggestion.
He found that he had drawn the bolts. The girl
tugged and rattled at the knob. Reluctantly the door
opened inwards. Beyond its threshold stretched ten
feet or more of covered passageway, whose entrance
framed an oblong glimmering with light. A
draught of fresh air smote their faces. Behind them
a door banged.
"Where does this open?"
"On the mews," she informed him.
"The mews!" He stared in consternation at the
pallid oval that stood for her face. "The mews!
But you, in your evening gown, and I —"
"There's no other way. We must chance it. Are
you afraid?"
Afraid? . . . He stepped aside. She slipped
by him and on. He closed the door, carefully re-
moving the key and locking it on the outside; then
joined the girl at the entrance to the mews, where
they paused perforce, she as much disconcerted as he,


MYSTERY OF A FOUR-WHEELER 75
his primary objection momentarily waxing in force
as they surveyed the conditions circumscribing their
escape.
Quadrant Mews was busily engaged in enjoying
itself. Night had fallen sultry and humid, and the
walls and doorsteps were well fringed and clustered
with .representatives of that class of London's popu-
lation which infests mews through habit, taste, or
force of circumstance.
On the stoops men sprawled at easy length, dis-
cussing short, foul cutties loaded with that rank and
odoriferous compound which, under the name and in
the fame of tobacco, is widely retailed at tuppence
the ounce. Their women-folk more commonly squat-
ted on the thresholds, cheerfully squabbling; from
opposing second-story windows, two leaned perilously
forth, slanging one another across the square briskly
in the purest billingsgate; and were impartially
applauded from below by an audience whose appre-
ciation seemed faintly tinged with envy. Squawking
and yelling children swarmed over the flags and rude
cobblestones that paved the ways. Like incense,
heavy and pungent, the rich effluvia of stable-yards
swirled in air made visible by its faint burden of
mist.
Over against the entrance wherein Kirkwood and
the girl lurked, confounded by the problem of escap-
ing undetected through this vivacious scene, a stable-
.--


76 THE BLACK BAG
door stood wide, exposing a dimly illumined interior.
Before it waited a four-wheeler, horse already hitched
in between the shafts, while its driver, a man of lei-
surely turn of mind, made lingering inspection of
straps and buckles, and, while Kirkwood watched him,
turned attention to the carriage lamps.
The match which he raked spiritedly down his
thigh, flared ruddily; the succeeding paler glow of
the lamp threw into relief a heavy beefy mask, with
shining bosses for cheeks and nose and chin 5 through
narrow slits two cunning eyes glittered like dull gems.
Kirkwood appraised him with attention, as one in
whose gross carcass was embodied their only hope
of unannoyed return to the streets and normal sur-
roundings of their world. The difficulty lay in at-
tracting the man's attention and engaging him
without arousing his suspicions or bringing the pop-
ulation about their ears. Though he hesitated Jong,
no favorable opportunity presented itself; and in
time the Jehu approached the box with the ostensible
purpose of mounting and driving off. In this crit-
ical situation the American, forced to recognize
that boldness must mark his course, took the girl's
fate and his own in his hands, and with a quick
word to his companion, stepped out of hiding.
The cabby had a foot upon the step when Kirk-
wood tapped his shoulder.
"My man —"


MYSTERY OF A FOUR-WHEELER 77
"Lor, lumme!" cried the fellow in amaze, pivoting
on his heel. Cupidity and quick understanding en-
livened the eyes which in two glances looked Kirk-
wood up and down, comprehending at once hoth his
badly rumpled hat and patent-leather shoes. "S'help
me,"—thickly,—" where'd you drop from, guvner?"
"That's my affair," said Kirkwood briskly.
"Are you engaged?"
"If you mykes yerself my fare," returned the
cabby shrewdly, " I ham."
"Ten shillings, then, if you get us out of here in
one minute and to — say — Hyde Park Corner in
fifteen."
"Us?" demanded the fellow aggressively.
Kirkwood motioned toward the passageway.
"There's a lady with me — there. Quick now!"
Still the man did not move. "Ten bob," he bar-
gained; "an' you runnin' awye with th' stuffy ol'
gent's fair darter? Come now, guvner, is it gen'rous?
Myke it a quid an'—"
"A pound then. Will you hurry?"
By way of answer the fellow scrambled hastily up
to the box and snatched at the reins. "Ck! Gcc-e
hup!" he cried sonorously.
By now the mews had wakened to the fact of the
presence of a "toff" in its midst. His light top-
coat and silk hat rendered him as conspicuous as a red
Indian in war-paint would have been on Rotten


78 THE BLACK BAG
Row. A cry of surprise was raised, and drowned
in a volley of ribald inquiry and chaff.
Fortunately, the cabby was instant to rein in
skilfully before the passageway, and Kirkwood had
the door open before the four-wheeler stopped. The
girl, hugging her cloak about her, broke cover
(whereat the hue and cry redoubled), and sprang into
the body of the vehicle. Kirkwood followed, shut-
ting the door. As the cab lurched forward he leaned
over and drew down the window-shade, shielding the
girl from half a hundred prying eyes. At the same
time they gathered momentum, banging swiftly if
loudly out of the mews.
An urchin, leaping on the step to spy in Kirk-
wood's window, fell off, yelping, as the driver's whip-
lash curled about his shanks.
The gloom of the tunnel inclosed them briefly ere
the lights of the Hog-in-the-Pound flashed by and
the wheels began to roll more easily. Kirkwood drew
back with a sigh of relief.
"Thank God!" he said softly.
The girl had no words.
Worried by her silence, solicitous lest, the strain
ended, she might be on the point of fainting, he let
up the shade and lowered the window at her side.
She seemed to have collapsed in her corner.
Against the dark upholstery her hair shone like pale
gold in the half-light; her eyes were closed and she


MYSTERY OF A FOUR-WHEELER 79
held a handkerchief to her lips; the other hand lay
limp.
"Miss Calendar?"
She started, and something bulky fell from the seat
and thumped heavily on the floor. Kirkwood bent to
pick it up, and so for the first time was made aware
that she had brought with her a small black gladstone
bag of considerable weight. As he placed it on the
forward seat their eyes met.
"I didn't know —" he began.
"It was to get that," she hastened to explain,
"that my father sent me . . ."
"Yes," he assented in a tone indicating his com-
plete comprehension. "I trust . . . "he added
vaguely, and neglected to complete the observation,
losing himself in a maze of conjecture not wholly
agreeable. This was a new phase of the adventure.
He eyed the bag uneasily. What did it contain?
How did he know . . .?
Hastily he abandoned that line of thought. He
had no right to infer anything whatever, who had
thrust himself uninvited into her concerns — unin-
vited, that was to say, in the second instance, having
been once definitely given his conge. Inevitably, how-
ever, a thousand unanswerable questions pestered him;
just as, at each fresh facet of mystery disclosed by
the sequence of the adventure, his bewilderment deep-
ened.


80 THE BLACK BAG
The girl stirred restlessly. "I have been think-
ing," she volunteered in a troubled tone, "that there
is absolutely no way I know of, to thank you
properly."
"It is enough if I've been useful," he rose in gal-
lantry to the emergency.
"That," she commented, "was very prettily said.
But then I have never known any one more kind and
courteous and — and considerate, than you." There
was no savor of flattery in the simple and direct state-
ment; indeed, she was looking away from him, out
of the window, and her face was serious with thought;
she seemed to be speaking of, rather than to, Kirk-
wood. "And I have been wondering," she continued
with unaffected candor, " what you must be thinking
of me."
"I? . . . What should I think of you, Miss
Calendar?"
With the air of a weary child she laid her head
against the cushions again, face to him, and watched
him through lowered lashes, unsmiling.
"You might be thinking that an explanation is due
you. Even the way we were brought together was
extraordinary, Mr. Kirkwood. You must be very
generous, as generous as you have shown yourself
brave, not to require some sort of an explanation of
me."
"I don't see it that way."


MYSTERY OF A FOUR-WHEELER 81
"I do. . . . You have made me like you very
much, Mr. Kirkwood."
He shot her a covert glance — causelessly, for her
naivete was flawless. With a feeling of some slight
awe he understood this — a sensation of sincere rever-
ence for the unspoiled, candid, child's heart and mind
that were hers. "I'm glad," he said simply; "very
glad, if that's the case, and presupposing I deserve
it. Personally," he laughed, "I seem to myself to
have been rather forward."
"No; only kind and a gentleman."
'"But — please!" he protested.
"Oh, but I mean it, every word! Why shouldn't
I? In a little while, ten minutes, half an hour, we
shall have seen the last of each other. Why should
I not tell you how I appreciate all that you have un-
selfishly done for me?"
"If you put it that way,— I'm sure I don't know;
beyond that it embarrasses me horribly to have you
overestimate me so. If any courage has been shown
this night, it is yours. . . . But I'm forgetting
again." He thought to divert her. "Where shall I
tell the cabby to go this time, Miss Calendar?"
"Craven Street, please," said the girl, and added
a house number. "I am to meet my father there,
with this,"— indicating the gladstone bag.
Kirkwood thrust head and shoulders out the window
and instructed the cabby accordingly; but his ruse


82 THE BLACK BAG
had been ineffectual, as he found when he sat back
again. Quite composedly the girl took up the thread
of conversation where it had been broken off.
"It's rather hard to keep silence, when you've been
so good. I don't want you to think me less generous
than yourself, but, truly, I can tell you nothing."
She sighed a trace resentfully; or so he thought.
"There is little enough in this — this wretched af-
fair, that I understand myself; and that little, I may
not tell. ... I want you to know that."
"I understand, Miss Calendar."
"There's one thing I may say, however. I have
done nothing wrong to-night, I believe," she added
quickly.
"I've never for an instant questioned that," he
returned with a qualm of shame; for what he said
was not true.
"Thank you ... ."
The four-wheeler swung out of Oxford Street into
Charing Cross Road. Kirkwood noted the fact with
a feeling of some relief that their ride was to be so
short; like many of his fellow-sufferers from "the
artistic temperament," he was acutely disconcerted by
jspoken words of praise and gratitude; Miss Calendar,
unintentionally enough, had succeeded only in render-
ing him self-conscious and ill at ease.
Nor had she fully relieved her mind, nor voiced all
that perturbed her. "There's one thing more," she


MYSTERY OF A FOUR-WHEELER 88
said presently: "my father. I — I hope you,, will
think charitably of him."
"Indeed, I've no reason or right to think other-
wise."
"I was afraid — afraid his actions might have
seemed peculiar, to-night . . ."
"There are lots of things I don't understand, Miss
Calendar. Some day, perhaps, it will all clear up,—
this trouble of yours. At least, one supposes it is
trouble, of some sort. And then you will tell me
the whole story. . . . Won't you?" Kirkwood
insisted.
"I'm afraid not," she said, with a smile of
shadowed sadness. "We are to say good night in a
moment or two, and -— it will be good-by as well.
It's unlikely that we shall ever meet again."
"I refuse positively to take such a gloomy view
of the case!"
She shook her head, laughing with him, but with
shy regret. "It's so, none the less. We are leaving
London this very night, my father and I — leaving
England, for that matter."
"Leaving England?" he echoed. "You're not
by any chance bound for America, are you?"
"I . . . can't tell you."
"But you can tell me this: are you booked on the
Minneapolis?"
"No-o; it is a — quite another boat."


84 THE BLACK BAG
"Of course!" he commented savagely. "It
wouldn't be me to have any sort of luck!"
She made no reply beyond a low laugh. He stared
gloomily out of his window, noting indifferently that
they were passing the National Gallery. On their
left Trafalgar Square stretched, broad and bare, a
wilderness of sooty stone with an air of mutely toler-
ating its incongruous fountains. Through Charing
Cross roared a tide-rip of motor-busses and hackney
carriages.
Glumly the young man foresaw the passing of his
abbreviated romance; their destination was near at
hand. Brentwick had been right, to some extent, at
least; it was quite true that the curtain had been tung
up that very night, upon Kirkwood's Romance; un-
happily, as Brentwick had not foreseen, it was imme-
diately to be rung down.
The cab rolled soberly into the Strand.
"Since we are to say good-by so very soon," sug-
gested Kirkwood, " may I ask a parting favor, Miss
Calendar?"
She regarded him with friendly eyes. "You have
every right," she affirmed gently.
"Then please to tell me frankly: are you going
into any further danger?"
"And is that the only boon you crave at my hands,
Mr. Kirkwood?"
"Without impertinence . . ."
'
I
I


MYSTERY OF A FOUR-WHEELER 85
For a little time, waiting for him to conclude his
vague phrase, she watched him in an expectant si-
lence. But the man was diffident to a degree . . .
At length, somewhat unconsciously, "I think not,"
she answered. "No; there will be no danger await-
ing me at Mrs. Hallam's. You need not fear for me
any more. . . . Thank you."
He lifted his brows at the unfamiliar name. "Mrs.
Hallam—?"
"I am going to her house in Craven Street."
"Your father is to meet you there?"—persist-
ently.
"He promised to."'
"But if he shouldn't?"
"Why ..." Her eyes clouded; she pursed
her lips over the conjectural annoyance. "Why, in
that event, I suppose ... It would be very em-
barrassing. You see, I don't know Mrs. Hallam; I
don't know that she expects me, unless my father is
already there. They are old friends. ... I
could drive round for a while and come back, I sup-
pose."
But she made it plain that the prospect did not
please her.
"Won't you let me ask if Mr. Calender is there, be-
fore you get out, then? I don't like to be dis-
missed," he laughed; " and, you know, you shouldn't
go wandering round all alone."
S


86 THE BLACK BAG
The cab drew up. Kirkwood put a hand on the
door and awaited her will.
"It — it would be very kind ... I hate to
impose upon you."
He turned the knob and got out. "If you'll wait
one moment," he said superfluously, as he closed the
door.
Pausing only to verify the number, he sprang up
the steps and found the bell-button.
It was a modest little residence, in nothing more
remarkable than its neighbors, unless it was for
a certain air of extra grooming: the area railing
was sleek with fresh black paint; the doorstep looked
the better for vigorous stoning; the door itself was
immaculate, its brasses t shining lustrous against
red-lacquered woodwork. A soft glow filled the fan-
light. Overhead the drawing-room windows shone
with a cozy, warm radiance.
The door opened, framing the figure of a maid
sketched broadly in masses of somber black and dead
white.
"Can you tell me, is Mr. Calendar here?"
The servant's eyes left his face, looked past him at
the waiting cab, and returned.
"I'm not sure, sir. If you will please step in."
Kirkwood hesitated briefly, then acceded. The
maid closed the door.
"What name shall I say, sir?"


MYSTERY OF A FOUR-WHEELER 87
"Mr. Kirkwood."
"If you will please to wait one moment, sir —"
He was left in the entry hall, the servant hurrying
to the staircase and up. Three minutes elapsed; he
was on the point of returning to the girl, when the
maid reappeared.
"Mrs. Hallam says, will you kindly step up-stairs,
sir."
Disgruntled, he followed her; at the head of the
stairs she bowed him into the drawing-room and again
left him to his own resources.
Nervous, annoyed, he paced the floor from wall to
wall, his footfalls silenced by heavy rugs. As the
delay was prolonged he began to fume with impa-
tience, wondering, half regretting that he had left the
girl outside, definitely sorry that he had failed to
name his errand more explicitly to the maid. At an-
other time, in another mood, he might have accorded
more appreciation to the charm of the apartment,
which, betraying the feminine touch in every detail
of arrangement and furnishing, was very handsome
in an unconventional way. But he was quite heedless
of externals.
Wearied, he deposited himself sulkily in an arm-
chair by the hearth.
From a boudoir on the same floor there came mur-
murs of two voices, a man's and a woman's. The
latter laughed prettily.


38
THE BLACK BAG
"Oh, any time!" snorted the American. "Any
time you're through with your confounded flirtation,
Mr. George B. Calendar!"
The voices rose, approaching. "Good night,"
said the woman gaily; " farewell and — good luck go
with you!"
"Thank you. Good night," replied the man more
conservatively.
Kirkwood rose, expectant.
There was a swish of draperies, and a moment
later he was acknowledging the totally unlooked-
for entrance of the mistress of the house. He
had thought to see Calendar, presuming him to be the
man closeted with Mrs. Hallam; but, whoever that
had been, he did not accompany the woman. Indeed,
as she advanced from the doorway, Kirkwood could
hear the man's footsteps on the stairs.
"This is Mr. Kirkwood?" The note of inquiry
in the well-trained voice — a very alluring voice and
one pleasant to listen to, he thought — made it seem
as though 6he had asked, point-blank, " Who is Mr.
Kirkwood?"
He bowed, discovering himself in the presence of
an extraordinarily handsome and interesting woman;
a woman of years which as yet had not told upon her,
of experience that had not availed to harden her, at
least in so far as her exterior charm of personality
was involved; a woman, in brief, who bore close in-


MYSTERY OF A FOUR-WHEELER 80
spection well, despite an elusive effect of maturity, not
without its attraction for men. Kirkwood was im-
pressed that it would be very easy to learn to like
Mrs. Hallam more than well — with her approval.
Although he had not anticipated it, he was not at
all surprised to recognize in her the woman who, if he
were not mistaken, had slipped to Calendar that warn-
ing in the dining-room of the Pless. Kirkwood's
state of mind had come to be such, through his ex-
periences of the past few hours, that he would have
accepted anything, however preposterous, as a com-
monplace happening. But for that matter there was
nothing particularly astonishing in this rencontre.
"I am Mrs. Hallam. You were asking for Mr.
Calendar?"
u He was to have been here at this hour, I be-
lieve," said Kirkwood.
"Yes?" There was just the right inflection of
surprise in her carefully controlled tone.
He became aware of an undercurrent of feeling;
that the woman was estimating him shrewdly with her
fine direct eyes. He returned her regard with admir-
ing interest; they were gray-green eyes, deep-set but
large, a little shallow, a little changeable, calling to
mind the sea on a windy, cloudy day.
Below stairs a door slammed.
"I am not a detective, Mrs. Hallam," announced
the young man suddenly. "Mr. Calendar required


90
THE BLACK BAG
a service of me this evening; I am here in natural
consequence. If it was Mr. Calendar who left this
house just now, I am wasting time."
"It was not Mr. Calendar." The fine-lined brows
arched in surprise, real or pretended, at his first
blurted words, and relaxed; amused, the woman
laughed deliciously. "But I am expecting him any
moment; he was to have been here half an hour since.
. . . Won't you wait?"
She indicated, with a gracious gesture, a chair, and
took for herself one end of a davenport. "I'm sure
he won't be long, now."
"Thank you, I will return, if I may." Kirkwood
moved toward the door.
"But there's no necessity —" She seemed in-
sistent on detaining him, possibly because she ques-
tioned his motive, possibly for her own divertisement.
Kirkwood deprecated his refusal with a smile.
"The truth is, Miss Calendar is waiting in a cab,
outside. I —"
"Dorothy Calendar!" Mrs. Hallam rose alertly.
"But why should she wait there? To be sure, we've
never met; but I have known her father for many
years." Her eyes held steadfast to his face; shallow,
flawed by her every thought, like the sea by a cat's-
paw he found them altogether inscrutable; yet received
an impression that their owner was now unable to
account for him.


MYSTERY OF A FOUR-WHEELER 91
She swung about quickly, preceding him to the
door and down the stairs. "I am sure Dorothy will
come in to wait, if I ask her," she told Kirkwood in a
high sweet voice. "I'm so anxious to know her. It's
quite absurd, really, of her — to stand on ceremony
with me, when her father made an appointment here.
I'll run out and ask—"
Mrs. Hallam's slim white fingers turned latch and
knob, opening the street door, and her voice died away
as she stepped out into the night. For a moment, to
Kirkwood, tagging after her with an uncomfortable
sense of having somehow done the wrong thing, her
figure — full fair shoulders and arms rising out of
the glittering dinner gown — cut a gorgeous silhou-
ette against the darkness. Then, with a sudden, im-
perative gesture, she half turned towards him.
"But," she exclaimed, perplexed, gazing to right
and left, " but the cab, Mr. Kirkwood?"
He was on the stoop a second later. Standing be-
side her, he stared blankly.
To the left the Strand roared, the stream of its
night-life in high spate; on the right lay the Em-
bankment, comparatively silent and deserted, if bril-
liant with its high-swung lights. Between the two,
quiet Craven Street ran, short and narrow, and wholly
innocent of any form of equipage.


f



"I'm waiting your explanation," she said coldly. Page 92


"BELOW BRIDGE" 93
venturer, who had manufactured a plausible yarn to
gain him access to her home? Or — harking back to
her original theory — that he was an emissary from
Scotland Yard? . . . Probably she distrusted
him on the latter hypothesis. The reflection left him
more at ease.
"I am quite as mystified as you, Mrs. Hallam,"
he began. "Miss Calendar was here, at this door,
in a four-wheeler, not ten minutes ago, and —"
"Then where is she now?"
"Tell me where Calendar is," he retorted, inspired,
"and I'll try to answer you!"
But her eyes were blank. "You mean —?"
"That Calendar was in this house when I came;
that he left, found his daughter in the cab, and drove
off with her. It's clear enough."
"You are quite mistaken," she said thoughtfully.
"George Calendar has not been here this night."
He wondered that she did not seem to resent his
imputation. "I think not —"
"Listen!" she cried, raising a warning hand; and
relaxing her vigilant attitude, moved forward once
more, to peer down toward the Embankment.
A cab had cut in from that direction and was
bearing down upon them with a brisk rumble of
hoofs. As it approached, Kirkwood's heart, that had
lightened, was weighed upon again by disappoint-
ment. It was no four-wheeler, but a hansom, and the


94- THE BLACK BAG
open wings of the apron, disclosing a white triangle
of linen surmounted by a glowing spot of fire, be-
trayed the sex of the fare too plainly to allow of
further hope that it might be the girl returning.
At the door, the cab pulled up sharply and a man
tumbled hastily out upon the sidewalk.
"Here!" he cried throatily, tossing the cabby his
fare, and turned toward the pair upon the doorstep,
evidently surmising that something was amiss. For
he was Calendar in proper person, and a sight to
upset in a twinkling Kirkwood's ingeniously builded
castle of suspicion.
"Airs. Hallam!" he cried, out of breath. "'S my
daughter here?" And then, catching sight of Kirk-
wood's countenance: "Why, hello, Kirkwood!" he
saluted him with a dubious air.
The woman interrupted hastily. "Please come in,
Mr. Calendar. This gentleman has been inquiring
for you, with an astonishing tale about your daugh-
ter."
"Dorothy!" Calendar's moon-like visage was
momentarily divested of any trace of color. "What
of her?"
"You had better come in," advised Mrs. Hallam
brusquely.
The fat adventurer hopped hurriedly across the
threshold, Kirkwood following. The woman shut
the door, and turned with back to it, nodding sig-


"BELOW BRIDGE" 95
nificantly at Kirkwood as her eyes met Calendar's.
"Well, well?" snapped the latter impatiently,
turning to the young man.
But Kirkwood was thinking quickly. For the
present he contented himself with a deliberate state-
ment of fact: "Miss Calendar has disappeared." It
gave him an instant's time. ..." There's
something damned fishy!" he told himself. "These
two are playing at cross-purposes. Calendar's no
fool; he's evidently a crook, to boot. As for the
woman, she's had her eyes open for a number of
years. The main thing's Dorothy. She didn't van-
ish of her own initiative. And Mrs. Hallam knows,
or suspects, more than she's going to tell. I don't
think she wants Dorothy found. Calendar does. So
do I. Ergo: I'm for Calendar."
"Disappeared?" Calendar was barking at him.
"How? When? Where?"
"Within ten minutes," said Kirkwood. "Here,
let's get it straight. . . . With her permission
I brought her here in a four-wheeler." He was care-
fully suppressing all mention of Frognall Street, and
in Calendar's glance read approval of the elision.
"She didn't want to get out, unless you were here.
I asked for you. The maid showed me up-stairs. I
left your daughter in the cab — and by the way, I
hadn't paid the driver. That's funny, too! Per-
haps six or seven minutes after I came in Mrs. Hal-


"BELOW BRIDGE »
97
a higher color in her cheeks, a flash of anger in her
eyes.
"Mr. Mulready," she retorted defiantly. "What
of that?"
"I wish I was sure," declared the fat adventurer,
exasperated. "As it is, I bet a dollar you've put
your foot in it, my lady. I warned you of that black-
guard. . . . There! The mischief's done; we
won't row over it. One moment." He begged it
with a wave of his hand; stood pondering briefly,
fumbled for his watch, found and consulted it.
"It's the barest chance," he muttered. "Perhaps we
can make it."
"What are you going to do?" asked the woman.
"Give Mister Mulready a run for his money.
Come along, Kirkwood; we haven't a minute. Mrs.
Hallam, permit us . . ." She stepped aside and
he brushed past her to the door. "Come, Kirk-
wood!"
He seemed to take Kirkwood's company for
granted; and the young man was not inclined to
argue the point. Meekly enough he fell in with Cal-
endar on the sidewalk. Mrs. Hallam followed them
out. "You won't forget? " she called tentatively.
"I'll 'phone you if we find out anything." Cal-
endar jerked the words uncermoniously over his
shoulder as, linking arms with Kirkwood, he drew
him swiftly along. They heard her shut the door;


98
THE BLACK BAG
instantly Calendar stopped. "Look here, did Dor-
othy have a — a small parcel with her?"
"She had a gladstone bag."
"Oh, the devil, the devil!" Calendar started on
again, muttering distractedly. As they reached the
corner he disengaged his arm. "We've a minute and
a half to reach Charing Cross Pier; and I think it's
the last boat. You set the pace, will you? But
remember I'm an oldish man and — and fat."
They began to run, the one easily, the other lum-
bering after like an old-fashioned square-rigged ship
paced by a liner.
Beneath the railway bridge, in front of the Under-
ground station, the cab-rank cried them on with sar-
donic view-halloos; and a bobby remarked them with
suspicion, turning to watch as they plunged round
the corner and across the wide Embankment.
The Thames appeared before them, a river of ink
on whose burnished surface lights swam in long wind-
ing streaks and oily blobs. By the floating pier a
County Council steamboat strained its hawsers, snor-
ing huskily. Bells were jingling in her engine-room
as the two gained the head of the sloping gangway.
Kirkwood slapped a shilling down on the ticket-
window ledge. "Where to?" he cried back to Cal-
endar.
"Cherry Gardens Pier," rasped the winded man.
He stumbled after Kirkwood, groaning with exhaus-


"BELOW BRIDGE" 99
tion. Only the tolerance of the pier employees gained
them their end; the steamer was held some seconds
for them; as Calendar staggered to its deck, the
gangway was jerked in, the last hawser cast off.
The boat sheered wide out on the river, then shot in,
arrow-like, to the pier beneath Waterloo Bridge.
The deck was crowded and additional passengers
embarked at every stop. In the circumstances con-
versation, save on the most impersonal topics, was
impossible; and even had it been necessary or ad-
visable to discuss the affair which occupied their
minds, where so many ears could hear, Calendar had
breath enough neither to answer nor to catechize
Kirkwood. They found seats on the forward deck
and rested there in grim silence, both fretting under
the enforced restraint, while the boat darted, like some
illuminated and exceptionally active water insect,
from pier to pier.
As it snorted beneath London Bridge, Calendar's
impatience drove him from his seat back to the gang-
way. "Next stop," he told Kirkwood curtly; and
rested his heavy bulk against the paddle-box, brood-
ing morosely, until, after an uninterrupted run of
more than a mile, the steamer swept in, side-wheels
backing water furiously against the ebbing tide, to
Cherry Gardens landing.
Sweet name for a locality unsavory beyond cre-
dence! ... As they emerged on the street level


100 THE BLACK BAG
and turned west on Bermondsey Wall, Kirkwood was
fain to tug his top-coat over his chest and button it
tight, to hide Ins linen. In a guarded tone he coun-
seled his companion to do likewise; and Calendar,
after a moment's blank, uncomprehending stare, ac-
knowledged the wisdom of the advice with a grunt.
The very air they breathed was rank with fetid
odors bred of the gaunt dark warehouses that lined
their way; the lights were few; beneath the looming
buildings the shadows were many and dense. Here
and there dreary and cheerless public houses appeared,
with lighted windows conspicuous in a lightless waste.
From time to time, as they hurried on, they encoun-
tered, and made wide detours to escape contact with
knots of wayfarers — men debased and begrimed,
with dreary and slatternly women, arm in arm, zig-
zaging widely across the sidewalks, chorusing with
sodden voices the burden of some popularized ballad.
The cheapened, sentimental refrains echoed sadly be-
tween benighted walls.
Kirkwood shuddered, sticking close to Calendar's
side. Life's naked brutalities had theretofore been
largely out of his ken. He had heard of slums, had
even ventured to mouth politely moral platitudes on
the subject of overcrowding in great centers of popu-
lation, but in the darkest flights of imagination had
never pictured to himself anything so unspeakably
foul and hopeless as this. . . . And they were


"BELOW BRIDGE" 101
\
come hither seeking — Dorothy Calendar! He was
unable to conceive what manner of villainy could be
directed against her, that she must be looked for in
such surroundings.
After some ten minutes' steady walking, Calendar
turned aside with a muttered word, and dived down a
covered, dark and evil-smelling passageway that
seemed to lead toward the river.
Mastering his involuntary aualms, Kirkwood fol-
lowed.
Some ten or twelve paces from its entrance the pas-
sageway swerved at a right angle, continuing three
yards of so to end in a blank wall, wherefrom a
flickering, inadequate gas-lamp jutted. At this point
a stone platform, perhaps four feet square, was dis-
covered, from the edge of which a flight of worn and
slimy stone steps led down to a permanent boat-land-
ing, where another gas-light flared gustily despite the
protection of its frame of begrimed glass.
"Good Lord!" exclaimed the young man.
"What, in Heaven's name, Calendar —?"
"Bermondsey Old Stairs. Come on."
They descended to the landing-stage. Beneath
them the Pool slept, a sheet of polished ebony,
whispering to itself, lapping with small stealthy gur-
gles angles of masonry and ancient piles. On the
farther bank tall warehouses reared square old-time
heads, their uncompromising, rugged profile relieved
4


102 THE BLACK BAG
here and there by tapering mastheads. A few, scat-
tering, feeble lights were visible. Nothing moved
save the river and the wind.
The landing itself they found quite deserted; some-
thing which the adventurer comprehended with a nod
which, like its accompanying, inarticulate ejaculation,
might have been taken to indicate either satisfaction
or disgust. He ignored Kirkwood altogether, for the
time being, and presently produced a small, bright
object, which, applied to his lips, proved to be a
boatswain's whistle. He sounded two blasts, one
long, one brief.
There fell a lull, Kirkwood watching the other and
wondering what next would happen. Calendar
paced restlessly to and fro upon the narrow landing,
now stopping to incline an ear to catch some antici-
pated sound, now searching with sweeping glances the
black reaches of the Pool.
Finally, consulting his watch, "Almost ten," he
announced.
"We're in time?"
"Can't say. . . . Damn! ... If that
infernal boat would only show up —"
He was lifting the whistle to sound a second sum-
mons when a rowboat rounded a projecting angle
formed by the next warehouse down stream, and
with clanking oar-locks swung in toward the landing.
On her thwarts two figures, dipping and rising,


"BELOW BRIDGE" 108
labored with the sweeps. As they drew in, the man
forward shipped his blades, and rising, scrambled
to the bows in order to grasp an iron mooring-
ring set in the wall. The other awkwardly took in
his oars and, as the current swung the stern down-
stream, placed a hand palm downward upon the bot-
tom step to hold the boat steady.
Calendar waddled to the brink of the stage,
grunting with relief.
"The other man?" he asked brusquely. "Has he
gone aboard? Or is this the first trip to-night?"
One of the watermen nodded assent to the latter
question, adding gruffly: "Seen nawthin' of 'im,
sir."
"Very good," said Calendar, as if he doubted
whether it were very good or bad. "We'll wait a
bit."
"Right-o!" agreed the waterman civilly.
Calendar turned back, his small eyes glimmering
with satisfaction. Fumbling in one coat pocket he
brought to light a cigar-case. "Have a smoke?"
he suggested with a show of friendliness. "By
Heaven, I was beginnin' to get worried!"
"As to what?" inquired Kirkwood pointedly,
selecting a cigar.
He got no immediate reply, but felt Calendar's
sharp eyes upon him while he manoeuvered with
matches for a light.


104 THE BLACK BAG
"That's so," it came at length. "You don't
know. I kind of forgot for a minute; somehow you
seemed on the inside."
Kirkwood laughed lightly. "I've experienced
something of the same sensation in the past few
hours."
"Don't doubt it." Calendar was watching him
narrowly. "I suppose," he put it to him abruptly,
"you haven't changed your mind?"
"Changed my mind?"
"About coming in with me."
"My dear sir, I can have no mind to change until
a plain proposition is laid before me."
"Hmm!" Calendar puffed vigorously until it
occurred to him to change the subject. "You won't
mind telling me what happened to you and Dor-
othy?"
"Certainly not."
Calendar drew nearer and Kirkwood, lowering his
voice, narrated briefly the events since he had left the
Pless in Dorothy's company.
Her father followed him intently, interrupting now
and again with exclamation or pertinent question; as,
Had Kirkwood been able to see the face of the man
in No. 9, Frognall Street? The negative answer
seemed to disconcert him.
"Youngster, you say? Blam' if I can lay my
mind to him! Now if that Mulready —"


"BELOW BRIDGE" 105
"It would have been impossible for Mulready —
whoever he is — to recover and get to Craven Street
before we did," Kirkwood pointed out.
"Well — go on." But when the tale was told,
"It's that scoundrel, Mulready!" the man affirmed
with heat. "It's his hand — I know him. I might
have had sense enough to see he'd take the first chance
to hand me the double-cross. Well, this does for him,
all right!" Calendar lowered viciously at the river.
"You've been blame' useful," he told Kirkwood as-
sertively. "If it hadn't been for you, I don't know
where I'd be now,— nor Dorothy, either,"—an
obvious afterthought. "There's no particular way I
can show my appreciation, I suppose? Money—?"
"I've got enough to last me till I reach New York,
thank you."
"Well, if the time ever comes, just shout for
George B. I won't be wanting. ... I only
wish you were with us; but that's out of the ques-
tion."
"Doubtless ..."
"No two ways about it. I bet anything you've
got a conscience concealed about your person. What?
You're an honest man, eh?"
"I don't want to sound immodest," returned Kirk-
wood, amused.
"You don't need to worry about that. . . .
But an honest man's got no business in my line." He


106 THE BLACK BAG
glanced again at his watch. "Damn that Mulready!
I wonder if he was 'cute enough to take another way?
Or did he think . . . The fool!"
He cut off abruptly, seeming depressed by the
thought that he might have been outwitted; and,
clasping hands behind his back, chewed savagely
on his cigar, watching the river. Kirkwood found
himself somewhat wearied; the uselessness of his
presence there struck him with added force. He be-
thought him of his boat-train, scheduled to leave a
station miles distant, in an hour and a half. If he
missed it, he would be stranded in a foreign land,
penniless and practically without friends — Brent-
wick being away and all the rest of his circle of
acquaintances on the other side of the Channel. Yet
he lingered, in poor company, daring fate that he
might see the end of the affair. Why?
There was only one honest answer to that question.
He stayed on because of his interest in a girl whom
he had known for a matter of three hours, at most.
It was insensate folly on his part, ridiculous from
any point of view. But he made no move to go.
The slow minutes lengthened monotonously.
There came a sound from the street level. Cal-
endar held up a hand of warning. "Here they come!
Steady!" he said tensely. Kirkwood, listening in-
tently, interpreted the noise as a clash of hoofs upon
cobbles.


"BELOW BRIDGE" 107
Calendar turned to the boat.
"Sheer off," he ordered. "Drop out of sight.
I'll whistle when I want you."
"Aye, aye, sir."
The boat slipped noiselessly away with the current
and in an instant was lost to sight. Calendar plucked
at Kirkwood's sleeve, drawing him into the shadow of
the steps. "E-easy," he whispered; "and, I say,
lend me a hand, will you, if Mulready turns ugly?"
"Oh, yes," assented Kirkwood, with a nonchalance
not entirely unassumed.
The racket drew nearer and ceased; the hush that
fell thereafter seemed only accentuated by the purling
of the river. It was ended by footsteps echoing in
the covered passageway. Calendar craned his thick
neck round the shoulder of stone, reconnoitering the
landing and stairway.
"Thank God !" he said under his breath. "I was
right, after all!"
A man's deep tones broke out above. "This way.
Mind the steps; they're a bit slippery, Miss Dor-
othy."
"But my father—?" came the girl's voice, at-
tuned to doubt.
"Oh, he'll be along — if he isn't waiting now, in
the boat."
They descended, the man leading. At the foot,
without a glance to right or left, he advanced to the


108 THE BLACK BAG
edge of the stage, leaning out over the rail as if en-
deavoring to locate the rowboat. At once the girl
appeared, moving to his side.
"But, Mr. Mulready —"
The girl's words were drowned by a prolonged
blast on the boatswain's whistle at her companion's
lips; the shorter one followed in due course. Calen-
dar edged forward from Kirkwood's side.
"But what shall we do if my father isn't here?
Wait?"
"No; best not to; best to get on the Alethea as
soon as possible, Miss Calendar. We can send the
boat back."
"' Once aboard the lugger the girl is mine '— eh,
Mulready? — to say nothing of the loot!"
If Calendar's words were jocular, his tone con-
veyed a different impression entirely. Both man and
girl wheeled right about to face him, the one with a
strangled oath, the other with a low cry.
"The devil!" exclaimed this Mr. Mulready.
"Oh! My father!" the girl voiced her recogni-
tion of him.
"Not precisely one and the same person," com-
mented Calendar suavely. "But — er — thanks,
just as much. . . . You see, Mulready, when I
make an appointment, I keep it."
"We'd begun to get a bit anxious about you —"
Mulready began defensively.


"BELOW BRIDGE" 109
"So I surmised, from what Mrs. Hallam and Mr.
Kirkwood told me. . . . Well?"
The man found no ready answer. He fell back a
pace to the railing, his features -working with his
deep chagrin. The murky flare of the gas-lamp
overhead fell across a face handsome beyond the
ordinary but marred by a sullen humor and seamed
with indulgence: a face that seemed hauntingly fa-
miliar until Kirkwood in a flash of visual memory re-
constructed the portrait of a man who lingered over
a dining-table, with two empty chairs for company.
This, then, was he whom Mrs. Hallam had left at
the Pless; a tall, strong man, very heavy about the
chest and shoulders. . . .
"Why, my dear friend," Calendar was taunting
him, "you don't seem overjoyed to see me, for all
your wild anxiety! 'Pon my word, you act as if you
hadn't expected me — and our engagement so clearly
understood, at that! . . . Why, you fool!"—
here the mask of irony was cast. "Did you think
for a moment I'd let myself be nabbed by that yap
from Scotland Yard? Were you banking on that?
I give you my faith I ambled out under his very
nose! . . . Dorothy, my dear," turning impa-
tiently from Mulready, "where's that bag?"
The girl withdrew a puzzled gaze from Mulready's
face, (it was apparent to Kirkwood that this phase
of the affair was no more enigmatic to him than to


"BELOW BRIDGE" 111
four-wheeler, saying you had sent him to take your
•place, and would join us on the Alethea."
"So-o! How about it, Mulready?"
The man swung back slowly. "What you choose
to think," he said after a deliberate pause.
"Well, never mind! We'll go over the matter at
our leisure on the Alethea."
There was in the adventurer's tone a menace, bitter
and not to be ignored; which Mulready saw fit to
challenge.
"I think not," he declared; "I think not. I'm
weary of your addle-pated suspicions. It'd be plain
to any one but a fool that I acted for the best inter-
ests of all concerned in this matter. If you're not
content to see it in that light, I'm done."
"Oh, if you want to put it that way, I'm not con-
tent, Mr. Mulready," retorted Calendar danger-
ously.
"Please yourself. I bid you good evening and
— good-by." The man took a step toward the
stairs.
Calendar dropped his right hand into his top-coat
pocket. "Just a minute," he said sweetly, and
Mulready stopped. Abruptly the fat adventurer's
smoldering resentment leaped in flame. "That'll be
about all, Mr. Mulready! 'Bout face, you hound,
and get into that boat! D' you think I'll temporize
with you till Doomsday? Then forget it. You're


112 THE BLACK BAG
wrong, dead wrong. Your bluff's called, and"—
with an evil chuckle —" I hold a full house, Mul-
ready,— every chamber taken." He lifted meaningly
the hand in the coat pocket. "Now, in with you."
With a grin and a swagger of pure bravado Mul-
ready turned and obeyed. Unnoticed of any, save
perhaps Calendar himself, the boat had drawn in at
the stage a moment earlier. Mulready dropped into
it and threw himself sullenly upon the midships
thwart.
"Now, Dorothy, in you go, my dear," continued
Calendar, with a self-satisfied wag of his head.
Half dazed, to all seeming, she moved toward the
boat. With clumsy and assertive gallantry her fa-
ther stepped before her, offering his hand,— his
hand which she did not touch; for, in the act of de-
scending, she remembered and swung impulsively back
to Kirkwood.
"Good night, Mr. Kirkwood; good night,— I
shan't forget."
He took her hand and bowed above it; but when his
head was lifted, he still retained her fingers in a lin-
gering clasp.
"Good night," he said reluctantly.
The crass incongruity of her in that setting smote
him with renewed force. Young, beautiful, dainty,
brilliant and graceful in her pretty evening gown, she
figured strangely against the gloomy background of


"BELOW BRIDGE" US
the river, in those dull and mean surroundings of dank
stone and rusted iron. She was like (he thought ex-
travagantly) a whiff of flower-fragrance lost in the
miasmatic vapors of a slough.
The innocent appeal and allure of her face, up-
turned to his beneath the gas-light, wrought com-
passionately upon his sensitive and generous heart.
He was aware of a little surge of blind rage against
the conditions that had brought her to that spot,
and against those whom he held responsible for those
conditions.
In a sudden flush of daring he turned and nodded
coolly to Calendar. "With your permission," he
said negligently; and drew the girl aside to the angle
of the stairway.
"Miss Calendar —" he began; but was inter-
rupted.
"Here —I say!"
Calendar had started toward him angrily.
Kirkwood calmly waved him back. "I want a
word in private with your daughter, Mr. Calendar,"
he announced with quiet dignity. "I don't think
you'll deny me? I've saved you some slight trouble
to-night."
Disgruntled, the adventurer paused. "Oh — all
right," he grumbled. "I don't see what . . ."
He returned to the boat.
"Forgive me, Miss Calendar," continued Kirkwood


114 THE BLACK BAG
nervously. "I know I've no right to interfere,
but —"
"Yes, Mr. Kirkwood?"
"—but hasn't this gone far enough?" he flound-
ered unhappily. "I can't like the look of things.
Are you sure — sure that it's all right — with you, I
mean?"
She did not answer at once; but her eyes were kind
and sympathetic. He plucked heart of their toler-
ance.
"It isn't too late, yet," he argued. "Let me take
you to your friends,— you must have friends in the
city. But this — this midnight flight down the
Thames, this atmosphere of stealth and suspicion,
this —"
"But my place is with my father, Mr. Kirkwood,"
she interposed. "I daren't doubt him — dare I?"
"I . . . suppose not."
"So I must go with him. . . . I'm glad —'
thank you for caring, dear Mr. Kirkwood. And
again, good night."
"Good luck attend you," he muttered, following
her to the boat.
Calendar helped her in and turned back to Kirk-
wood with a look of arch triumph; Kirkwood won-
dered if he had overheard. Whether or no, he could
afford to be magnanimous. Seizing Kirkwood'a
hand, he pumped it vigorously.



The boat gathered impetus. Page 115
/





"BELOW BRIDGE" 115
"My dear boy, you've been an angel in disguise!
And I guess you think me the devil in masquerade."
He chuckled, in high conceit with himself over the
turn of affairs. "Good night and — and fare thee
well!" He dropped into the boat, seating himself
to face the recalcitrant Mulready. "Cast off,
there!"
The boat dropped away, the oars lifting and fall-
ing. With a weariful sense of loneliness and disap-
pointment, Kirkwood hung over the rail to watch them
out of sight.
A dozen feet of water lay between the stage and
the boat. The girl's dress remained a spot of cheer-
ful color; her face was a blur. As the watermen
swung the bows down-stream, she looked back, lifting
an arm spectral in its white sheath. Kirkwood raised
his hat.
The boat gathered impetus, momentarily diminish-
ing in the night's illusory perspective; presently it
was little more than a fugitive blot, gliding swiftly in
midstream. And then, it was gone entirely, engulfed
by the obliterating darkness.
Somewhat wearily the young man released the rail-
ing and ascended the stairs. "And that is the end!"
he told himself, struggling with an acute sense of
personal injury. He had been hardly used. For a
few hours his life had been lightened by the ineffable
glamor of Romance; mystery and adventure had en-


116 THE BLACK BAG
gaged him, exorcising for the time the Shade of
Care; he had served a fair woman and been associ
ated with men whose ways, however questionable, were
the ways of courage, hedged thickly about with per-
ils.
All that was at an end. Prosaic and workaday to-
morrows confronted him in endless and dreary per-
spective; and he felt again upon his shoulder the
bony hand of his familiar, Care.
He sighed: "Ah, well!"
Disconsolate and aggrieved, he gained the street.
He was miles from St. Pancras, foot-weary, to all in-
tents and purposes lost.
In this extremity, Chance smiled upon him. The
cabby who, at his initial instance, had traveled this
weary way from Quadrant Mews, after the manner
of his kind, ere turning back, had sought surcease of
fatigue at the nearest public; from afar Kirk wood
saw the four-wheeler at the curb, and made all haste
toward it.
Entering the gin-mill he found the cabby, soothed
him with bitter, and, instructing him for St. Pan-
cras with all speed, dropped, limp and listless with
fatigue, into the conveyance.
As it moved, he closed his eyes; the face of
Dorothy Calendar shone out from the blank wall of
his consciousness, like an illuminated picture cast upon
a screen. She smiled upon him, her head high, her


"BELOW BRIDGE" 117
eyes tender and trustful. And he thought that her
scarlet lips were sweet with promise and her glance
a-brim with such a light as he had never dreamed to
know.
And now that he knew it and desired it, it was too
late; an hour gone he might, by a nod of his head,
have cast his fortunes with hers for weal or woe.
But now . . .
Alas and alackaday, that Romance was no more!


VII
DIVEESIONS OF A BITINED GENTLEMAN, EESUMED
From the commanding elevation of the box, " Three
'n' six," enunciated the cabby, his tone that of a
man prepared for trouble, acquainted with trouble,
inclined to give trouble a welcome. His bloodshot
eyes blinked truculently at his alighted fare.
"Three 'n' six," he iterated aggressively.
An adjacent but theretofore abstracted policeman
pricked up his ears and assumed an intelligent ex-
pression.
"Bermondsey 01' Stairs to Sain' Pancras," argued
the . cabby assertively; "seven mile by th' radius;
three V six!"
Kirkwood stood on the outer station platform, near
the entrance to third-class waiting-rooms. Continu-
ing to fumble through his pockets for an elusive sov-
ereign purse, he looked up mildly at the man.
"All right, cabby," he said, with pacific purpose;
"you'll get your fare in half a shake."
"Three 'n' six!" croaked the cabby, like a blowsy
and vindictive parrot.
The bobby strolled nearer.
118


A RUINED, GENTLEMAN 119
I
"Yes?" said Kirkwood, mildly diverted. "Why
not sing it, cabby?"
"Lor' lumme!" The cabby exploded with indig-
nation, continuing to give a lifelike imitation of a
rumpled parrot. "I 'ad trouble enough wif you at
Bermondsey 01' Stairs, hover that quid you promised,
didn't I? Sing it! My heye!"
"Quid, cabby?" And then, remembering that he
had promised the fellow a sovereign for fast driving
from Quadrant Mews, Kirkwood grinned broadly, eyes
twinkling; for Mulready must have fallen heir to
that covenant, "But you got the sovereign? You
got it, didn't you, cabby?"
The driver affirmed the fact with unnecessary heat
and profanity and an amendment to the effect that
he would have spoiled his fare's sanguinary conk had
the outcome been less satisfactory.
The information proved so amusing that Kirkwood,
chuckling, forbore to resent the manner of its de-
livery, and, abandoning until a more favorable time
the chase of the coy sovereign purse, extracted from
one trouser pocket half a handful of large English
small change.
"Three shillings, six-pence," he counted the coins
into the cabby's grimy and bloated paw; and added
quietly: "The exact distance is rather less than
four miles, my man ; your fare, precisely-two shillings.
You may keep the extra eighteen pence, for being


120 THE BLi^CKBAG
such a conscientious blackguard,— oi" .talk it over with
the officer here. Please yourself."
He nodded to the bobby, who, favorably impressed
by the silk hat which Kirkwood, by diligent applica-
tion of his sleeve during the cross-town ride, had man-
aged to restore to a state somewhat approximating
its erstwhile luster, smiled at the cabby a cold, hard
smile. Whereupon the latter, smirking in unabashed
triumph, spat on the pavement at Kirkwood's feet,
gathered up the reins, and wheeled out.
"A 'ard lot, sir," commented the policeman, jerk-
ing his helmeted head towards the vanishing four-
wheeler.
"Right you are," agreed Kirkwood amiably, still
tickled by the knowledge that Mulready had been
obliged to pay three times over for the ride that ended
in his utter discomfiture. Somehow, Kirkwood had
conceived no liking whatever for the man; Calendar
he could, at a pinch, tolerate for his sense of humor,
but Mulready —! "A surly dog," he thought
him.
Acknowledging the policeman's salute and restor-
ing two shillings and a few fat copper pennies to his
pocket, he entered the vast and echoing train-shed.
In the act, his attention was attracted and immediately
riveted by the spectacle of a burly luggage navvy in
a blue jumper in the act of making off with a large,
folding sign-board, of which the surface was lettered


A RUINED GENTLEMAN 121
expansively with the advice, in red against a white
background:
BOAT-TBAIN LEAVES ON TEACK 3
Incredulous yet aghast the young man gave in-
stant chase to the navvy, overhauling him with no
great difficulty. For your horny-handed British
working-man is apparently born with two golden
aphorisms in his mouth: "Look before you leap,"
and "Haste makes waste." He looks continually,
seldom, if ever, leaps, and never is prodigal of his
leisure.
Excitedly Kirkwood touched the man's arm with a
detaining hand. "Boat-train?" he gasped, point-
ing at the board.
"Left ten minutes ago, thank you, sir."
"Wel-1, but . . .! Of course I can get an-
other train at Tilbury?"
"For yer boat? No, sir, thank you, sir. Won't
be another tryne till mornin', sir."
"Oh-h! . . ."
Aimlessly Kirkwood drifted away, his mind a
0 blank.
Sometime later he found himself on the steps out-
side the station, trying to stare out of countenance a
glaring electric mineral-water advertisement on the
farther side of the Euston Road.


122 THE BLACK BAG
He was stranded. . . .
Beyond the spiked iron fence that enhedges the
incurving drive, the roar of traffic, human, wheel and
hoof, rose high for all the lateness of the hour:
sidewalks groaning with the restless contact of hun-
dreds of ill-shod feet; the roadway thundering —
hansoms, four-wheelers, motor-cars, dwarfed coster-
mongers' donkey-carts and ponderous, rumbling,
C.-P. motor-vans, struggling for place and progress.
For St. Pancras never sleeps.
The misty air swam luminous with the light of elec-
tric signs as with the radiance of some lurid and
sinister moon. The voice of London sounded in Kirk-
wood's ears, like the ominous purring of a somnolent
brute beast, resting, gorged and satiated, ere rising
again to devour. To devour —
Stranded! . . .
Distracted, he searched pocket after pocket, locat-
ing his watch, cigaj- and cigarette-cases, match-box,
penknife — all the minutiae of pocket-hardware af-
fected by civilized man; with old letters, a card-case,
a square envelope containing his steamer ticket; but
no sovereign purse. His small-change pocket held
less than three shillings — two and eight, to be exact
— and a brass key, which he failed to recognize as
one of his belongings.
And that was all. At sometime during the night
he had lost (or been cunningly bereft of?) that little


U RUINED GENTLEMAN 123
purse of chamois-skin containing the three golden
sovereigns which he had been husbanding to pay his
steamer expenses, and which, if only he had them now,
would stand between him and starvation and a night
in the streets.
And, searching his heart, he found it brimming
with gratitude to Mulready, for having relieved him
of the necessity of settling with the cabby.
"Vagabond?" said Kirkwood musingly. "Vaga-
bond?" He repeated the word softly a number of
times, to get the exact flavor of it, and found it little
to his taste. And yet
He thrust both hands deep in his trouser pockets
and stared purposelessly into space, twisting his eye-
brows out of alignment and crookedly protruding his
lower lip.
If Brentwick were only in town —! But he wasn't,
and wouldn't be, within the week.
"No good waiting here," he concluded. Compos-
ing his face, he reentered the station. There were his
trunks, of course. He couldn't leave them standing
on the station platform for ever.
He found the luggage-room and interviewed a me-
chanically courteous attendant, wiio, as the result of
profound deliberation, advised him to try his luck at
the lost-luggage room, across the station. He ac-
cepted the advice; it was a foregone conclusion' that
his effects had not been conveyed to the Tilbury dock;


124 THE BLACK BAG
they could not have been loaded into the luggage van
without his personal supervision. Still, anything was
liable to happen when his unlucky star was in the as-
cendant.
He found them in the lost-luggage room.
A clerk helped him identify the articles and ulti-
mately clucked with a perfunctory note: "Sixpence
each, please."
"I —ah —pardon?"
"Sixpence each, the fixed charge, sir. For every
twenty-four hours or fraction thereof, sixpence per
parcel."
"Oh, thank you so much," said Kirkwood sweetly.
"I will call to-morrow."
"Very good, sir. Thank you, sir."
"Five times sixpence is two-and-six," Kirkwood
computed, making his way hastily out of the station,
lest a worse thing befall him. "No, bless your heart!
— not while two and eight represents the sum total
of my fortune."
He wandered out into the night; he could not linger
round the station till dawn; and what profit to him if
he did? Even were he to ransom his trunks, one can
scarcely change one's clothing in a public waiting-
room.
Somewhere in the distance a great clock chimed a
single stroke, freighted sore with melancholy. It
knelled the passing of the half-hour after midnight;


A RUINED GENTLEMAN 125
a witching hour, when every public shuts up tight,
and gentlemen in top-hats and evening dress are
doomed to pace the pave till day (barring they have
homes or visible means of support)—till day, when
pawnshops open and such personal effects as watches
and hammered silver cigar-cases may be hypothecated.
Sable garments fluttering, Care fell into step with
Philip Kirkwood; Care the inexorable slipped a skele-
ton arm through his and would not be denied; Care
the jade clung affectionately to his side, refusing to
be jilted.
"Ah, you thought you would forget me?"
chuckled the fleshless lips by his ear. "But no, my
boy; I'm with you now, for ever and a day. 'Misery
loves company,' and it wouldn't be pretty of me to de-
sert you in this extremity, would it? Come, let us
beguile the hours till dawn with conversation. Here's
a sprightly subject: What are you going to do, Mr.
Kirkwood? What are you going to do?"
But Kirkwood merely shook a stubborn head and
gazed straight before him, walking fast through ways
he did not recognize, and pretending not to hear.
None the less the sense of Care's solicitous query
struck like a pain into his consciousness. What was
he to do?
An hour passed.
Denied the opportunity to satisfy its beast hunger
and thirst, humanity goes off to its beds. In that hour


126 THE BLACK BAG
London quieted wonderfully; the streets achieved an
effect of deeper darkness, the skies, lowering, looked
down with a blush less livid for the shamelessness of
man; cab ranks lengthened; solitary footsteps added
unto themselves loud, alarming, offensive echoes; po-
licemen, strolling with lamps blazing on their breasts,
Jjecartife as lightships in a trackless sea ; each new-found
» street unfolded its perspective like a canyon of mys-
tery, arid yet teeming with a hundred masked hazards;
the air acquired a smell more clear and clean, an effect
more volatile; and the night-mist thickened until it
studded one's attire with myriads of tiny buttons,
bright as diamond dust.
Through this long hour Kirkwood walked without
a pause.
Another clock, somewhere, clanged resonantly twice.
The world was very still. . . .
And so, wandering foot-loose in a wilderness of
ways, turning aimlessly, now right, now left, he
found himself in a street he knew, yet seemed not. to
know: a silent, black street one brief block in length,
walled with dead and lightless dwellings, haunted by
"his errant memory; a street whose atmosphere was
heavy with impalpable essence of desuetude; in
two words, Frognall Street.
Kirkwood identified it with a start and a guilty
tremor. He stopped stock-still, in an unreasoning
state of semi-panic, arrested by a silly impulse to turn


A RUINED GENTLEMAN 127
and fly; as if the bobby, whom he descried approach-
ing him with measured stride, pausing now and again
to try a door or flash his bull's-eye down an area, were
to be expected to identify the man responsible for that
damnable racket raised ere midnight in vacant Num-
ber 9!
Oddly enough, the shock of recognition rlfiaught
him to his senses,— temporarily. He was even abl^^
to indulge himself in a quiet, sobering grin at his
own folly. He passed the policeman with a nod and
a cool word in response to the man's good-natured,
"Good-night, sir." Number 9 was on the other side
of the street; and he favored its blank and dreary
elevation with a prolonged and frank stare — that
profited him nothing, by the way. For a crazy no-
tion popped incontinently into his head, and would
not be cast forth.
At the corner he swerved and crossed, still pos-
sessed of his devil of inspiration. It would be unfair
to him to say that he did not struggle to resist it, for
he did, because it was fairly and egregiously asinine;
yet struggling, his feet trod the path to which it
tempted him.
"Why," he expostulated feebly, "I might's well
turn back and beat that bobby over the head with my
cane! . . ."
But at the moment his hand was in his change
pocket, feeling over that same brass door-key which


128 THE BLACK BAG
earlier he had been unable to account for, and he was
informing himself how very easy it would have been
for the sovereign purse to have dropped from his
waistcoat pocket while he was sliding on his ear down
the dark staircase. To recover it meant, at the least,
shelter for the night, followed by a decent, comfort-
able and sustaining morning meal. Fortified by both
he could redeem his luggage, change to clothing more
suitable for daylight traveling, pawn his valuables,
and enter into negotiations with the steamship com-
pany for permission to exchange his passage, with a
sum to boot, for transportation on another liner. A
most feasible project! A temptation all but irresist-
ible!
But then — the risk. . . . Supposing (for
the sake of argument) the customary night-watch-
man to have taken up a transient residence in Num-
ber 9; supposing the police to have entered with him
and found the stunned man on the second floor: would
the watchman not be vigilant for another nocturnal
marauder? would not the police now, more than ever,
be keeping a wary eye on that house of suspicious
happenings?
Decidedly, to reenter it would be to incur a deadly
risk. And yet, undoubtedly, beyond question! his
sovereign purse was waiting for him somewhere on the
second flight of stairs; whileas his means of clan-
destine entry lay warm in his fingers — the key to


A RUINED GENTLEMAN 129
the dark entry, which he had by force of habit
pocketed after locking the door.
He came to the Hog-in-the-Pound. Its windows
were dim with low-turned gas-lights. Down the cov-
ered alleyway, Quadrant Mews slept in a dusk but fit-
fully relieved by a lamp or two round which the
friendly mist clung close and thick.
There would be none to see . . .
Skulking, throat swollen with fear, heart beating
like a snare-drum, Kirkwood took his chance. But-
toning his overcoat collar up to his chin and cursing
the fact that his hat must stand out like a chimney-
pot on a detached house, he sped on tiptoe down the
cobbled way and close beneath the house-walls of
Quadrant Mews. But, half-way in, he stopped, con-
founded by an unforeseen difficulty. How was he to
identify the narrow entry of Number 9, whose coun-
terparts doubtless communicated with the mews from
every residence on four sides of the city block?
The low inner tenements were yet high enough to
hide the rear elevations of Frognall Street houses, and
the mist was heavy besides; otherwise he had made shift
to locate Number 9 by ticking off the dwellings from
the corner. If he went on, hit or miss, the odds were
anything-you-please to one that he would blunder into
the servant's quarters of some inhabited house, and —
be promptly and righteously sat upon by the service-
staff, while the bobby was summoned.


130 THE BLACK BAG
Be that as it might — he almost lost his head when
he realized this — escape was already cut off by the
way he had come. Some one, or, rather, some two
men were entering the alley. He could hear the
tramping and shuffle of clumsy feet, and voices that
muttered indistinctly. One seemed to trip over some-
thing, and cursed. The other laughed; the voices
grew more loud. They were coming his way. He
dared no longer vacillate.
But — which passage should he choose?
He moved on with more haste than discretion. One
heel slipped on a cobble time-worn to glassy smooth-
ness; he lurched, caught himself up in time to save
a fall, lost his hat, recovered it, and was discovered.
A voice, maudlin with drink, hailed and called upon
him to stand and give an account of himself, "like
a goo' feller." Another tempted him with offers of
drink and sociable confabulation. He yielded not;
adamantine to the seductive lure, he picked up his
heels and ran. Those behind him, remarking with re-
sentment the amazing fact that an intimate of the
mews should run away from liquor, cursed and made
after him, veering, staggering, howling like ravening
animals.
For all their burden of intoxication, they knew
the ground by instinct and from long associa-
tion. They gained on him. Across the way a win-
dow-sash went up with a bang, and a woman screamed.


A RUINED GENTLEMAN 131
Through the only other entrance to the mews a be-
lated cab was homing; its driver, getting wind of
the unusual, pulled up, blocking the way, and added
his advice to the uproar.
Caught thus between two fires, and with his perse-
cutors hard upon him, Kirkwood dived into the
nearest black hole of a passageway and in sheer des-
peration flung himself, key in hand, against the door
at the end. Mark how his luck served him who had
forsworn her! He found a keyhole and inserted the
key. It turned. So did the knob. The door gave
inward. He fell in with it, slammed it, shot the bolts,
and, panting, leaned against its panels, in a pit of
everlasting night but — saved ! — for the time being,
at all events.
Outside somebody brushed against one wall, can-
noned to the other, brought up with a crash against
the door, and, perforce at a standstill, swore from his
heart.
"Gorblimy!" he declared feelingly. "I'd V
took my oath I sore 'm run in 'ere!" And then, in
answer to an inaudible question: "No, 'e ain't.
Gorn an' let the fool go to 'ell. 'Oo wants 'im to
share goo'liker? Not I! . . ."
Joining his companion he departed, leaving behind
him a trail of sulphur-tainted air. The mews quieted
gradually.
Indoors Kirkwood faced unhappily the enigma of


132 THE BLACK BAG
fortuity, wondering: Was this by any possibility
Number 9?
The key had fitted; the bolts had been drawn on
the inside; and while the key had been one of ordinary
pattern and would no doubt have proven effectual
with any one of a hundred common locks, the finger
of probability seemed to indicate that his luck had
brought him back to Number 9.
In spite of all this, he was sensible of little confi-
dence; though this were truly Number 9, his freedom
still lay on the knees of the gods, his very life, be-
like, was poised, tottering, on a pinnacle of chance.
In the end, taking heart of desperation, he stooped
and removed his shoes; a precaution which later ap-
pealed to his sense of the ridiculous, in view of the
racket he had raised in entering, but which at the
moment seemed most natural and in accordance with
common sense. Then rising, he held his breath, star-
ing and listening. About him the pitch darkness was
punctuated with fading points of fire, and in his ears
was a noise of strange whisperings, very creepy —
until, gritting his teeth, he controlled his nerves and
gradually realized that he was alone, the silence un-
disturbed.
He went forward gingerly, feeling his way like
a blind man on strange ground. Ere long he
stumbled over a door-sill and found that the walls of
the passage had fallen away; he had entered a room,


A RUINED GENTLEMAN 183
a black cavern of indeterminate dimensions. Across
this he struck at random, walked himself flat against
a wall, felt his way along to an open door, and passed
through to another apartment as dark as the first.
Here, endeavoring to make a circuit of the walls, he
succeeded in throwing himself bodily across a bed,
which creaked horribly; and for a full minute lay as
he had fallen, scarce daring to think. But nothing
followed, and he got up and found a shut door which
let him into yet a third room, wherein he barked both
shins on a chair; and escaped to a fourth whose at-
mosphere was highly flavored with reluctant odors of
bygone cookery, stale water and damp plumbing —
probably the kitchen. Thence progressing over
complaining floors through what may have been the
servants' hall, a large room with a table in the middle
and a number of promiscuous chairs (witness his tor-
tured shins!), he finally blundered into the basement
hallway.
By now a little calmer, he felt assured that this
was really Number 9, Frognall Street, and a little
happier about it all, though not even momentarily
forgetful of the potential police and night-watchman.
However, he mounted the steps to the ground floor
without adventure and found himself at last in the
same dim and ghostly hall which he had entered some
six hours before; the mockery of dusk admitted by
the fan-light was just strong enough to enable him


134.
THE BLACK BAG
to identify the general lay of the land and arrange-
ment of furniture.
More confidently with each uncontested step, he
continued his quest. Elation was stirring his spirit
when be gained the first floor and moved toward the
foot of the second flight, approaching the spot
whereat he was to begin the search for the missing
purse. The knowledge that he lacked means of ob-
taining illumination deterred him nothing; he had
some hope of finding matches in one of the adjacent
rooms, but, failing that, was prepared to ascend
the stairs on all fours, feeling every inch of their
surface, if it took hours. Ever an optimistic soul,
instinctively inclined to father faith with a hope, he
felt supremely confident that his search would not
prove fruitless, that he would win early release from
his temporary straits.
And thus it fell out that, at the instant he was
thinking it time to begin to crawl and hunt, his
stockinged feet came into contact with something
heavy, yielding, warm — something that moved,
moaned, and caused his hair to bristle and his flesh to
creep.
We will make allowances for him; all along he had
gone on the assumption that his antagonist of the
dark stairway would have recovered and made off with
all expedition, in the course of ten or twenty min-
utes, at most, from the time of his accident. To find


A RUINED GENTLEMAN 135
him still there was something entirely outside of
Kirkwood's reckoning: he would as soon have,
thought to encounter say, Calendar,— would have
preferred the latter, indeed. But this fellow whose
disability was due to his own interference, who was
reasonably to be counted upon to raise the very deuce
and all of a row 1
The initial shock, however shattering to his
equanimity, soon lost effect. The man evidently re-
mained unconscious, in fact had barely moved; while
the moan that Kirkwood heard, had been distressingly
faint.
"Poor devil!" murmured the young man. "He
must be in a pretty bad way, for sure!" He knelt,
compassion gentling his heart, and put one hand to
the insentient face. A warm sweat moistened his fin-
gers; his palm was fanned by steady respiration.
Immeasurably perplexed, the American rose, slipped
on his shoes and buttoned them, thinking hard the
while. What ought he to do? Obviously flight sug-
gested itself,— incontinent flight, anticipating the
man's recovery. On the other hand, indubitably the
latter had sustained such injury that consciousness,
when it came to him, would hardly be reinforced by
much aggressive power. Moreover, it was to be re-
membered that the one was in that house with quite
as much warrant as the other, unless Kirkwood had
drawn a rash inference from the incident of the


136 THE BLACK BAG
ragged sentry. The two of them were mutual, if
antagonistic, trespassers; neither would dare bring
about the arrest of the other. And then — and this
was not the least consideration to influence Kirkwood
— perhaps the fellow would die if he got no atten-
tion.
Kirkwood shut his teeth grimly. "I'm no assas-
sin," he informed himself, "to strike and run. If
I've maimed this poor devil and there are conse-
quences, I'll stand 'em. The Lord knows it doesn't
matter a damn to anybody, not even to me, what hap-
pens to me; while he may be valuable."
Light upon the subject, actual as well as figur-
ative, seemed to be the first essential; his mind com-
posed, Kirkwood set himself in search of it. The
floor he was on, however, afforded him no assistance;
the mantels were guiltless of candles and he discov-
ered no matches, either in the wide and silent draw-
ing-room, with its ghastly furniture, like mummies in
their linen swathings, or in the small boudoir at the
back. He was to look either above or below, it
seemed.
After some momentary hesitation, he went up-stairs,
his ascent marked by a single and grateful accident;
half-way to the top he trod on an object that clinked
underfoot, and, stooping, retrieved the lost purse.
Thus was he justified of his temerity; the day was
saved — that is, to-morrow was.


A RUINED GENTLEMAN 137
The rooms of the second-floor were bedchambers,
broad, deep, statety, inhabited by seven devils of lone-
liness. In one, on a dresser, Kirkwood found a stump
of candle in a china candlestick; the two charred ends
of matches at its base were only an irritating dis-
covery, however — evidence that real matches had been
the mode in Number 9, at some remote date. Dis-
gusted and oppressed by cumulative inquisitiveness,
he took the candle-end back to the hall; he would
have given much for the time and means to make a
more detailed investigation into the secret of the
house.
Perhaps it was mostly his hope of chancing on
some clue to the mystery of Dorothy Calender — be-
witching riddle that she was! — that fascinated his
imagination so completely. Aside from her alto-
gether, the great house that stood untenanted, yet in
such complete order, so self-contained in its dark-
ened quiet, intrigued him equally with the train of
inexplicable events that had brought him within its
walls. Now — since his latest entrance — his vision
had adjusted itself to cope with the obscurity
to some extent; and the street lights, meagerly re-
flected through the windows from the bosom of a sullen
pall of cloud, low-swung above the city, had helped
him to piece together many a detail of decoration and
furnishing, alike somber and richly dignified. Kirk-
wood told himself that the owner, whoever he might


138 THE BLACK BAG
be, was a man of wealth and taste inherited from
another age; he had found little of meretricious to-
day in the dwelling, much that was solid and sedate
and homely and — Victorian. . . . He could
have wished for more; a box of early Victorian vestas
had been highly acceptable.
"Making his way down-stairs to the stricken man —
who was quite as he had been — Kirkwood bent over
and thrust rifling fingers into his pockets, regardless
of the wretched sense of guilt and sneakishness im-
parted by the action, stubbornly heedless of the possi-
bility of the man's awakening to find himself being
searched and robbed.
In the last place he sought, which should (he real-
ized) have been the first, to wit, the fob pocket of
the white waistcoat, he found a small gold match-
box, packed tight with wax vestas; and, berating
himself for crass stupidity — he had saved a deal of
time and trouble by thinking of this before — lighted
the candle.
As its golden flame shot up with scarce a tremor,
preyed upon by a perfectly excusable concern, he
bent to examine the man's countenance. . . . The
arm which had partly hidden it had fallen back into
a natural position. It was a young face that gleamed
pallid in the candlelight — a face unlined, a little
vapid and insignificant, with features regular and
neat, betraying iew characteristics other than the


140
THE BLACK BAG
features — a resemblance to some one he had seen, or
known, at some past time, somewhere, somehow.
"I give it up. Guess I'm mistaken. Anyhow,
five young Englishmen out of every ten of his class
are just as blond and foolish. Now let's see how bad
he's hurt."
With hands strong and gentle, he turned the
round, light head. Then, "Ah!" he commented in
the accent of comprehension. For there was an angry
looking bump at the base of the skull; and, the skin
having been broken, possibly in collision with the
sharp-edged newel-post, a little blood had stained
and matted the straw-colored hair.
Kirkwood let the head down and took thought.
Recalling a bath-room on the floor above, thither he
went, unselfishly forgetful of his predicament if dis-
covered, and, turning on the water, sopped his hand-
kerchief until it dripped. Then, returning, he took
the boy's head on his knees, washed the wound, pur-
loined another handkerchief (of silk, with a giddy
border) from the other's pocket, and of this manu-
factured a rude but serviceable bandage.
Toward the conclusion of his attentions, the suf-
ferer began to show signs of returning animation.
He stirred restlessly, whimpered a little, and sighed.
And Kirkwood, in consternation, got up.
"So!" he commented ruefully. "I guess I am an
ass, all right — taking all that trouble for you, my


A RUINED GENTLEMAN 141
friend. If I've got a grain of sense left, this is my
cue to leave you alone in your glory."
He was lingering only to restore-to the boy's pock-
ets such articles as he had removed in the search for
matches,— the match-box, a few silver coins, a bulky
sovereign purse, a handsome, plain gold watch, and
so forth. But ere he concluded he was aware that
the boy was conscious, that his eyes, open and blink-
ing in the candlelight, were upon him.
They were blue eyes, blue and shallow as a doll's,
and edged with long, fine lashes. Intelligence, of a
certain degree, was rapidly informing them. Kirk-
wood returned their questioning glance, transfixed in
indecision, his primal impulse to cut-and-run for it
was gone; he had nothing to fear from this child who
could not prevent his going whenever he chose to go;
while by remaining he might perchance worm from
him something about the girl.
"You're feeling better?" Ke was almost sur-
prised to hear his own voice put the query.
"I — I think so. Ow, my head! . . . I say,
you chap, whoever you are, what's happened?
. . . I want to get up." The boy added peev-
ishly: " Help a fellow, can't you?"
"You've had a nasty fall," Kirkwood observed
evenly, passing an arm beneath the boy's shoulder
and helping him to a sitting position. "Do you
remember?"


14$ THE BLACK BAG
The other snuffled childishly and scrubbed across
the floor to rest his back against the wall.
"Why-y ... I remember fallin'; and then
. . . I woke up and it was all dark and my head
achin' fit to split. I presume I went to sleep again.
. . I say, what're you doing here?"
Instead of replying, Kirkwood lifted a warning
finger.
"Hush!" he said tensely, alarmed by noises in
the street. "You don't suppose —?"
He had been conscious of a carriage rolling up from
the corner, as well as that it had drawn up (pre-
sumably) before a near-by dwelling. Now the rattle
of a key in the hall-door was startlingly audible.
Before he could move, the door itself opened with a
slam.
Kirkwood moved toward the stair-head, and drew
back with a cry of disgust. "Too late!" he told
himself bitterly ; his escape was cut off. He could run
up-stairs and hide, of course, but the boy would in-
form against him and
He buttoned up his coat, settled his hat on his
head, and moved near the candle, where it rested on
the floor. One glimpse would suffice to show him
the force of the intruders, and one move of his foot
put out the light; then — perhaps — he might be
able to rush them.
Below, a brief pause had followed the noise of the


A RUINED GENTLEMAN 143
door, as if those entering were standing, irresolute,
undecided which way to turn; but abruptly enough
the glimmer of candlelight must have been noticed.
Kirkwood heard a hushed exclamation, a quick clatter
of high heels on the parquetry, pattering feet on
the stairs, all but drowned by swish and ripple of
silken skirts; and a woman stood at the head of the
flight — to the American an apparition profoundly
amazing as she paused, the light from the floor cast-
ing odd, theatric shadows beneath her eyes and over
her brows, edging her eyes themselves with brilliant
light beneath their dark lashes, showing her lips
straight and drawn, and shimmering upon the span-
gles of an evening gown, visible beneath the dark
cloak which had fallen back from her white, beautiful
shoulders.


VIII
MADAME L'lNTEIGANTE
"Mrs. Hallam!" cried Kirkwood, beneath his
breath.
The woman ignored his existence. Moving swiftly
forward, she dropped on both knees by the side of
the boy, and caught up one of his hands, clasping
it passionately in her own.
"Fred!" she cried, a curious break in her tone.
"My little Freddie! Oh, what has happened,
dearie?"
"Oh, hello, Mamma," grunted that young man,
submitting listlessly to her caresses and betraying no
overwhelming surprise at her appearance there. In-
deed he seemed more concerned as to what Kirkwood,
an older man, would be thinking, to see him so en-
deared and fondled, than moved by any other emotion.
Kirkwood could see his shamefaced, sidelong glances;
and despised him properly for them.
But without attending to his response, Mrs. Hallam
rattled on in the uneven accents of excitement. "I
waited until I couldn't wait any longer, Freddie dear.
I had to know — had to come. Eccles came home
144


MADAME L'INTRIGANTE 145
about nine and said that you had told him to wait
outside, that some one had followed you in here, and
that a bobby had told him to move on. I didn't
know what —"
"What's o'clock now?" her son interrupted.
"It's about three, I think. . . . Have you
hurt yourself, dear? Oh, why didn't you come home?
You must 've known I was dying of anxiety!"
"Oh, I say! Can't you see I'm hurt? 'Had a
nasty fall and must 've been asleep ever since."
"My precious one! How—?"
"Can't say, hardly. ... I say, don't paw a
chap so, Mamma. ... I brought Eccles along
and told him to wait because — well, because I didn't
feel so much like shuttin' myself up in this beastly
old tomb. So I left the door ajar, and told him not
to let anybody come in. Then I came up-stairs.
There must 've been somebody already in the house;
I know I thought there was. It made me feel creepy,
rather. At any rate, I heard voices down below, and
the door banged, and somebody began hammerin'
like fun on the knocker."
The boy paused, rolling an embarrassed eye up
at the stranger.
"Yes, yes, dear!" Mrs. Hallam urged him on.
"Why, I — I made up my mind to cut my stick
— let whoever it was pass me on the stairs, you know.
But he followed me and struck me, and then I jumped


MADAME L'INTRIGANTE 147
"I advise that course, Mr. Kirkwood."
"Thanks, awfly. ... I came here, half an
hour ago, looking for a lost purse full — well, not
quite full of sovereigns. It was my purse, by the
way."
Suspicion glinted like foxfire in the cold green
eyes beneath her puckered brows. "I do not under-
stand," she said slowly and in level tones.
"I didn't expect you to," returned Kirkwood; " no
more do I. . . . But, anyway, it must be clear
to you that I've done my best for this gentleman
here." He paused with an interrogative lift of his
eyebrows.
"' This gentleman' is my son, Frederick Hallam.
But you will explain —"
"Pardon me, Mrs. Hallam; I shall explain noth-
ing, at present. Permit me to point out that your
position here — like mine — is, to say the least,
anomalous." The random stroke told, as he could
tell by the instant contraction of her eyes of a cat.
"It would be best to defer explanations till a more
convenient time — don't you think? Then, if you
like, we can chant confidences in an antiphonal chorus.
Just now your — er — son is not enjoying himself
apparently, and . . . the attention of the police
had best not be called to this house too often in one
night."
His levity seemed to displease and perturb the


148
THE BLACK BAG
woman; she turned from him with an impatient move-
ment of her shoulders.
"Freddie, dear, do you feel able to walk?"
"Eh? Oh, I dare say —I don't know. Won-
der would your friend — ah — Mr. Kirkwood, lend
me an arm?"
"Charmed," Kirkwood declared suavely. "If
you'll take the candle, Mrs. Hallam —"
He helped the boy to his feet and, while the latter
hung upon him and complained querulously, stood
waiting for the woman to lead the way with the light;
something which, however, she seemed in no haste to
do. The pause at length puzzled Kirkwood, and he
turned, to find Mrs. Hallam holding the candlestick
and regarding him steadily, with much the same ex-
pression of furtive mistrust as that with which she
had favored him on her own door-stoop.
"One moment," she interposed in confusion; "I
won't keep you waiting ... ;" and, passing
with an averted face, ran quickly up-stairs to the sec-
ond floor, taking the light with her. Its glow faded
from the walls above and Kirkwood surmised that she
had entered the front bedchamber. For some mo-
ments he could hear her moving about; once, some-
thing scraped and bumped on the floor, as if a heavy
bit of furniture had been moved; again there was a
resounding thud that defied speculation; and this was
presently followed by a dull clang of metal.



He helped the hoy to his feet, and stood waiting. Page 148


•-. • •


150
THE BLACK BAG
the gladstone bag. That, evidently, was the bone of
contention. Calendar had sent his daughter for it,
Mrs. Hallam her son; Dorothy had been successful.
But, on the other hand, Calendar and Mrs.
Hallam were unquestionably allies. Why, then—?
"Where is it, Mr. Kirkwood?"
"Madam, have you the right to know?"
Through another lengthening pause, while they
faced each other, he marked again the curious con-
traction of her under lip.
"I have the right," she declared steadily.
"Where is it?"
"How can I be sure?"
"Then you don't know —!"
"Indeed," he interrupted, "I would be glad to
feel that I ought to tell you what I know."
"What you know!"
The exclamation, low-spoken, more an echo of her
thoughts than intended for Kirkwood, was accom-
panied by a little shake of the woman's head, mute
evidence to the fact that she was bewildered by his
finesse. And this delighted the young man beyond
measure, making him feel himself master of a difficult
situation. Mysteries had been woven before his eyes
so persistently, of late, that it was a real pleasure to
be able to do a little mystifying on his own account.
By adopting this reticent and non-committal attitude,
he was forcing the hand of a woman old enough to


MADAME L'INTRIGANTE 151
be his mother and most evidently a past-mistress in
the art of misleading. All of which seemed very fas-
cinating to the amateur in adventure.
The woman would have led again, but young Hal-
lam cut in, none too courteously.
"I say, Mamma, it's no good standing here, pala-
verin' like a lot of flats. Besides, I'm awf'ly knocked
up. Let's get home and have it out there."
Instantly his mother softened. "My poor boy!
Of course we'll go."
Without further demur she swept past and down
the stairway before them — slowly, for their progress
was of necessity slow, and the light most needed.
Once they were in the main hall, however, she ex-
tinguished the candle, placed it on a side table, and
passed out through the door.
It had been left open, as before; and Kirkwood
was not at all surprised to see a man waiting on the
threshold,— the versatile Eccles, if he erred not. He
had little chance to identify him, as it happened, for
at a word from Mrs. Hallam the man bowed and,
following her across the sidewalk, opened the door of
a four-wheeler which, with lamps alight and liveried
driver on the box, had been waiting at the carriage-
block.
As they passed out, Kirkwood shut the door; and
at the same moment the little party was brought up
standing by a gruff and authoritative summons.


152
THE BLACK BAG
"Just a minute, please, you there!"
"Aha!" said Kirkwood to himself. "I thought
so." And he halted, in unfeigned respect for the
burly and impressive figure, garbed in blue and brass,
helmeted and truncheoned, bull's-eye shining on breast
like the Law's unblinking and sleepless eye, barring
the way to the carriage.
Mrs. Hallam showed less deference for the ob-
structionist. The assumed hauteur and impatience of
her pose was artfully reflected in her voice as she
rounded upon the bobby, with an indignant demand:
"What is the meaning of this, officer?"
"Precisely what I wants to know, ma'am," returned
the man, unyielding beneath his respectful attitude.
"I'm obliged to ask you to tell me what you were
doing in that 'ouse. . . . And what's the mat-
ter with this 'ere gentleman?" he added, with a du-
bious stare at young Hallam's bandaged head and
rumpled clothing.
"Perhaps you don't understand," admitted Mrs.
Hallam sweetly. "Of course — I see — it's per-
fectly natural. The house has been shut up for some
time and —"
"Thank you, ma'am; that's just it. There was
something wrong going on early in the evening, and
I was told to keep an eye on the premises. It's duty,
ma'am; I've got my report to make."
"The house," said Mrs. Hallam, with the long-


MADAME L'INTRIGANTE 153
suffering patience of one elucidating a perfectly
plain proposition to a being of a lower order of in-
telligence, "is the property of my son, Arthur Fred-
erick Burgoyne Hallam, of Cornwall. This is —"
"Beg pardon, ma'am, but I was told Colonel George
Burgoyne, of Cornwall —"
"Colonel Burgoyne died some time ago. My son
is his heir. This is my son. He came to the house
this evening to get some property he desired, and —
it seems — tripped on the stairs and fell unconscious.
I became worried about him and drove over, accom-
panied by my friend, Mr. Kirkwood."
The policeman looked his troubled state of mind,
and wagged a doubtful head over the case. There
was his duty, and there was, opposed to it, the fact
that all three were garbed in the livery of the well-
to-do.
At length, turning to the driver, he demanded, re-
ceived, and noted in his memorandum-book, the license
number of the equipage.
"It's a very unusual case, ma'am," he apologized;
"I hopes you won't 'old it against me. I'm only
trying to do my duty —"
"And safeguard our property. You are perfectly
justified, officer."
"Thank you, ma'am. And would you mind giving
me your cards, please, all of you?"
"Certainly not." Without hesitation the woman


154 THE BLACK BAG
took a little hand-bag from the seat of the carriage
and produced a card; her son likewise found his case
and handed the officer an oblong slip.
"I've no cards with me," the American told the
policeman; "my name, however, is Philip Kirkwood,
and I'm staying at the Pless."
"Very good, sir; thank you." The man penciled
the information in his little book. "Thank you,
ma'am, and Mr. Hallam, sir. Sorry to have detained
you. Good morning."
Kirkwood helped young Hallam into the carriage,
gave Mrs. Hallam his hand, and followed her. The
man Eccles shut the door, mounting the box beside
the driver. Immediately they were in motion.
The American got a final glimpse of the bobby,
standing in front of Number 9, Frognall Street, and
watching them with an air of profound uncertainty.
He had Kirkwood's sympathy, therein; but he had
little time to feel with him, for Mrs. Hallam turned
upon him very suddenly.
"Mr. Kirkwood, will you be good enough to tell
me who and what you are?"
The young man smiled his homely, candid smile.
"I'll be only too glad, Mrs. Hallam, when I feel sure
you'll do as much for yourself."
She gave him no answer; it was as if she were
choosing words. Kirkwood braced himself to meet
the storm; but none ensued. There was rather a


MADAME L'INTRIGANTE 155
lull, which strung itself out indefinitely, to the mo-
notonous music of hoofs and rubber tires.
Young Hallam was resting his empty blond head
against the cushions, and had closed his eyes. He
seemed to doze; but, as the carriage rolled past the
frequent street-lights, Kirkwood could see that the
eyes of Mrs. Hallam were steadily directed to his
face.
His outward composure was tempered by some
amusement, by more admiration; the woman's eyes
were very handsome, even when hardest and most
cold. It was not easy to conceive of her as being
the mother of a son so immaturely mature. Why, she
must have been at least thirty-eight or -nine! One
wondered; she did not look it. . . .
The carriage stopped before a house with lighted
windows. Eccles jumped down from the box and
scurried to open the front door. The radiance of a
hall-lamp was streaming out into the misty night
when he returned to release his employers.
They were returned to Craven Street!" One more
lap round the track!" mused Kirkwood. "Wonder
will the next take me back to Bcrmondscy Old
Stairs."
At Mrs. Hallam's direction, Eccles ushered him
into the smoking-room, on the ground floor in the rear
of the dwelling, there to wait while she helped her
son up-stairs and to bed. He sighed with pleasure
4


156 THE BLACK BAG
at first glimpse of its luxurious but informal com-
forts, and threw himself carelessly into a heavily
padded lounging-chair, dropping one knee over the
other and lighting the last of his expensive cigars,
with a sensation of undiluted gratitude; as one com-
ing to rest in the shadow of a great rock in a weary
land.
Over his shoulder a home-like illumination was cast
by an electric reading-lamp shaded with red silk. At
his feet brass fire-dogs winked sleepily in the flutter-
ing blaze of a well-tended stove. The walls were
hung with deep red, the doors and divans upholstered
in the same restful shade. In one corner an old clock
ticked soberly. The atmosphere would have proved
a potent invitation to reverie, if not to sleep — he
was very sleepy — but for the confusion in the house.
In its chambers, through the halls, on the stairs,
there were hurryings and scurryings of feet and
skirts, confused with murmuring voices. Presently,
in an adjoining room, Philip Kirkwood heard a
maid-servant wrestling hopefully with that most ex-
asperating of modern time-saving devices, the tele-
phone as countenanced by our English cousins. Her
patience and determination won his approval, but
availed nothing for her purpose; in the outcome the
telephone triumphed and the maid gave up the un-
equal contest.
Later, a butler entered the room; a short and sturdy


MADAME L'INTRIGANTE 157
fellow, extremely ill at ease. Drawing a small ta-
boret to the side of Kirkwood's chair, he placed there-
on a tray, deferentially imparting the information
that " Missis 'Allam 'ad thought 'ow as Mister Kirk-
wood might care for a bit of supper."
"Please thank Mrs. Hallam for me." Kirkwood's
gratified eyes ranged the laden tray. There were
sandwiches, biscuit, cheese, and a pot of black coffee,
with sugar and cream. "It was very kindly thought
of," he added.
"Very good sir, thank you, sir."
The man turned to go, shuffling soundlessly.
Kirkwood was suddenly impressed with his evasive-
ness; ever since he had entered the room, his counte-
nance had seemed turned from the guest.
"Eccles !" he called sharply, at a venture.
The butler halted, thunderstruck. "Ye-es, s-sir?"
'" Turn round, Eccles; I want a look at you."
Eccles faced him unwillingly, with a stolid front
but shifty eyes. Kirkwood glanced him up and
down, grinning.
"Thank you, Eccles; I'll remember you now.
You'll remember me, too, won't you? You're a bad
actor, aren't you, Eccles?"
"Yes, sir; thank you, sir," mumbled the man un-
happily; and took instant advantage of the implied
permission to go.
Intensely diverted by the recollection of Eccles'
/
t
r


158 THE BLACK BAG
abortive attempt to stop him at the door of Number
9, and wondering — now that he came to think of it
— why, precisely, young Hallam had deemed it neces-
sary to travel with a body-guard and adopt such
furtive methods to enter into as well as to obtain what
was asserted to be his own property, Kirkwood turned
active attention to the lunch.
Thoughtfully he poured himself a cup of coffee,
swallowing it hot and black as it came from the silver
pot; then munched the sandwiches.
It was kindly thought of, this early morning re-
past; Mrs. Hallam seemed more and more a remark-
able woman with each phase of her character that
she chose to disclose. At odds with him, she yet
took time to think of his creature needs!
What could be her motive,— not in feeding him,
but in involving her name and fortune in an affair
so strangely flavored? . . , This opened up a
desert waste of barren speculation. "What's any-
body's motive, who figures in this thundering
dime-novel?" demanded the American, almost con-
temptuously. And — for the hundredth time —
gave it up; the day should declare it, if so hap he
lived to see that day: a distant one, he made no doubt.
The only clear fact in his befogged and bemused
mentality was that he was at once "broke" and in
this business up to his ears. Well, he'd sec it through;
he'd nothing better to do, and — there was the girl:


MADAME L'INTRIGANTE 159
Dorothy, whose eyes and lips he had but to close
his own eyes to see again as vividly as though she
stood before him; Dorothy, whose unspoiled sweet-
ness stood out in vivid relief against this moil and
toil of conspiracy, like a star of evening shining clear
in a stormy sky.
"Poetic simile: I'm going fast," conceded
Kirkwood; but he did not smile. It was becoming
quite too serious a matter for laughter. For her
sake, he was in the game " for keeps "; especially in
view of the fact that everything — his own heart's
inclination included — seemed to conspire to keep him
in it. Of course he hoped for nothing in return; a
pauper who turns squire-of-dames with matrimonial
intent is open to the designation, "penniless adven-
turer." No; whatever service he might be to the girl
would be ample recompense to him for his labors.
And afterwards, he'd go his way in peace; she'd soon
forget him — if she hadn't already. Women (he
propounded gravely) are queer: there's no telling
anything about them 1
One of the most unreadable specimens of the sex
on which he pronounced this highly original dictum,
entered the room just then; and he found himself
at once out of his chair and his dream, bowing.
"Mrs. Hallam."
The woman nodded and smiled graciously. "Ec-
cles has attended to your needs, I hope? Please don't
/""


160 THE BLACK BAG
stop smoking." She sank into an arm-chair on the
other side of the hearth and, probably by accident,
out of the radius of illumination from the lamp; sit-
ting sidewise, one knee above the other, her white
arms immaculate against the somber background of
shadowed crimson.
She was very handsome indeed, just then; though
a keener light might have proved less flattering.
"Now, Mr. Kirkwood?" she opened briskly, with
a second intimate and friendly nod; and paused, her
pose receptive.
Kirkwood sat down again, smiling good-natured
appreciation of her unprejudiced attitude.
"Your son, Mrs. Hallam—?"
"Oh, Freddie's doing well enough. . . . Fred-
die," she explained, "has a delicate constitution and
has seen little of the world. Such melodrama as to-
night's is apt to shock him severely. We must make
allowances, Mr. Kirkwood."
Kirkwood grinned again, a trace unsympathct-
ically; he was unable to simulate any enthusiasm on
the subject of poor Freddie, whom he had sized up
with passable acumen as a spoiled and coddled child
completely under the thumb of an extremely clever
mother.
"Yes," he responded vaguely; "he'll be quite fit
after a night's sleep, I dare say."
The woman was watching him keenly beneath her
1


MADAME L'INTRIGANTE 161
lowered lashes. "I think," she said deliberately,
"that it is time we came to an understanding."
Kirkwood agreed —-" Yes?" affably.
"I purpose being perfectly straightforward. To
begin with, I don't place you, Mr. Kirkwood. You
are an unknown quantity, a new factor. Won't you
please tell me what you are and . . . Are you
a friend of Mr. Calendar's?"
"I think I may lay claim to that honor, though"
— to Kirkwood's way of seeing things some little
frankness on his own part would be essential if they
were to get on —" I hardly know him, Mrs. Hallam.
I had the pleasure of meeting him only this after-
noon."
She knitted her brows over this statement.
"That, I assure you, is the truth," he laughed.
"But ... I really don't understand."
"Nor I, Mrs. Hallam. Calendar aside, I am Philip
Kirkwood, American, resident abroad for some years,
a native of San Francisco, of a certain age, unmar-
ried, by profession a poor painter."
"And—?"
"Beyond that? I presume I must tell you, though
I confess I'm in doubt. . . ." He hesitated,
weighing candor in the balance with discretion.
"But who are you for? Are you in George Cal-
endar's pay?"
"Heaven forfend!"— piously. "My sole interest


162
THE BLACK BAG
at the present moment is to unravel a most entranc-
ing mystery —"
"Entitled 'Dorothy Calendar'! Of course.
You've known her long?"
"Eight hours, I believe," he admitted gravely;
"less than that, in fact."
"Miss Calendar's interests will not suffer through
anything you may tell me."
"Whether they will or no, I see I must swing a
looser tongue, or you'll be showing me the door."
The woman shook her head, amused. "Not until,"
she told him significantly.
"Very well, then." And he launched into an
abridged narrative of the night's events, as he under-
stood them, touching lightly on his own circumstances,
the real poverty which had brought him back to
Craven Street by way of Frognall. "And there you
have it all, Mrs. Hallam."
She sat in silent musing. Now and again he
caught the glint of her eyes and knew that he was
being appraised with such trained acumen as only
long knowledge of men can give to women. He
wondered if he were found wanting. . . . Her
dark head bended, elbow on knee, chin resting lightly
in the cradle of her slender, parted fingers, the
woman thought profoundly, her reverie ending with
a brief, curt laugh, musical and mirthless as the
sound of breaking glass.


MADAME L'INTRIGANTE 163
"It is so like Calendar!" she exclaimed: "so like
him that one sees how foolish it was to trust — no, not
to trust, but to believe that he could ever be thrown
off the scent, once he got nose to ground. So, if we
suffer, my son and I, I shall have only myself to
thank!"
Kirkwood waited in patient attention till she chose
to continue. When she did " Now for my side of the
case!" cried Mrs. Hallam; and rising, began to pace
the room, her slender and rounded figure swaying
gracefully, the while she talked.
"George Calendar is a scoundrel," she said: "a
swindler, gambler,— what I believe you Americans
call a confidence-man. He is also my late husband's
first cousin. Some years since he found it convenient
to leave England, likewise his wife and daughter.
Mrs. Calendar, a country-woman of yours, by the
bye, died shortly afterwards. Dorothy, by the merest
accident, obtained a situation as private secretary in
the household of the late Colonel Burgoyne, of The
Cliffs, Cornwall. You follow me?"
"Yes, perfectly."
"Colonel Burgoyne died, leaving his estates to my
son, some time ago. Shortly afterwards Dorothy
Calendar disappeared. We know now that her father
took her away, but then the disappearance seemed
inexplicable, especially since with her vanished a great
deal of valuable information. She alone knew of the


164 THE BLACK BAG
location of certain of the old colonel's personal ef-
fects.
"He was an eccentric. One of his peculiarities
involved the secreting of valuables in odd places; he
had no faith in banks. Among these valuables were
the Burgoyne family jewels — quite a treasure, be-
lieve me, Mr. Kirkwood. We found no note of them
among the colonel's papers, and without Dorothy
were powerless to pursue a search for them. We
advertised and employed detectives, with no result.
it seems that father and daughter were at Monte
Carlo at the time."
"Beautifully circumstantial, my dear lady," com-
mented Kirkwood — to his inner consciousness. Out-
wardly he maintained consistently a pose of impassive
gullibility.
"This afternoon, for the first time, we received
news of the Calendars. Calendar himself called upon
me, to beg a loan. I explained our difficulty and he
promised that Dorothy should send us the informa-
tion by the morning's post. When I insisted, he
agreed to bring it himself, after dinner, this even-
ing. ... I make it quite clear?" she inter-
rupted, a little anxious.
"Quite clear, I assure you," he assented encourag-
ingly-
"Strangely enough, he had not been gone ten min-
utes when my son came in from a conference with


MADAME L'INTRIGANTE 165
our solicitors, informing me that at last a memo-
randum had turned up, indicating that the heirlooms
would be found in a safe secreted behind a dresser
in Colonel Burgoyne's bedroom."
"At Number 9, Frognall Street."
"Yes. ... I proposed going there at once,
but it was late and we were dining at the Pless with
an acquaintance, a Mr. Mulready, whom I now recall
as a former intimate of George Calendar. To our
surprise we saw Calendar and his daughter at a table
not far from ours. Mr. Mulready betrayed some agi-
tation at the sight of Calendar, and told me that
Scotland Yard had a man out with a warrant for
Calendar's arrest, on old charges. For old sake's
sake, Mr. Mulready begged me to give Calendar a
word of warning. I did so — foolishly, it seems: Cal-
endar was at that moment planning to rob us, Mul-
ready aiding and abetting him."
The woman paused before Kirkwood, looking down
upon him. "And so," she concluded, " we have been
tricked and swindled. I can scarcely believe it of
Dorothy Calendar."
"I, for one, don't believe it." Kirkwood spoke
quietly, rising. "Whatever the culpability of Cal-
endar and Mulready, Dorothy was only their hood-
winked tool."
"But, Mr. Kirkwood, she must have known the
jewels were not hers."


166
THE BLACK BAG
"Yes," he assented passively, but wholly uncon-
vinced.
"And what," she demanded with a gesture of ex-
asperation, "what would you advise?"
"Scotland Yard," he told her bluntly.
"But it's a family secret! It must not appear in
the papers. Don't you understand — George Cal-
endar is my husband's cousin!"
"I can think of nothing else, unless you pursue
them in person."
"But — whither?"
"That remains to be discovered; I can tell you
nothing more than I have. . . . May I thank
you for your hospitality, express my regrets that I
should unwittingly have been made the agent of this
disaster, and wish you good night — or, rather, good
morning, Mrs. Hallam?"
For a moment she held him under a calculating
glance which he withstood with graceless fortitude.
Then, realizing that he was determined not by any
"* means to be won to her cause, she gave him her hand,
with a commonplace wish that he might find his af-
fairs in better order than seemed probable; and rang
for Eccles.
The butler showed him out.
He took away with him two strong impressions; the
one visual, of a strikingly handsome woman in a won-
derful gown, standing under the red glow of a


MADAME L'INTRIGANTE 167
reading-lamp, in an attitude of intense mental con-
centration, her expression plainly indicative of a train
of thought not guiltless of vindictiveness; the other,
more mental but as real, he presently voiced to the
huge bronze lions brooding over desolate Trafalgar
Square.
"Well," appreciated Mr. Kirkwood with gusto,
"she's got Ananias and Sapphira talked to a stand-
still, all right!" He ruminated over this for a mo-
ment. "Calendar can lie some, too; but hardly with
her picturesque touch. . . . Uncommon in-
genious, J call it. All the same, there were only about
a dozen bits of tiling that didn't fit into her mosaic
a little bit. ... I think they're all tarred with
the same stick — all but the girl. And there's some-
thing afoot a long sight more devilish and crafty than
that shilling-shocker of madam's. . . . Dorothy
Calendar's got about as much active part in it as I
have. I'm only from California, but they've got to
show me, before I'll believe a word against her.
Those infernal scoundrels! .
Somebody's got to be on the girl's side and I seem
to have drawn the lucky straw. . . . Good
Heavens! is it possible for a grown man to fall heels
over head in love in two short hours? I don't believe
it. It's just interest — nothing more. . . . And
I'll have to have a change of clothes before I can do
anything further."


168 THE BLACK BAG
He bowed gratefully to the lions, in view of their
tolerant interest in his soliloquy, and set off very
suddenly round the square and up St. Martin's Lane,
striking across town as directly as might be for St.
Pancras Station. It would undoubtedly be a long
walk, but cabs were prohibited by his straitened
means, and the busses were all abed and wouldn't be
astir for hours.
He strode along rapidly, finding his way more
through intuition than by observation or famil-
iarity with London's geography — indeed, was scarce
aware of his surroundings; for his brain was big
with fine imagery, rapt in a glowing dream of knight-
errantry and chivalric deeds.
Thus is it ever and alway with those who in the
purity of young hearts rush in where angels fear
to tread; if these, Kirkwood and his ilk, be fools,
thank God for them, for with such foolishness is life
savored and made sweet and sound! To Kirkwood
the warp of the world and the woof of it was
Romance, and it wrapped him round, a magic
mantle to set him apart from all tilings mean and
sordid and render him impregnable and invisible to
the haunting Shade of Care.
Which, by the same token, presently lost track of
him entirely, and wandered off to find and bedevil
some other poor devil. And Kirkwood, his eyes
like his spirit elevated, saw that the clouds of


MADAME L'INTRIGANTE 169
night were breaking, the skies clearing, that the East
pulsed ever more strongly with the dim golden prom-
ise of the day to come. And this he chose to take
for an omen — prematurely, it may be.


IX
AGAIN "BELOW BEIDGE "; AND BEYOND
Kirkwood wasted little time, who had not much to
waste, were he to do that upon whose doing he had
set his heart. It irked him sore to have to lose the
invaluable moments demanded by certain imperative
arrangements, but his haste was such that all was
consummated within an hour.
Within the period of a single hour, then, he had
ransomed his luggage at St. Pancras, caused it to
be loaded upon a four-wheeler and transferred to a
neighboring hotel of evil flavor but moderate tariff,
where he engaged a room for a week, ordered an im-
mediate breakfast, and retired with his belongings to
his room; he had shaved and changed his clothes,
selecting a serviceable suit of heavy tweeds, stout
shoes, a fore-and-aft cap and a negligee shirt of a
deep shade calculated at least to seem clean for a long
time; finally, he had devoured his bacon and eggs,
gulped down his coffee and burned his mouth, and,
armed with a stout stick, set off hotfoot in the still
dim glimmering of early day.
By this time his cash capital had dwindled to the
170


AGAIN "BELOW BRIDGE" 171
sum of two pounds, ten shillings, eight-pence, and
would have been much less had he paid for his lodging
in advance. But he considered his trunks ample
security for the bill, and dared not wait the hour
when shopkeepers begin to take down shutters and
it becomes possible to realize upon one's jewelry. Be-
sides which, he had never before been called upon to
consider the advisability of raising money by pledg-
ing personal property, and was in considerable doubt
as to the right course of procedure in such emer-
gency.
At King's Cross Station on the Underground an
acute disappointment awaited him; there, likewise, he
learned something about London. A sympathetic
bobby informed him that no trains would be running
until after five-thirty, and that, furthermore, no busses
would begin to ply until half after seven.
"It's tramp it or cab it, then," mused the young
man mournfully, his longing gaze seeking a nearby
cab-rank — just then occupied by a solitary hansom,
driver somnolent on the box. "Officer," he again
addressed the policeman, mindful of the English
axiom: "When in doubt, ask a bobby."—" Officer,
when's high-tide this morning?"
The bobby produced a well-worn pocket-almanac,
moistened a massive thumb, and rippled the pages.
"London Bridge, 'igh tide twenty minutes arfter
six, sir," he announced with a glow of satisfaction


172 THE BLACK BAG
wholly pardonable in one who combines the functions
of perambulating almanac, guide-book, encyclopedia,
and conserver of the peace.
Kirkwood said something beneath his breath — a
word in itself a comfortable mouthful and wholesome
and emphatic. He glanced again at the cab and
groaned: "O Lord, I just dassent!" With which,
thanking the bureau of information, he set off at a
quick step down Grey's Inn Road.
The day had closed down in brilliance upon the
city — and the voice of the milkman was to be heard
in the land — when he trudged, still briskly if a trifle
wearily, into Holborn, and held on eastward across
the Viaduct and down Newgate Street; the while add-
ling his weary wits with heart-sickening computations
of minutes, all going hopelessly to prove that he would
be late, far too late even presupposing the unlikely.
The unlikely, be it known, was that the Alethea would
not attempt to sail before the turn of the tide.
For this was his mission, to find the Alethea before
she sailed. Incredible as it may appear, at five
o'clock, or maybe earlier, on the morning of the twen-
ty-second of April, 1906, A. D., Philip Kirkwood,
'normally a commonplace but likable young American
in full possession of his senses, might have been seen
(and by some was seen) plodding manfully through
Cheapside, London, England, engaged upon a quest
as mad, forlorn, and gallant as any whose chronicle


AGAIN "BELOW BRIDGE" 173
ever inspired the pen of a Malory or a Froissart. In
brief he proposed to lend his arm and courage to be
the shield and buckler of one who might or might not
be a damsel in distress; according as to whether Mrs.
Hallam had spoken soothly of Dorothy Calendar, or
Kirkwood's own admirable faith in the girl were jus-
tified of itself.
Proceeding upon the working hypothesis that Mrs.
Hallam was a polished liar in most respects, but had
told the truth, so far as concerned her statement to
the effect that the gladstone bag contained valuable
real property (whose ownership remained a moot
question, though Kirkwood was definitely committed
to the belief that it was none of Mrs. Hallam's or her
son's): he reasoned that the two adventurers, with
Dorothy and their booty, would attempt to leave Lon-
don by a water route, in the ship, Alethea, whose name
had fallen from their lips at Bermondsey Old Stairs.
Kirkwood's initial task, then, would be to find the
needle in the haystack — the metaphor is poor: more
properly, to sort out from the hundreds of vessels,
of all descriptions, at anchor in midstream, moored
to the wharves of 'long-shore warehouses, or in
the gigantic docks that line the Thames, that one
called Alethea; of which he was so deeply mired in
ignorance that he could not say whether she were
tramp-steamer, coastwise passenger boat, one of the
liners that ply between Tilbury and all the world,


174 THE BLACK BAG
Channel ferry-boat, private yacht (steam or sail),
schooner, four-master, square-rigger, barque or brig-
antine.
A task to stagger the optimism of any but one
equipped with the sublime impudence of Youth!
j Even Kirkwood was disturbed by some little awe when
he contemplated the vast proportions of his under-
taking. None the less doggedly he plugged ahead,
and tried to keep his mind from vain surmises as to
what would be his portion when eventually he should
find himself a passenger, uninvited and unwelcome,
upon the Alethea.
London had turned over once or twice, and was
pulling the bedclothes over its head and grumbling
about getting up, but the city was still sound asleep
when at length he paused for a minute's rest in front
of the Mansion House, and realized with a pang of
despair that he was completely tuckered out. There
was a dull, vague throbbing in his head; weights
pressed upon his eyeballs until they ached; his meuth
was hot and tasted of yesterday's tobacco; his feet
were numb and heavy; his joints were stiff; he yawned
-, frequently.
'With a sigh he surrendered to the flesh's frailty.
An early cabby, cruising up from Cannon Street sta-
tion on the off-chance of finding some one astir in
the city, aside from the doves and sparrows, suffered
the surprise of his life when Kirkwood hailed him.


AGAIN "BELOW BRIDGE" 175
His face was blank with amazement when he reined
in, and his eyes bulged when the prospective fare,
on impulse, explained his urgent needs. Happily
he turned out a fair representative of his class, an
intelligent and unfuddled cabby.
"Jump in, sir," he told Kirkwood cheerfully, as
soon as he had assimilated the latter's demands. "I
knows precisely wotcher wants. Leave it all to me."
The admonition was all but superfluous; Kirkwood
was unable, for the time being, to do aught else than
resign his fate into another's guidance. Once in the
cab he slipped insensibly into a nap, and slept soundly
on, as reckless of the cab's swift pace and continuous
jouncing as of the sunlight glaring full in his tired
young face.
He may have slept twenty minutes; he awoke faint
with drowsiness, tingling from head to toe from fa-
tigue, and in distress of a queer qualm in the pit
of his stomach, to find the hansom at rest and the
driver on the step, shaking his fare with kindly de-
termination. "Oh, a' right," he assented surlily, and
by sheer force of will made himself climb out to the
sidewalk; where, having rubbed his eyes, stretched
enormously and yawned discourteously in the face
of the East End, he was once more himself and a
hundred times refreshed into the bargain. Con-
tentedly he counted three shillings into the cabby's
palm — the fare named being one-and-six.


176 THE BLACK BAG
"The shilling over and above the tip's for finding
me the waterman and boat," he stipulated.
"Right-o. You'll mind the 'orse a minute, sir?"
Kirkwood nodded. The man touched his hat and
disappeared inexplicably. Kirkwood, needlessly at-
taching himself to the reins near the animal's head,
pried his sense of observation open and became alive
to the fact that he stood in a quarter of London as
strange to him as had been Bermondsey Wall.
To this day he can not put a name to it; he sur-
mises that it was Wapping.
Ramshackle tenements with sharp gable roofs lined
either side of the way. Frowsy women draped them-
selves over the window-sills. Pallid and wasted paro-
dies on childhood contested the middle of the street
with great, slow drays, drawn by enormous horses.
On the sidewalks twin streams of masculine humanity
flowed without rest, both bound in the same direction:
dock laborers going to their day's work. Men of
every nationality known to the world (he thought)
passed him in his short five-minute wait by the horse's
head; Britons, brown East Indians, blacks from Ja-
maica, swart Italians, Polaks, Russian Jews, wire-
drawn Yankees, Spaniards, Portuguese, Greeks, even
a Nubian or two: uniform in these things only, that
their backs were bent with toil, bowed beyond mend-
ing, and their faces stamped with the blurred type-
stamp of the dumb laboring brute. A strangely


AGAIN "BELOW BRIDGE" 177
hideous procession, they shambled on, for the most
part silent, all uncouth and unreal in the clear morn-
ing glow.
The outlander was sensible of some relief when
his cabby popped hurriedly out of the entrance to a
tenement, a dull-visaged, broad-shouldered waterman
ambling more slowly after.
» Nevvy of mine, sir," announced the cabby; " and
a fust-ryte waterman; knows the river like a book, he
do."
The nephew touched his forelock sheepishly.
"Thank you," said Kirkwood; and, turning to the
man, "Your boat?" he asked with the brevity of
weariness.
"This wye, sir."
At his guide's heels Kirkwood threaded the crowd
and, entering the tenement, stumbled through a
gloomy and unsavory passage, to come out at last
upon a scanty, unrailed veranda overlooking the river.
Ten feet below, perhaps, foul waters purred and
eddied round the piles supporting the rear of the
building. On one hand a ladder-like flight of rickety
steps descended to a floating stage to which a heavy
rowboat lay moored. In the latter a second water-
man was seated bailing out bilge with a rusty can.
"'Ere we are, sir," said the cabman's nephew,
pausing at the head of the steps. "Now, where's it
to be?"


178 THE BLACK BAG
The American explained tersely that he had a mes-
sage to deliver a friend, who had shipped aboard a
vessel known as the Alethea, scheduled to sail at flood-
tide; further than which deponent averred naught.
The waterman scratched his head. "A 'ard job,
sir; not knowin' wot kind of a boat she are mykes it
'arder." He waited hopefully.
"Ten shillings," volunteered Kirkwood promptly;
"ten shillings if you get me aboard her before she
weighs anchor; fifteen if I keep you out more than
an hour, and still you put me aboard. After that
we'll make other terms."
The man promptly turned his back to hail his
mate. "'Arf a quid, Bob, if we puts this gent
aboard a wessel name o' Allytheer afore she syles
at turn o' tide."
In the boat the man with the bailing can turned
up an impassive countenance. "Coom down," he
clenched the bargain; and set about shipping the
sweeps.
Kirkwood crept down the shaky ladder and depos-
ited himself in the stern of the boat; the younger
boatman settled himself on the midship thwart.
"Ready?"
"Ready," assented old Bob from the bows. He
cast off the painter, placed one sweep against the edge
of the stage, and with a vigorous thrust pushed off;
then took his seat.


AGAIN "BELOW BRIDGE" 179
Bows swinging down-stream, the boat shot out from
the shore.
"How's the tide?" demanded Kirkwood, his im-
patience growing.
"On th' turn, sir," he was told.
For a long moment broadside to the current, the
boat responded to the sturdy pulling of the port
sweeps. Another moment, and it was in full swing,
the watermen bending lustily to their task. Under
their unceasing urge, the broad-beamed, heavy craft,
aided by the ebbing tide, surged more and more rap-
idly through the water; the banks, grim and unsightly
with their towering, impassive warehouses broken by
toppling wooden tenements, slipped swiftly up-stream.
Ship after ship was passed, sailing vessels in the
majority, swinging sluggishly at anchor, drifting
slowly with the river, or made fast to the goods-
stages of the shore; and in keen anxiety lest he
should overlook the right one, Kirkwood searched their
bows and sterns for names, which in more than one
case proved hardly legible.
The Alethea was not of their number.
In the course of some ten minutes, the watermen
droye the boat sharply inshore, bringing her up along-
side another floating stage, in the shadow of another
tenement — both so like those from which they had
embarked that Kirkwood would have been unable to
distinguish one from another.


180
THE BLACK BAG
In the bows old Bob lifted up a stentorian voice,
summoning one William.
Recognizing that there was some design in this,
the passenger subdued his disapproval of the delay,
and sat quiet.
In answer to the third ear-racking hail, a man,
clothed simply in dirty shirt and disreputable trous-
ers, showed himself in the doorway above, rubbing the
sleep out of a red, bloated countenance with a mighty
and grimy fist.
"'Ello,"Tie said surlily. "Wot's th' row?"
"'Oo," interrogated old Bob, holding the boat
steady by grasping the stage, "was th' party wot
engyged yer larst night, Bill?"
"Party name o' Allytheer," growled the drowsy
one. "W'y?"
"Party 'ere's lookin' for 'im. Where'll I find this
'AUytheer?"
"Best look sharp 'r yer won't find 'im," retorted
the one above. "'E was at anchor off Bow Creek
larst night."
Kirkwood's heart leaped in hope. "What sort
of a vessel was she?" he asked, half rising in his
eagerness.
"Brigantine, sir."
"Thank — you!" replied Kirkwood explosively,
resuming his 6eat with uncalculated haste as old Bob,
deaf to the amenities of social intercourse in an



Eccles





AGAIN "BELOW BRIDGE" 181
emergency involving as much as ten-bob, shoved off
again.
And again the boat was flying down in midstream,
the leaden waters, shot with gold of the morning
sun, parting sullenly beneath its bows.
The air was still, heavy and tepid; the least exertion
brought out beaded moisture on face and hands. In
the east hung a turgid sky, dull with haze, through
which the mounting sun swam like a plaque of brass;
overhead it was clear and cloudless, but besmirched
as if the polished mirror of the heavens had been
fouled by the breath of departing night.
On the right, ahead, Greenwich Naval College
loomed up, the great gray-stone buildings beyond the
embankment impressively dominating the scene, in
happy relief against the wearisome monotony of the
river-banks; it came abreast; and ebbed into the back-
wards of the scene.
The watermen straining at the sweeps, the boat
sped into Blackwall Reach, Bugsby Marshes a splash
of lurid green to port, dreary Cubitt Town and the
West India Docks to starboard. Here the river ran
thick with shipping.
"Are we near?" Kirkwood would know; and by
way of reply had a grunt of the younger water-
man.
Again, " Will we make it? " he asked.
The identical grunt answered him; he was free to


182 THE BLACK BAG
interpret it as he would; young William — as old
Bob named him — had no breath for idle words.
Kirkwood subsided, controlling his impatience to the
best of his ability; the men, he told himself again and
again, were earning their pay, whether or not they,
gained the goal of his desire. . . . Their labors
were titanic; on their temples and foreheads the
knotted veins stood out like discolored whip-cord; their
faces were the shade of raw beef, steaming with
sweat; their eyes protruded with the strain that set
their jaws like vises; their chests heaved and shrank
like bellows; their backs curved, straightened, and
bent again in rhythmic unison as tiring to the eye
as the swinging of a pendulum.
Hugging the marshy shore, they rounded the
Blackwall Point. Young William looked to Kirk-
wood, caught his eye, and nodded.
"Here?"
Kirkwood rose, balancing himself against the leap
and sway of the boat.
"Sumwhere's . . . 'long ... o' 'ere."
From right to left his eager glance swept the
river's widening reach. Vessels were there in abun-
dance, odd, unwieldy, blunt-bowed craft with huge,
rakish, tawny sails; long strings of flat barges, pyr-
amidal mounds of coal on each, lashed to another
and convoyed by panting tugs; steam cargo boats,
battered, worn, rusted sore through their age-old


AGAIN "BELOW BRIDGE" 183
paint; a steel leviathan of the deep seas, half cargo,
half passenger boat, warping reluctantly into the
mouth of the Victoria Dock tidal basin,— but no
brigantine, no sailing vessel of any type.
The young man's lips checked a cry that was half
a sob of bitter disappointment. He had entered into
the spirit of the chase heart and soul, with an en-
thusiasm that was strange to him, when he came to
look back upon the time; and to fail, even though
failure had been discounted a hundredfold since the
inception of his mad adventure, seemed hard, very
hard.
He sat down suddenly. "She's gone!" he cried
in a hollow gasp.
The boatmen eased upon their oars, and old Bob
stood up in the bows, scanning the river-scape with
keen eyes shielded by a level palm. Young William
drooped forward suddenly, head upon knees, and
breathed convulsively. The boat drifted listlessly
with the current.
Old Bob panted: "'Dawn't — see — nawthin' —
o' 'er." He resumed his seat.
"There's no hope, I suppose?"
The elder waterman shook his head. "'Carn't sye.
. . . Might be round — nex' bend — might be
— passin' Purfleet. . . . 'Point is — me an'
young Wilyum 'ere — carn't do no more — 'n we 'as.
We be wore out."


DESPERATE MEASURES
Old Bob seemed something inclined toward op-
timism, when the boat lay alongside a landing-stage
at Woolwich, and Kirkwood had clambered ashore.
"Yer'U mebbe myke it," the waterman told him
with a weatherwise survey of the skies. "Wind's
freshenin' from the east'rds, an' that'll 'old 'er back
a bit, sir."
"Arsk th' wye to th' Dorkyard Styshun," young
William volunteered. "'Tis th' shortest walk, sir.
I 'opes yer catches 'er. . . . Thanky, sir."
He caught dextrously the sovereign which Kirk-
wood, in ungrudging liberality, spared them of his
store of two. The American nodded acknowledg-
ments and adieux, with a faded smile deprecating his
chances of winning the race, sorely handicapped as
he was. He was very, very tired, and in his heart
suspected that he would fail. But, if he did, he
would at least be able to comfort himself that it was
not for lack of trying. He set his teeth on that
covenant, in grim determination; either there was
a strain of the bulldog latent in the Kirkwood breed
185


186 THE BLACK BAG
or else his infatuation gripped him more strongly
than he guessed.
Yet he suspected something of its power; he knew
that this was altogether an insane proceeding, and
that the lure that led him on was Dorothy Calendar.
A strange dull light glowed in his weary eyes,
on the thought of her. He'd go through fire and
water in her service. She was costing him dear, per-
haps was to cost him dearer still; and perhaps there'd
be for his guerdon no more than a " Thank you, Mr.
Kirkwood!" at the end of the passage. But that
would be no less than his deserts; he was not to forget
that he was interfering unwarrantably; the girl was
in her father's hands, surely safe enough there —
to the casual mind. If her partnership in her
parent's fortunes were distasteful, she endured
it passively, without complaint.
He decided that it was his duty to remind himself,
from time to time, that his main interest must be in
the game itself, in the solution of the riddle; what-
ever should befall, he must look for no reward for his
gratuitous and self-appointed part. Indeed he was
all but successful in persuading himself that it was
the fascination of adventure alone that drew him on.
Whatever the lure, it was inexorable; instead of
doing as a sensible person would have done — re-
turning to London for a long rest in his hotel room,
ere striving to retrieve his shattered fortunes — Philip


DESPERATE MEASURES 187
Kirkwood turned up the village street, intent only to
find the railway station and catch the first available
train for Sheerness, were that an early one or a late.
A hapchance native whom he presently encountered,
furnished minute directions for reaching the Dock-
yard Station of the Southeastern and Chatham Rail-
way, adding comfortable information to the effect
that the next east-bound train would pass through in
ten minutes; if Kirkwood would mend his pace he
could make it easily, with time to spare.
Kirkwood mended his pace accordingly, but, con-
trary to the prediction, had no time to spare at all.
Even as he stormed the ticket-grating, the train was
thundering in at the platform. Therefore a nervous
ticket agent passed him out a first-class ticket instead
of the third-class he had asked for; and there was no
time wherein to have the mistake rectified. Kirkwood
planked down the fare, swore, and sprinted for the
carriages.
The first compartment whose door he jerked
violently open, proved to be occupied, and was, more-
over, not a smoking-car. He received a fleeting im-
pression of a woman's startled eyes, staring into his
own through a thin mesh of veiling, fell off the run-
ning-board, slammed the door, and hurled himself to-
wards the next compartment. Here happier fortune
attended upon his desire; the box-like section was un-
tenanted, and a notice blown upon the window-glass


188 THE BLACK BAG
announced that it was " 2nd Class Smoking." Kirk-
wood promptly tumbled in; and when he turned to
shut the door the coaches were moving.
A pipe helped him to bear up while the train was
making its two other stops in the Borough of Wool-
wich: a circumstance so maddening to a man in a
hurry, that it set Kirkwood's teeth on edge with sheer
impatience, and made him long fervently for the
land of his birth, where they do things differently —
where the Board of Directors of a railway company
doesn't erect three substantial passenger depots in the
course of a mile and a half of overgrown village.
It consoled him little that none disputed with him
his lonely possession of the compartment, that he had
caught the Sheerness train, or that he was really
losing no time; a sense of deep dejection had settled
down upon his consciousness, with a realization of
how completely a fool's errand was this of his. He
felt foredoomed to failure; he was never to see
Dorothy Calendar again; and his brain seemed numb
with disappointment.
Rattling and swaying, the train left the town be-
hind.
Presently he put aside his pipe and stared blankly
out at a reeling landscape, the pleasant, homely,
smiling countryside of Kent. A deeper melancholy
tinted his mind: Dorothy Calendar was for ever lost
to him.


DESPERATE MEASURES 189
The trucks drummed it out persistently — he
thought, vindictively: "Lost!" "« , , Lost!
. . . For ever lost! . . ."
And he had made — was then making — a damned
fool of himself. The trucks had no need to din that
into his thick skull by their ceaseless iteration ; he knew
it, would not deny it. . . .
And it was all his own fault. He'd had his chance,
Calendar had offered him it. If only he had closed
with the fat adventurer! . . .
Before his eyes field and coppice, hedge and home-
stead, stream and flowing highway, all blurred and
ran streakily into one another, like a highly impres-
sionistic water-color. He could make neither head
nor tail of the flying views, and so far as coherent
thought was concerned, he could not put two ideas
together. Without understanding distinctly, he
presently did a more wise and wholesome thing: which
was to topple limply over on the cushions and fall
fast asleep.
• • W • h • • •
After a long time he seemed to realize rather hazily
that the carriage-door had been opened to admit
somebody. Its smart closing bang shocked him
awake. He sat up, blinking in confusion, hardly
conscious of more, to begin with, than that the train
had paused and was again in full flight. Then, his
senses clearing, he became aware that his solitary


190 THE BLACK BAG
companion, just entered, was a woman. She was
seated over across from him, her back to the engine,
in an attitude which somehow suggested a highly
nonchalant frame of mind. She laughed, and im-
mediately her speaking voice was high and sweet in
his hearing.
"Really, you know, Mr. Kirkwood, I simply
couldn't contain my impatience another instant."
Kirkwood gasped and tried to re-collect his wits.
"Beg pardon — I've been asleep," he said stupidly.
"Yes. I'm sorry to have disturbed you, but, you
know, you must make allowances for a woman's
nerves."
Beneath his breath the bewildered man said:
"The deuce!" and above it, in a stupefied tone:
"Mrs. Hallam!"
She nodded in a not unfriendly fashion, smiling
brightly. "Myself, Mr. Kirkwood! Really, our
predestined paths are badly tangled, just now; aren't
they? Were you surprised to find me in here, with
you? Come now, confess you were!"
He remarked the smooth, girlish freshness of her
cheeks, the sense and humor of her mouth, the veiled
gleam of excitement in her eyes of the changing sea;
and saw, as well, that she was dressed for traveling,
sensibly but with an air, and had brought a small
hand-bag with her.
"Surprised and delighted," he replied, recovering,


DESPERATE MEASURES 1191
with mendacity so intentional and obvious that the
woman laughed aloud.
"I knew you'd be! . . . You see, I had the
carriage ahead, the one you didn't take. I was so
disappointed when you flung up to the door and
away again! You didn't see me hanging half out
the window to watch where you went, did you?
That's how I discovered that your discourtesy was
unintentional, that you hadn't recognized me,— by
the fact that you took this compartment, right behind
my own."
She paused invitingly, but Kirkwood, grown wary,
contented himself with picking up his pipe and care-
fully knocking out the dottle on the window-ledge.
"I was glad to see you," she affirmed; "but only
partly because you were you, Mr. Kirkwood. The
other and major part was because sight of you con-
firmed my own secret intuition. You see, I'm quite
old enough and wise enough to question even my own
intuitions."
"A woman wise enough for that is an adult
prodigy," he ventured cautiously.
"It's experience and age. I insist upon the age;
I the mother of a grown-up boy! So I deliberately
ran after you, changing when we stopped at Newing-
ton. You might've escaped me if I had waited until
we got to Queensborough."
Again she paused in open expectancy. Kirkwood,


192 THE BLACK BAG
perplexed, put the pipe in his pocket, and assumed
a factitious look of resignation, regarding her
askance with that whimsical twist of his eyebrows.
"For you are going to Queensborough, aren't you,
Mr. Kirkwood?"
"Queensborough?" he echoed blankly; and, in
fact, he was at a loss to follow her drift. "No, Mrs.
Hallam; I'm not bound there."
Her surprise was apparent; she made no effort to
conceal it. "But," she faltered, " if not there —"
"'Give you my word, Mrs. Hallam, I have no in-
tention whatever of going to Queensborough," Kirk-
wood protested.
"I don't understand." The nervous drumming of
a patent-leather covered toe, visible beneath the hem
of her dress, alone betrayed a rising tide of im-
patience. "Then my intuition was at fault!"
"In this instance, if it was at all concerned with
my insignificant affairs, yes — most decidedly at
fault."
She shook her head, regarding him with grave sus-
picion. "I hardly know whether to believe you.
I think . .
Kirkwood's countenance displayed an added shade
of red. After a moment, "I mean no discourtesy,"
he began stiffly, "but—"
"But you don't care a farthing whether I believe
you or not?"


DESPERATE MEASURES 193
He caught her laughing eye, and smiled, the flush
subsiding.
"Very well, then! Now let us see: Where are you
bound?"
Kirkwood looked out of the window.
"I'm convinced it's a rendezvous . . .?"
Kirkwood smiled patiently at the landscape.
"Is Dorothy Calendar so very, very beautiful, Mr.
Kirkwood?" — with a trace of malice.
Ostentatiously Kirkwood read the South Eastern
and Chatham's framed card of warning, posted just
above Mrs. Hallam's head, to all such incurable
lunatics as are possessed of a desire to travel on the
running-boards of railway carriages.
"You are going to meet her, aren't you?"
He gracefully concealed a yawn.
The woman's plan of attack took another form.
"Last night, when you told me your story, I believed
you."
He devoted himself to suppressing the temptingly
obvious retort, and succeeded; but though he left it
unspoken, the humor of it twitched the corners of his
mouth; and Mrs. Hallam was observant. So that
her next attempt to draw him out was edged with
temper.
"I believed you an American but a gentleman; it
appears that, if you ever were the latter, you've fallen
so low that you willingly cast your lot with thieves."


194 THE BLACK BAG
Having exhausted his repertoire of rudenesses, Kirk-
wood took to twiddling his thumbs.
"I want to ask you if you think it fair to me or
my son, to leave us in ignorance of the place where
you are to meet the thieves who stole our — my son's
jewels?"
"Mrs. Hallam," he said soberly, "if I am going
to meet Mr. Calendar or Mr. Mulready, I have no
assurance of that fact."
There was only the briefest of pauses, during which
she analyzed this; then, quickly, "But you hope
to?" she snapped.
He felt that the only adequate retort to this would
be a shrug of his shoulders; doubted his ability to
carry one off; and again took refuge in silence.
The woman abandoned a second plan of siege, with
a readiness that did credit to her knowledge of
mankind. She thought out the next very carefully,
before opening with a masked battery.
"Mr. Kirkwood, can't we be friends — this aside?"
"Nothing could please me more, Mrs. Hallam!"
"I'm sorry if I've annoyed you —"
"And I, too, have been rude."
"Last night, when you cut away so suddenly, you
prevented my making you a proposal, a sort of a
business proposition ..." ,
"Yes —?"
"To come over to our side —" ,


DESPERATE MEASURES 195
44
I thought so. That was why I went."
"Yes; I understood. But this morning, when
you've had time to think it over —?"
"I have no choice in the matter, Mrs. Hallam."
The green eyes darkened ominously. "You mean
— I am to understand, then, that you're against us,
that you prefer to side with swindlers and scoundrels,
all because of a—"
She discovered him eying her with a smile of such
inscrutable and sardonic intelligence, that the words
died on her lips, and she crimsoned, treasonably to
herself. For he saw it; and the belief he had con-
ceived while attending to her tissue of fabrication,
earlier that morning, was strengthened to the point
of conviction that, if anything had been stolen by
anybody, Mrs. Hallam and her son owned it as little
as Calendar.
As for the woman, she felt she had steadily lost,
rather than gained, ground; and the flash of anger
that had colored her cheeks, lit twin beacons in her
eyes, which she resolutely fought down untiyhey
faded to mere gleams of resentment and deternmiatioTfi.
But she forgot to control her lips; and they \y^J&c
truest indices to a woman's character and temper-
ament; and Kirkwood did not overlook the circum-
stance that their specious sweetness had vanished,
leaving them straight, set and hard, quite the reverse
of attractive.


196 THE BLACK BAG
"So," she said slowly, after a silent time, "you
are not for Queensborough! The corollary of that
admission, Mr. Kirkwood, is that you are for Sheer-
ness."
"I believe," he replied wearily, " that there are no
other stations on this line, after Newington."
"It follows, then, that — that I follow." And in
answer to his perturbed glance, she added: "Oh, I'll
grant that intuition is sometimes a poor guide. But
if you meet George Calendar, so shall I. Nothing
can prevent that. You can't hinder me."
Considerably amused, he chuckled. "Let us talk
of other things, Mrs. Hallam," he suggested pleas-
antly. "How is your son?"
At this juncture the brakes began to shriek and
grind upon the wheels. The train slowed; it stopped;
and the voice of a guard could be heard admonishing
passengers for Queensborough Pier to alight and take
the branch line. In the noise the woman's response
was drowned, and Kirkwood was hardly enough con-
cenpi^or poor Freddie to repeat his question.
/Wheft after a little, the train pulled out of the
jiSlPm, neither found reason to resume the conver-
sation. During the brief balance of the journey Mrs.
Hallam presumably had food for thought; she
frowned, pursed her lips, and with one daintily gloved
forefinger followed a seam of her tailored skirt; while
Kirkwood sat watching and wondering how to rid


DESPERATE MEASURES 197
himself of her, if she proved really as troublesome as
she threatened to be.
Also, he wondered continually what it was all
about. Why did Mrs. Hallam suspect him of design-
ing to meet Calendar at Queensborough? Had she
any tangible ground for believing that Calendar
could be found in Queensborough? Presumably she
had, since she was avowedly in pursuit of that
gentleman, and, Kirkwood inferred, had booked for
Queensborough. Was he, then, running away from
Calendar and his daughter to chase a will-o'-the-wisp
of his credulous fancy, off Sheerness shore?
Disturbing reflection. He scowled over it, then
considered the other side of the face. Presuming
Mrs. Hallam to have had reasonably dependable as-
surance that Calendar would stop in Queensborough,
would she so readily have abandoned her design to
catch him there, on the mere supposition that Kirk-
wood might be looking for him in Sheerness? That
did not seem likely to one who esteemed Mrs. Hallam's
acumen as highly as Kirkwood did. He brightened
up, forgot that his was a fool's errand, and began
again to project strategic plans into a problematic
future.
A sudden jolt interrupted this pastime, and the
warning screech of the brakes informed that he had
no time to scheme, but had best continue on the plan
of action that had brought him thus far — that is,
i


198 THE BLACK BAG
trust to his star and accept what should befall with-
out repining.
He rose, opened the door, and holding it so, turned.
"I regret, Mrs. Hallam," he announced, smiling
his crooked smile, "that a pressing engagement is
about to prohibit my 'squiring you through the ticket-
gates. You understand, I'm sure."
His irrepressible humor proved infectious; and
Mrs. Hallam's spirit ran as high as his own. She
was smiling cheerfully when she, too, rose.
"I also am in some haste," she averred demurely,
gathering up her hand-bag and umbrella.
A raised platform shot in beside the carriage, and
the speed was so sensibly moderated that the train
seemed to be creeping rather than running. Kirk-
wood flung the door wide open and lowered himself
to the running-board. The end of the track was
in sight and — a man who has been trained to board
San Francisco cable-cars fears to alight from no
moving vehicle. He swung off, got his balance, and
ran swiftly down the platform.
A cry from a bystander caused him to glance over
his shoulder; Mrs. Hallam was then in the act of
alighting. As he looked the flurry of skirts subsided
and the fell into stride, pursuing.
Sleepy Sheerness must have been scandalized, that
day, and its gossips have acquired ground for many,
an uncharitable surmise.


DESPERATE MEASURES 199
Kirkwood, however, was so fortunate as to gain the
wicket before the employee there awoke to the situ-
ation. Otherwise, such is the temper of British petty
officialdom, he might have detained the fugitive. As
it was, Kirkwood surrendered his ticket and ran out
into the street with his luck still a dominant factor in
the race. For, looking back, he saw that Mrs.
Hallam had been held up at the gate, another victim
of British red-tape; her ticket read for Queens-
borough, she was attempting to alight one station
farther down the line, and while undoubtedly she was
anxious to pay the excess fare, Heaven alone knew
when she would succeed in allaying the suspicions and
resentment of the ticket-taker.
"That's good for ten minutes' start!" Kirkwood
crowed. "And it never occurred to me —!"
Before the station he found two hacks in waiting,
with little to choose between them; neither was of a
type that did not seem to advertise its pre-Victorian
fashioning, and to neither was harnessed an animal
that deserved anything but the epithet of screw.
Kirkwood took the nearest for no other reason than
because it was the nearest, and all but startled the
driver off his box by offering double-fare for a brisk
pace and a simple service at the end of the ride. Suc-
cinctly he set forth his wants, jumped into the anti-
quated four-wheeler, and threw himself down upon
musty, dusty cushions to hug himself over the joke


200 THE BLACK BAG
and bless whatever English board of railway directors
it was that first ordained that tickets should be
taken up at the end instead of the outset of a jour-
ney.
It was promptly made manifest that he had fur-
ther cause for gratulation. The cabby, recovering
from his amazement, was plying an indefatigable
whip and thereby eliciting a degree of speed from his
superannuated nag, that his fare had by no means
hoped for, much less anticipated. The cab rocked
and racketed through Sheerness' streets at a pace
which is believed to be unprecedented and unrivaled;
its passenger, dashed from side to side, had all he
could do to keep from battering the vehicle to pieces
with his head; while it was entirely out of the question
to attempt to determine whether or not he was being
pursued. He enjoyed it all hugely.
In a period of time surprisingly short, he saw,
from fleeting glimpses of the scenery to be obtained
through the reeling windows, that they were thread-
ing the outskirts of the town; synchronously, whether
by design or through actual inability to maintain it,
the speed was moderated. And in the course of a few
more minutes the cab stopped definitely.
Kirkwood clambered painfully out, shook himself
together and the bruises out of his bones, and looked
fearfully back.
Aside from a slowly settling cloud of dust, the road


DESPERATE MEASURES SOI
ran clear as far as he could see — to the point, in
fact, where the town closed in about it.
He had won; at all events in so much as to win
meant eluding the persevering Mrs. Hallam. But to
what end?
Abstractedly he tendered his lonely sovereign to
the driver, and without even looking at it, crammed
the heavy weight of change into his pocket; an over-
sight which not only won him the awe-struck admi-
ration of the cabby, but entailed consequences (it may
be) he little apprehended. It was with an absent-
minded nod that he acquiesced in the man's announce-
ment that he might arrange about the boat for
him. Accordingly the cabby disappeared; and Kirk-
wood continued to stare about him, eagerly, hopefully.
He stood on the brink of the Thames estuary, there
a possible five miles from shore to shore; from his
feet, almost, a broad shingle beach sloped gently to
the water.
On one hand a dilapidated picket-fence enclosed the
door-yard of a fisherman's cottage, or, better, hovel,
— if it need be accurately described — at the door
of which the cabby was knocking.
The morning was now well-advanced. The sun
rode high, a sphere of tarnished flame in a void of
silver-gray, its thin cold radiance striking pallid
sparks from the leaping crests of wind-whipped waves.
In the east a wall of vapor, dull and lusterless, had


202 THE BLACK BAG
taken body since the dawn, masking the skies and
shutting down upon the sea like some vast curtain;
and out of the heart of this a bitter and vicious wind
played like a sword.
To the north, Shoeburyness loomed vaguely, like
a low-drifted bank of cloud. Off to the right the
Nore Lightship danced, a tiny fleck of warm crimson
in a wilderness of slatey-blue waters, plumed with a
myriad of vanishing white-caps.
Up the shelving shore, small, puny wavelets dashed
in impotent fury, and the shingle sang unceasingly
its dreary, syncopated monotone. High and dry, a
few dingy boats lay canted wearily upon their broad,
swelling sides,— a couple of dories, apparently in
daily use; a small sloop yacht, dismantled and plainly
beyond repair; and an oyster-smack also out of com-
mission. About them the beach was strewn with a
litter of miscellany,— nets, oars, cork buoys, bits of
wreckage and driftwood, a few fish too long forgotten
and (one assumed) responsible in part for the foreign
wealth of the atmosphere.
Some little distance offshore a fishing-boat, cat-
rigged and not more than twenty-feet over all, swung
bobbing at her mooring, keen nose searching into the
wind; at sight of which Kirkwood gave thanks, for
his adventitious guide had served him well, if that
boat were to be hired by any manner of persuasion.
But it was to the farther reaches of the estuary


DESPERATE MEASURES 203
that he gave more prolonged and most anxious heed,
scanning narrowly what shipping was there to be seen.
Far beyond the lightship a liner was riding the waves
with serene contempt, making for the river's mouth
and Tilbury Dock. Nearer in, a cargo boat was
standing out upon the long trail, the white of riven
waters showing clearly against her unclean freeboard.
Out to east a little covey of fishing-smacks, red sails
well reefed, were scudding before the wind like
strange affrighted water-fowl, and bearing down past
a heavy-laden river barge. The latter, with tarpaulin
battened snugly down over the cockpit and the seas
dashing over her wash-board until she seemed under
water half the time, was forging stodgily London-
wards, her bargee at the tiller smoking a placid pipe.
But a single sailing vessel of any notable tonnage
was in sight; and when he saw her Kirkwood's heart
became buoyant with hope, and he began to tremble
with nervous eagerness. For he believed her to be
the Alethea.
There's no mistaking a ship brigantine-rigged for
any other style of craft that sails the seas.
From her position when first he saw her, Kirkwood
could have fancied she was tacking out of the mouth
of the Medway; but he judged that, leaving the
Thames' mouth, she had tacked to starboard until
well-nigh within hail of Sheerness. Now, having pre-
sumably gone about, she was standing out toward the


204
THE BLACK BAG
Nore, boring doggedly into the wind. He would have
given a deal for glasses wherewith to read the name
upon her bows, but was sensible of no hampering
doubts; nor, had he harbored any, would they have
deterred him. He had set his heart upon the win-
ning of his venture, had come too far, risked far too
much, to suffer anything now to stay his hand and
stand between him and Dorothy Calendar. What-
ever the further risks and hazards, though he should
take his life in his hands to win to her side, he would
struggle on. He recked nothing of personal danger;
a less selfish passion ran molten in his veins, moving
him to madness.
Fascinated, he fixed his gaze upon the reeling brig-
antine, and for a space it was as if by longing he had
projected his spirit to her slanting deck, and were
there, pleading his case with the mistress of his
heart . . .
Voices approaching brought him back to shore.
He turned, resuming his mask of sanity, the better to
confer with the owner of the cottage and boats — a
heavy, keen-eyed fellow, ungracious and truculent of
habit, and chary of his words; as he promptly demon-
strated.
"I'll hire your boat," Kirkwood told him, " to put
me aboard that brigantine, off to leeward. We ought
to start at once."
The fisherman shifted his quid of tobacco from


DESPERATE MEASURES 205
cheek to cheek, grunted inarticulately, and swung de-
liberately on his heel, displaying a bull neck above a
pair of heavy shoulders.
"Dirty weather," he croaked, facing back from his
survey of the eastern skies before the American found
out whether or not he should resent his insolence.
"How much?" Kirkwood demanded curtly, an-
noyed.
The man hesitated, scowling blackly at the heel-
ing vessel, momentarily increasing her distance from
shore. Then with a crafty smile, " Two pound'," he
declared.
The American nodded. "Very well," he agreed
simply. "Get out your boat."
The fisherman turned away to shamble noisily over
the shingle, huge booted heels crunching, toward one
of the dories. To this he set his shoulder, shoving
it steadily down the beach until only the stern was
Kirkwood looked back, for the last time, up the
road to Sheerness. Nothing moved upon it. He
was rid of Mrs. Hallam, if face to face with a
sterner problem. He had a few pence over ten shil-
lings in his pocket, and had promised to pay the
man four times as much. He would have agreed to
ten times the sum demanded; for the boat he must and
would have. But he had neglected to conclude his
bargain, to come to an understanding as to the


206 THE BLACK BAG
method of payment; and he felt more than a little
dubious as to the reception the fisherman would give
his proposition, sound as he, Kirkwood, knew it to be.
In the background the cabby loitered, gnawed by
insatiable curiosity.
The fisherman turned, calling over his shoulder:
"If ye'd catch yon vessel, come!"
With one final twinge of doubt — the task of pla-
cating this surly dog was anything but inviting —
the American strode to the boat and climbed in, tak-
ing the stern seat. The fisherman shoved off, wading
out thigh-deep in the spiteful waves, then threw him-
self in over the gunwales and shipped the oars. Bows
swinging offshore, rocking and dancing, the dory be-
gan to forge slowly toward the anchored boat. In
their faces the wind beat gustily, and small, slapping
waves, breaking against the sides, showered them with
fine spray. . . .
In time the dory lay alongside the cat-boat, the
fisherman with a gnarled hand grasping the latter's
gunwale to hold the two together. With some diffi-
culty Kirkwood transhipped himself, landing asprawl
in the cockpit, amid a tangle of cordage slippery
with scales. The skipper followed, with clumsy ex-
pcrtness bringing the dory's painter with him and
hitching it to a ring-bolt abaft the rudder-head.
Then, pausing an instant to stare into the East with
somber eyes, he shipped the tiller and bent to the


DESPERATE MEASURES 807
halyards. As the sail rattled up, flapping wildly,
Kirkwood marked with relief — for it meant so much
time saved — that it was already close reefed.
But when at least the boom was thrashing over-
head and the halyards had been made fast to their
cleats, the fisherman again stood erect, peering dis-
trustfully at the distant wall of cloud.
Then, in two breaths: "Can't do it," he decided;
"not at the price."
"Why?" Kirkwood stared despairingly after the
brigantine, that was already drawn far ahead.
"Danger," growled the fellow, "— wind."
At a loss completely, Kirkwood found no words.
He dropped his head, considering.
"Not at the price," the sullen voice iterated; and
he looked up to find the cunning gaze upon him.
"How much, then?"
"Five poun' I'll have — no less, for riskin' my life
this day."
"Impossible. I haven't got it."
In silence the man unshipped the tiller and moved
toward the cleats.
"Hold on a minute."
Kirkwood unbuttoned his coat and, freeing the
chain from his waistcoat buttonholes, removed his
watch. ... As well abandon them altogether;
he had designed to leave them as security for the
two pounds, and had delayed stating the terms only


208 THE BLACK BAG
for fear lest they be refused. Now, too late as ever,
he recognized his error. But surely, he thought, it
should be apparent even to that low intelligence that
the timepiece alone was worth more than the boat
itself.
"Will you take these?" he offered. "Take and
keep them — only set me aboard that ship!"
Deliberately the fisherman weighed the watch and
chain in his broad, hard palm, eyes narrowing to
mere slits in his bronzed mask.
"How much? " he asked slowly.
"Eighty pounds, together; the chain alone cost
me twenty."
The shifty, covetous eyes ranged from the treasure
in his hand to the threatening east. A puff of
wind caught the sail and sent the boom athwartships,
like a mighty flail. Both men ducked instinctively,
to escape a braining.
"How do I know? " objected the skipper.
"I'm telling you. If you've got eyes, you can
see," retorted Kirkwood savagely, seeing that he had
erred in telling the truth; the amount he had named
was too great to be grasped at once by this crude,
cupidous brain.
"How do I know? " the man repeated. Neverthe-
less he dropped watch and chain into his pocket, then
with a meaning grimace extended again his horny,
greedy palm.


DESPERATE MEASURES 209
"What . . .?"
"Hand over th' two pound' and we'll go."
"I'll see you damned first!"
A flush of rage blinded the young man. The
knowledge that the Alethea was minute by minute
slipping beyond his reach seemed to madden him.
White-lipped and ominously quiet he rose from his
seat on the combing, as, without answer, the fisher-
man, crawling out on the overhand, began to haul in
the dory.
"Ashore ye go," he pronounced his ultimatum, mo-
tioning Kirkwood to enter the boat.
The American turned, looking for the Alethea, or
for the vessel that he believed bore that name. She
was nearing the light-ship when he found her, and
as he looked a squall blurred the air between them,
blotting the brigantine out with a smudge of rain.
The effect was as if she had vanished, as if she were
for ever snatched from his grasp; and with Dorothy
aboard her — Heaven alone knew in what need of
him!
Mute and blind with despair and wrath, he turned
upon the man and caught him by the collar, forc-
ing him out over the lip of the overhang. They
were unevenly matched, Kirkwood far the slighter, but
strength came to him in the crisis, physical strength
and address such as he had not dreamed was at his
command. And the surprise of his onslaught proved


210 THE BLACK BAG
an ally of unguessed potency. Before he himself
knew it he was standing on the overhang and had
shifted his hold to seize the fellow about the waist;
then, lifting him clear of the deck, and aided by a
lurch of the cat-boat, he cast him bodily into the
dory. The man, falling, struck his head against one
of the thwarts, a glancing blow that stunned him
temporarily. Kirkwood himself dropped as if shot,
a trailing reef-point slapping his cheek until it stung
as the boom thrashed overhead. It was as close a
call as he had known; the knowledge sickened him a
little.
Without rising he worked the painter loose and
cast the dory adrift; then crawled back into the cock-
pit. No pang of compassion disturbed him as he
abandoned the fisherman to the mercy of the sea;
though the fellow lay still, uncouthly distorted, in
the bottom of the dory, he was in no danger; the
wind and waves together would carry the boat ashore.
. . . For that matter, the man was even then re-
covering, struggling to sit up.
Crouching to avoid the boom, Kirkwood went for-
ward to the bows, and, grasping the mooring cable,
drew it in, slipping back into the cockpit to get a
stronger purchase with his feet. It was a struggle;
the boat pulled sluggishly against the wind, the cable
inching in jealously. And behind him he could hear
a voice bellowing inarticulate menaces, and knew that


DESPERATE MEASURES 211
in another moment the fisherman would be at his oars.
Frantically he tugged and tore at the slimy rope,
hauling with a will and a prayer. It gave more
readily, towards the end, but he seemed to have fought
with it for ages when at last the anchor tripped and he
got it in.
Immediately he leaped back to the stern, fitted in
the tiller, and seizing the mainsheet, drew the boom
in till the wind should catch in the canvas. In the
dory the skipper, bending at his oars, was not two
yards astern.
He was hard aboard when, the sail filling with a
bang, Kirkwood pulled the tiller up; and the cat-boat
slid away, a dozen feet separating them in a breath.
A yell of rage boomed down the wind, but he
paid no heed. Careless alike of the dangers he had
passed and those that yawned before him, he trimmed
the sheet and stood away on the port tack, heading
directly for the Nore Lightship.


XI
OFF THE NORE
Kirkwood's anger cooled apace; at worst it had
been a flare of passion — incandescent. It was sel-
dom more. His brain clearing, the temperature of
his judgment quickly regained its mean, and he saw
his chances without distortion, weighed them without
exaggeration.
Leaning against the combing, feet braced upon
the slippery and treacherous deck, he clung to tiller
and mainsheet and peered ahead with anxious eyes, a
pucker of daring graven deep between his brows.
A mile to westward, three or more ahead, he could
see the brigantine standing close in under the Essex
shore. At times she was invisible; again he could
catch merely the glint of her canvas, white against
the dark loom of the littoral, toned by a mist of
flying spindrift. He strained his eyes, watching for
the chance which would take place in the rake of her
masts and sails, when she should come about.
For the longer that manoeuver was deferred, the
better was his chance of attaining his object. It
was a forlorn hope. But in time the brigantine,
212


OFF THE NORE 213
to escape Maplin Sands, would be forced to tack and
stand out past the lightship, the wind off her port
bows. Then their courses would intersect. It re-
mained to be demonstrated whether the cat-boat was
speedy enough to arrive at this point of contact
in advance of, or simultaneously with, the larger
vessel. Every minute that the putative Alethea put
off coming about brought the cat-boat nearer that
goal, but Kirkwood could do no more than hope and
try to trust in the fisherman's implied admission that
it could be done. It was all in the boat and the way
she handled.
He watched her anxiously, quick to approve her
merits as she displayed them. He had sailed small
craft before — frail center-board cat-boats, handy
and swift, built to serve in summer winds and pro-
tected waters: never such an one as this. Yet he
liked her.
Deep bosomed she was, with no center-board, de-
pendent on her draught and heavy keel to hold her
on the wind; stanch and seaworthy, sheathed with
stout plank and ribbed with seasoned timber, designed
to keep afloat in the wickedest weather brewed by the
foul-tempered German Ocean. Withal her lines were
fine and clean; for all her beam she was calculated to
nose narrowly into the wind and make a pretty pace
as well. A good boat: he had the grace to give the
credit to his luck.


214 THE BLACK BAG
Her disposition was more fully disclosed as they
drew away from the beach. Inshore with shoaling
water, the waves had been choppy and spiteful but
lacking force of weight. Farther out, as the bottom
fell away, the rollers became more uniform and power-
ful; heavy sweeping seas met the cat-boat, from their
hollows looming mountainous to the man in the tiny
cockpit; who was nevertheless aware that to a steamer
they would be negligible.
His boat breasted them gallantly, toiling sturdily
up the steep acclivities, poising breathlessly on foam-
crested summits for dizzy instants, then plunging
headlong down the deep green swales; and left a boil-
ing wake behind her,— urging ever onward, hugging
the wind in her wisp of blood-red sail, and boring into
it, pulling at the tiller with the mettle of a race-horse
slugging at the bit.
Offshore, too, the wind stormed with added
strength, or, possibly, had freshened. For minutes
on end the leeward gunwales would run green, and
now and again the screaming, pelting squalls that
scoured the estuary would heel her over until the
water cascaded in over the lee combine, and the rud-
der, lifted clear, would hang idle until, smitten bv
some racing billow, the tiller would be all but torn
from Kirkwood's hands. Again and again this hap-
pened; and those were times of trembling. But al-
ways the cat-boat righted, shaking the clinging


OFF THE NORE 215
waters from her and swinging her stem into the wind
again; and there* would follow an abbreviated breath-
ing spell, during which Kirkwood was at liberty to
dash the salt spray from his eyes and search the wind-
harried waste for the brigantine. Sometimes he
found her, sometimes not.
Long after he had expected her to, she went about
and they began to close in upon each other. He
could see that even with shortened canvas she was
staggering drunkenly under the fierce impacts of the
wind. For himself, it was nip-and-tuck, now, and
no man in his normal sense would have risked a six-
pence on the boat's chance to live until she crossed the
brigantine's bows.
Time out of reckoning he was forced to kneel in
the swimming cockpit, steering with one hand, using
the bailing-dish with the other, and keeping his eyes
religiously turned to the bellying patch of sail. It
was heartbreaking toil; he began reluctantly to con-
cede that it could not last much longer. And if he
missed the brigantine he would be lost; mortal
strength was not enough to stand the unending strain
upon every bone, muscle and sinew, required to keep
the boat upon her course; though for a time it might
cope with and solve the problems presented by each
new, malignant billow and each furious, howling
squall, the end inevitably must be failure. To strug-
gle on would be but to postpone the certain end


216
THE BLACK BAG
. . . save and except the possibility of his gain-
ing the brigantine within the period of time strictly
and briefly limited by his powers of endurance.
Long since he had become numb with cold from
incessant drenchings of icy spray, that piled in over
the windward counter, keeping the bottom ankle-deep
regardless of his laborious but intermittent efforts
with the bailing dish. And the two, brigantine and
cockle-shell, were drawing together with appalling de-
liberation.
A dozen times he was on the point of surrender, as
often plucked up hope; as the minutes wore on and
he kept above water, he began to believe that
if he could stick it out his judgment and seamanship
would be justified . . . though human ingenuity
backed by generosity could by no means contrive
adequate excuse for his foolhardiness.
But that was aside, something irreparable. Wan
and grim, he fought it out.
But that his voice stuck in his parched throat, he
could have shouted in his elation, when eventually he
gained the point of intersection an eighth of a mile
ahead of the brigantine and got sight of her wind-
ward freeboard as, most slowly, the cat-boat forged
across her course.
For all that, the moment of his actual triumph was
not yet; he had still to carry off successfully a scheme
"that for sheer audacity of conception and contempt


OFF THE NORE 217
for danger, transcended all that had gone before.
Holding the cat-boat on for a time, he brought her
about handsomely a little way beyond the brigantine's
course, and hung in the eye of the wind, the leach
flapping and tightening with reports like rifle-shots,
and the water sloshing about his calves — bail-
ing-dish now altogether out of mind — while he
watched the oncoming vessel, his eyes glistening with
anticipation.
She was footing it smartly, the brigantine — lying
down to it and snoring into the wind. Beneath her
stem waves broke in snow-white showers, whiter than
the canvas of her bulging jib — broke and, gnash-
ing their teeth in impotent fury, swirled and eddied
down her sleek dark flanks. Bobbing, courtesying,
she plunged onward, shortening the interval with
mighty, leaping bounds. On her bows, with each in-
stant, the golden letters of her name grew larger and
more legible until — Alethea! — he could read it
plain beyond dispute.
Joy welled in his heart. He forgot all that he
had undergone in the prospect of what he proposed
still to do in the name of the only woman the world
held for him. Unquestioning he had come thus far in
her service; unquestioning, by her side, he was pre-
pared to go still farther, though all humanity should
single her out with accusing fingers. . , .
They were watching him, aboard the brigantine; *


OFF THE NORE 219
Abruptly the Alethea shut off the wind; the sail
flattened and the cat dropped back. In a second the
distance had doubled. In anguish Kirkwood uttered
an exceeding bitter cry. Already he was falling far
off her counter . . .
A shout reached him. He was dimly conscious of
a dark object hurtling through the air. Into the
cockpit, splashing, something dropped — a coil of
rope. He fell forward upon it, into water eighteen
inches deep; and for the first time realized that, but
for that line, he had gone to his drowning in another
minute. The cat was sinking.
As he scrambled to his feet, clutching the life-
line, a heavy wave washed over the water-logged craft
and left it all but submerged; and a smart tug on
the rope added point to the advice which, reaching
his ears in a bellow like a bull's, penetrated the panic
of his wits.
"Jump! Jump, you fool!"
In an instant of coherence he saw that the brigan-
tine was luffing; none the less much of the line had
already been paid out, and there was no reckoning
when the end would be reached. Without time to
make it fast, he hitched it twice round his waist
and chest, once round an arm, and, grasping it above
his head to ease its constriction when the tug should
come, leaped on the combing and overboard. A
green roaring avalanche swept down upon him and


220
THE BLACK BAG
the luckless cat-boat, overwhelming both simultan-
eously.
The agony that was his during the next few min-
utes can by no means be exaggerated. With such
crises the human mind is not fitted adequately to cope;
it retains no record of the supreme moment beyond
a vague and incoherent impression of poignant, soul-
racking suffering. Kirkwood underwent a prolonged
interval of semi-sentience, his mind dominated and
oppressed by a deathly fear of drowning and a dead-
ening sense of suffocation, with attendant tortures
as of being broken on the wheel — limb rending
from limb; of compression of his ribs that threatened
momentarily to crush in his chest; of a world a-welter
with dim swirling green half-lights alternating with
flashes of blinding white; of thunderings in his ears
like salvoes from a thousand cannon . . .
And his senses were blotted out in blackness.
Then he was breathing once more, the keen clean
air stabbing his lungs, the while he swam unsup-
ported in an ethereal void of brilliance. His mouth
was full of something that burned, a liquid hot, acrid,
and stinging. He gulpc 1, swallowed, slobbered,
choked, coughed, attempted to sit up, was aware that
he was the focal center of a ring of glaring, burning
eyes, like eyes' of ravening beasts; and fainted.
His next conscious impression was of standing up,



'Hi, matey!'' he blustered. "Ow goes it now?" Page 221





OFF THE NORE 221
supported by friendly arms on cither side, while some-
body was asking him if he could walk a step or two.
He lifted his head and let it fall in token of as-
sent, mumbling a yes; and looked round him with
eyes wherein the light of intelligence burned more
clear with every second. By degrees he catalogued
and comprehended his weirdly altered circumstances
and surroundings.
He was partly seated, partly held up, on the edge
of the cabin sky-light, an object of interest to some
half-dozen men, seafaring fellows all, by their habit,
clustered round between him and the windward rail.
Of their number one stood directly before him,
dwarfing his companions as much by his air of com-
mand as by his uncommon height: tall, thin-faced
and sallow, with hollow weather-worn cheeks, a mouth
like a crooked gash from ear to ear, and eyes like
dying coals, with which he looked the rescued up and
down in one grim, semi-humorous, semi-speculative
glance. In hands both huge and red he fondled
tenderly a squat brandy flask whose contents had
apparently been employed as a first aid to the
drowning.
As Kirkwood's gaze encountered his, the man
smiled sourly, jerking his head to one side with a
singularly derisive air.
"Hi, matey!" he blustered. "'Ow goes it now?
Feelin' 'appier, eigh?"


222 THE BLACK BAG
"Some, thank you . . . more like a drowned
rat." Kirkwood eyed him sheepishly. "I suppose
you're the man who threw me that line? I'll have
to wait till my head clears up before I can thank you
properly."
"Don't mention it." He of the lantern jaws
stowed the bottle away with jealous care in one of his
immense coat pockets, and seized Kirkwood's hand in
a grasp that made the young man wince. "You're
syfe enough now. My nyme's Stryker, Capt'n
Wilyum Stryker. . . . Wot's the row? Lookin'
for a friend? " he demanded suddenly, as Kirkwood's
attention wandered.
For the memory of the errand that had brought
him into the hands of Captain William Stryker had
come to the young man very suddenly; and his eager
eyes were swiftly roving not alone the decks but the
wide world besides, for sight or sign of his heart's
desire.
After luffing to pick him up, the brigantine had
been again pulled off on the port tack. The fury of
the gale seemed rather to have waxed than waned,
and the Alethea was bending low under the relentless
fury of its blasts, driving hard, with leeward chan-
nels awash. Under her port counter, a mile away,
the crimson light-ship wallowed in a riot of breaking
combers. Sheerness lay abeam, five miles or more.
Ahead the northeast headland of the Isle of Sheppey


OFF THE NORE
223
>
was bulking large and near. The. cat-boat had van-
ished. . . .
More important still, no one aboard the brigantine
resembled in the remotest degree either of the Cal-
endars, father or daughter, or even Mulready, the
black-avised.
"I sye, 're you lookin' for some one you know?"
"Yes — your passengers. I presume they're be-
low —?"
"Passengers!"
A hush fell upon the group, during which Kirk-
wood sought Stryker's eye in pitiful pleading; and
Stryker looked round him blankly.
"Where's Miss Calendar?" the young man de-
manded sharply. "I must see her at once!"
The keen and deep-set eyes of the skipper clouded
as they returned to" Kirkwood's perturbed counte-
nance. "Wot 're you talking about? " he demanded
brusquely.
"I must see Miss Calendar, or Calendar himself,
or Mulready." Kirkwood paused, and, getting no
reply, grew restive under Stryker's inscrutable re-
gard. "That's why I came aboard," he amended,
blind to the absurdity of the statement; " to see — er
— Calendar."
"Well ... I'm damned!"
Stryker managed to infuse into his tone a deal of
suspicious contempt.


224, THE BLACK BAG
"Why?" insisted Kirkwood, nettled but still un-.
comprehending.
"D'you mean to tell me you came off from — wher-
ever in 'ell you did come from — intendin' to board
this wessel and find a party nymed Calendar?"
"Certainly I did. Why —?"
"Well!" cried Mr. Stryker, rubbing his hands to-
gether with an air oppressively obsequious, "I'm
sorry to ftan-form you you've come to the wrong
shop, sir; we don't stock no Calendars. We're in the
'ardware line, we are. You might try next door, or
I dessay you'll find what you want at the stytioner's,
round the corner."
A giggle from his audience stimulated him. "If,"
he continued acidly, "I'd a-guessed you was such- a
damn' fool, blimmy if I wouldn't 've let you
drownd!"
Staggered, Kirkwood bore his sarcastic truculence
without resentment.
"Calendar," he stammered, trying to explain,
"Calendar said —"
"I carn't 'elp wot Calendar said. Mebbe 'e did
myke an engygement with you, an' you've gone and
went an' forgot the dyte. Mebbe it's larst year's
calendar you're thinkin' of. You Johnny" (to a
lout of a boy in the group of seamen), "you run
an' fetch this gentleman Whitaker's for Nineteen-six.
Look sharp, now!"


OFF THE NORE
225
"But—!" With an effort Kirkwood mustered
up a show of dignity. "Am I to understand," he
said, as calmly as he could, "that you deny know-
ing George B. Calendar and his daughter Dorothy
and —"
"I don't 'ave to. Listen to me, young man."
For the time the fellow discarded his clumsy facetious-
ness. "I'm Wilyum Stryker, Capt'n Stryker, mars-
ter and 'arf-owner of this wessel, and wot I says
'ere is law. We don't carry no passengers. D'ye
understand me ?"— aggressively. "There ain't no
pusson nymed Calendar aboard the Allytheer, an'
never was, an' never will be!"
"What name did you say?" Kirkwood inquired.
"This ship? The Allytheer; registered from Liv-
erpool; bound from London to Hantwerp, in cargo.
Anythink else?"
Kirkwood shook his head, turning to scan the sea-
scape with a gloomy gaze. As he did so, and re-
marked how close upon the Sheppcy headland the
brigantine had drawn, the order was given to go
about. For the moment he was left alone, wretchedly
wet, shivering, wan and shrunken visibly with the
knowledge that he had dared greatly for nothing.
But for the necessity of keeping up before Stryker
and his crew, the young man felt that he could gladly
have broken down and wept for sheer vexation and
disappointment.


226 THE BLACK BAG
Smartly the brigantine luffed and wore about, heel-,
ing deep as she spun away on the starboard tack.
Kirkwood staggered round the skylight to the
windward rail. From this position, looking forward,
he could see that they were heading for the open sea,
Foulness low over the port quarter, naught before
them but a brawling waste of leaden-green and dirty
white. Far out one of the sidewheel boats of the
Queensborough-Antwerp line was heading directly
into the wind and making heavy weather of it.
Some little while later, Stryker again approached
him, perhaps swayed by an unaccustomed impulse of
compassion; which, however, he artfully concealed.
Blandly ironic, returning to his impersonation of the
shopkeeper, "Nothink else we can show you, sir?"
he inquired.
"I presume you couldn't put me ashore?" Kirk-
wood replied ingenuously.
In supreme disgust the captain showed him his
back. "'Ere, you!" he called to one of the crew.
"Tyke this awye — tyke 'im below and put 'im to
bed; give 'im a drink and dry 'is clo's. Mebbe 'e'll
be better when 'e wykes up. 'E don't talk sense now,
that's sure. If you arsk me, I sye 'e's balmy and no
'ope for 'im."


xn
PICARESQUE PASSAGES
Contradictory to the hopeful prognosis of Captain
Stryker, his unaccredited passenger was not " better"
when, after a period of oblivious rest indefinite in
duration, he awoke. His subsequent assumption of
listless resignation, of pacific acquiescence in the dic-
tates of his destiny, was purely deceptive — thin ice
of despair over profound depths of exasperated re-
bellion.
Blank darkness enveloped him when first he opened
eyes to wonder. Then gradually as he stared, piec-
ing together unassorted memories and striving to
quicken drowsy wits, he became aware of a glimmer
that waxed and waned, a bar of pale bluish light
striking across the gloom above his couch; and by
dint of puzzling divined that this had access by a
port. Turning his head upon a stiff and unyielding
pillow, he could discern a streak of saffron light lin-
ing the sill of a doorway, near by his side. The one
phenomenon taken with the other confirmed a there-
tofore somewhat hazy impression that his dreams were
dignified by a foundation of fact; that, in brief, he
227


228 THE BLACK BAG
was occupying a cabin-bunk aboard the good fMp
Alethea.
Overhead, on the deck, a heavy thumping of hurry-
ing feet awoke him to keener perceptiveness.
Judging from the incessant rolling and pitching of
the brigantine, the crashing thunder of seas upon her
sides, the eldrich shrieking of the gale, as well as from
the chorused groans and plaints of each individual
bolt and timber in the frail fabric that housed his for-
tunes, the wind had strengthened materially during
his hours of forgetfulness — however many the latter
might have been.
He believed, however, that he had slept long, deeply
and exhaustively. He felt now a little emaciated
mentally and somewhat absent-bodied — so he put it
to himself. A numb languor, not unpleasant, held
him passively supine, the while he gave himself over
to speculative thought.
A wild night, certainly; probably, by that time,
the little vessel was in the middle of the North Sea
. . . bound for Antwerp!
"Oh-h," said Kirkwood vindictively, " hell!"
So he was* bound for Antwerp! The first color of
resentment ebbing from his thoughts left him rather
interested than excited by the prospect. He found
that he was neither pleased nor displeased. He pre-
sumed that it would be no more difficult to raise money
on personal belongings in Antwerp than anywhere


PICARESQUE PASSAGES 229
else; it has been observed that the first flower of civi-
lization is the rum-blossom, the next, the conventional-
ized fleur-de-lis of the money-lender. There would
be pawnshops, then, in Antwerp; and Kirkwood was
confident that the sale or pledge of his signet-ring,
scarf-pin, match-box and cigar-case, would provide
him with money enough for a return to London, by
third-class, at the worst. There . . . well, all
events were on the knees of the gods; he'd squirm out
of his troubles, somehow. As for the other matter,
the Calendar affair, he presumed he was well rid of
it,— with a sigh of regret. It had been a most entic-
ing mystery, you know; and the woman in the case
was extraordinary, to say the least . . .
The memory of Dorothy Calendar made him sigh
again, this time more violently: a sigh that was own
brother to (or at any rate descended in a direct line
from) the furnace sigh of the lover described by the
melancholy Jaques. And he sat up, bumped his
head, groped round until his hand fell upon a door-
knob, opened the door, and looked out into the blowsy
emptiness of the ship's cabin proper, whose gloomy
confines were made visible only by the rays of a dingy
and smoky lamp swinging violently in gimbals from
a deck-beam.
Kirkwood's clothing, now rough-dried and warped
wretchedly out of shape, had been thrown carelessly
on a transom near the door. He gotr up, collected


230 THE BLACK BAG
them, and returning to his berth, dressed at leisure,
thinking heavily, disgruntled — in a humor as evil
as the after-taste of bad brandy in his mouth.
When dressed he went out into the cabin, closing
the door upon his berth, and for lack of anything bet-
ter to do, seated himself on the thwartships transom,
against the forward bulkhead, behind the table.
Above his head a chronometer ticked steadily and
loudly, and, being consulted, told him that the time
of day was twenty minutes to four; which meant that
he had slept away some eighteen or twenty hours.
That was a solid spell of a rest, when he came to think
of it, even allowing that he had been unusually and
pardonably fatigued when conducted to his berth.
He felt stronger now, and bright enough — and
enormously hungry into the bargain.
Abstractedly, heedless of the fact that his tobacco
would be water-soaked and ruined, he fumbled in his
pockets for pipe and pouch, thinking to soothe the
pangs of hunger against breakfast-time; which was
probably two hours and a quarter ahead. But his
pockets were empty — every one of them. He as-
similated this discovery in patience and cast an eye
about the room, to locate, if possible, the missing
property. But naught of his was visible. So he
rose and began a more painstaking search.
The cabin was at once tiny, low-ceiled, and de-
pressingly gloomy. Its furniture consisted entirely


PICARESQUE PASSAGES 231
in a chair or two, supplementing the transoms and
lockers as resting-places, and a center-table covered
with a cloth of turkey-red, whose original aggressive-
ness had been darkly moderated by libations of liquids,
principally black coffee, and burnt offerings of grease
and tobacco-ash. Aside from the companion-way
to the deck, four doors opened into the room, two
probably giving upon the captain's and the mate's
quarters, the others on pseudo state-rooms — one of
which he had just vacated — closets large enough to
contain a small bunk and naught beside. The bulk-
heads and partitions were badly broken out with a
rash of pictures from illustrated papers, mostly
offensive. Kirkwood was interested to read a half-
column clipping from a New York yellow journal, de-
scriptive of the antics of a drunken British &ailor
who had somehow found his way to the bar-room of
the Fifth Avenue Hotel; the paragraph exploiting
the fact that it had required four policemen in addi-
tion to the corps of porters to subdue him, was
strongly underscored in red ink; and the news-story
wound up with the information that in police court the
man had given his name as William Stranger and
cheerfully had paid a fine of ten dollars, alleging his
entertainment to have been cheap at the price.
While Kirkwood was employed in perusing this illu-
minating anecdote, eight bells sounded, and, from
the commotion overhead, the watch changed. A


232 THE BLACK BAG
little later the companion-way door slammed open
and shut, and Captain Stryker — or Stranger; which-
ever you please — fell down, rather than descended,
the steps.
Without attention to the American he rolled into
the mate's room and roused that personage. Kirk-
wood heard that the name of the second-in-command
was 'Obbs, as well as that he occupied the star-
board state-room aft; After a brief exchange of
comment and instruction, Mr. 'Obbs appeared in the
shape of a walking pillar of oil-skins capped by a
sou'wester, and went on deck; Stryker, following him
out of the state-room, shed his own oilers in a clammy
heap upon the floor, opened a locker from which he
brought forth a bottle and a dirty glass, and, turn-
ing toward the table, for the first time became sensible
of Kirkwood's presence.
"Ow, there you are, eigh, little bright-eyes!" he
exclaimed with surprised animation.
"Good morning, Captain Stryker," said Kirkwood,
rising. "I want to tell you —"
But Stryker waved one great red paw impatiently,
with the effect of sweeping aside and casting into the
discard Kirkwood's intended speech of thanks; nor
would he hear him further.
"Did'you 'ave a nice little nap?" he interrupted.
"Come up bright and smilin', eigh? Now I guess"
— the emphasis made it clear that the captain


PICARESQUE PASSAGES 288
believed himself to be employing an Americanism;
and so successful was he in his own esteem that he
could not resist the temptation to improve upon the
imitation —" Na-ow I guess yeou're abaout right
ready, ben't ye, to hev a drink, sonny?"
"No, thank you," said Kirkwood, sailing toler-
antly. "I've got any amount of appetite . . ."
"'Ave you, now?" Stryker dropped his mimicry
and glanced at the clock. "Breakfast," he an-
nounced, " will be served in the myne dinin' saloon at
eyght a. m. Passingers is requested not to be lyte at
tyble."
Depositing the bottle on the said table, the cap-
tain searched until he found another glass for Kirk-
wood, and sat down.
"Do you good," he insinuated, pushing the bottle
gently over.
"No, thank you," reiterated Kirkwood shortly, a
little annoyed.
Stryker seized his own glass, poured out a strong
man's dose of the fiery concoction, gulped it down,
and sighed. Then, with a glance at the American's
woebegone countenance (Kirkwood was contemplating
a four-hour wait for breakfast, and, consequently,
looking as if he had lost his last friend), the captain
bent over, placing both hands palm down before him
and wagging his head earnestly.
"Please," he implored,—" Please don't let me lam-
i


234 THE BLACK BAG
terrupt;" and filled his pipe, pretending a pensive
detachment from his company.
The fumes of burning shag sharpened the tooth of
desire. Kirkwood stood it as long as he could, then
surrendered with an: "If you've got any more of
that tobacco, Captain, I'd be glad of a pipe."
An intensely contemplative expression crept into
the captain's small blue eyes.
"I only got one other pyper of this 'ere 'baccy,"
he announced at length, "and I carn't get no more
till I gets 'ome. I simply couldn't part with it
hunder 'arf a quid."
Kirkwood settled back with a hopeless lift of his
shoulders. Abstractedly Stryker puffed the smoke his
way until he could endure the deprivation no longer.
"I had about ten shillings in my pocket when I
came aboard, captain, and ... a few other arti-
cles."
"Ow, yes; so you 'ad, now you mention it."
Stryker rose, ambled into his room, and returned
with Kirkwood's possessions and a fresh paper of
shag. While the young man was hastily filling, light-
ing, and inhaling the first strangling but delectable
whiff, the captain solemnly counted into his own palm
all the loose change except three large pennies. The
latter he shoved over to Kirkwood in company with
a miscellaneous assortment of articles, which the Amer-
ican picked up piece by piece and began to bestow


PICARESQUE PASSAGES 235
about his clothing. When through, he sat back, trou-
bled and disgusted. Stryker met his regard blandly.
"Anything I can do?" he inquired, in suave con-
cern.
"Why . . . there was a black pearl scarf-
pin —"
"W'y, don't you remember? You gave that to
me, 'count of me 'avin syved yer life. 'Twas me
throwed you that line, you know."
"Oh," commented Kirkwood briefly. The pin had
been among the most valuable and cherished of his
belongings.
"Yes," nodded the captain in reminiscence. "You
don't remember? Likely 'twas the brandy singing
in yer 'ead. You pushes it into my 'ands,— al-
most weepin', you was,— and sez, sez you, ' Stryker,'
you sez,' tyke this in triflin' toking of my gratichood;
I wouldn't hinsult you,' you sez, 'by hofferin' you
money, but this I can insist on yer acceptin', and
no refusal,' says you."
"Oh," repeated Kirkwood.
"If I for a ninstant thought you wasn't sober when
you done it . . . But no; you're a gent if there
ever was one, and I'm not the man to offend you."
"Oh, indeed."
The captain let the implication pass, perhaps on
the consideration that he could afford to ignore it;
and said no more. The pause held for several


236 THE BLACK BAG
minutes, Kirkwood having fallen into a mood of
grave distraction. Finally Captain Stryker thought-
fully measured out a second drink, limited only by
the capacity of the tumbler, engulfed it noisily, and
got up.
"Guess I'll be turnin' in," he volunteered affably,
yawning and stretching.
"I was about to ask you to do me a service
." began Kirkwood.
"Yes ?"— with the rising inflection of mockery.
Kirkwood quietly produced his cigar-case, a gold
match-box, gold card-case, and slipped a signet ring
from his finger. "Will you buy these?" he asked.
"Or will you lend me five pounds and hold them as
security?"
Stryker examined the collection with exaggerated
interest strongly tinctured with mistrust. "I'll buy
'em," he offered eventually, looking up.
"That's kind of you —"
"Ow, they ain't much use to me, but Bill Stryker's
alius willin' to accommodate a friend. . . . Four
quid, you said?"
"Five . . ."
"They ain't wuth over four to me."
"Very well; make it four," Kirkwood assented
contemptuously.
The captain swept the articles into one capacious
fist, pivoted on one heel at the peril of his neck, and


PICARESQUE PASSAGES 237
lumbered unsteadily off to his room. Pausing at the
door he turned back in inquiry.
"I sye, W did you come to get the impression
there was a party named Almanack aboard this wes-
sel?"
"Calendar—"
"'Ave it yer own wye," Stryker conceded grace-
fully.
"There isn't, is there?"
"You 'eard me."
"Then," said Kirkwood sweetly, "I'm sure you
wouldn't be interested."
The captain pondered this at leisure. "You
seemed pretty keen abaht seein' 'im," he remarked
conclusively.
"I was."
"Seems to me I did 'ear the' nyme sumw'eres
afore." The captain appeared to wrestle with an
obdurate memory. "Ow!" he triumphed. "I
know. 'E was a chap up Manchester wye. Keeper
in a loonatic asylum, 'e was. 'That yer party?"
"No," said Kirkwood wearily.
"I didn't know but mebbe 'twas. Excuse me.
'Thought as 'ow mebbe you'd escyped from 'is tender
care, but, findin' the world cold, chynged yer mind
and wanted to gow back."
Without waiting for a reply he lurched into his
room and banged the door to. Kirkwood, divided be-


238 THE BLACK BAG
tween amusement and irritation, heard him stumbling
about for some time; and then a hush fell, grateful
enough while it lasted; which was not long. For no
sooner did the captain sleep than a penetrating snore
added itself unto the cacophony of waves and wind
and tortured ship.
Kirkwood, comforted at first by the blessed tobacco,
lapsed insensibly into dreary meditations. * Coming
after the swift movement and sustained excitement of
the eighteen hours preceding his long sleep, the
monotony of shipboard confinement seemed irksome to
a maddening degree. There was absolutely nothing
he could discover to occupy his mind. If there were
books aboard, none was in evidence; beyond the re-
port of Mr. Stranger's Manhattan night's entertain-
ment the walls were devoid of reading matter; and a
round of the picture gallery proved a diversion weari-
ful enough when not purely revolting.
Wherefore Mr. Kirkwood stretched himself out on
the transom and smoked and reviewed his adventures
in detail and seriatim, and was by turns indignant,
sore, anxious on his own account as well as on Dor-
othy's, and out of all patience with himself. Mysti-
fied he remained throughout, and the edge of his
curiosity held as keen as ever, you may believe.
Consistently the affair presented itself to his fancy
in the guise of a puzzle-picture, which, though you
study it never so diligently, remains incomprehensi-


PICARESQUE PASSAGES 239
ble, until by chance you view it from an unexpected
angle, when it reveals itself intelligibly. It had not
yet been his good fortune to see it from the right view-
point. To hold the metaphor, he walked endless cir-
cles round it, patiently seeking, but ever failing to
find the proper perspective. . . . Each inci-
dent, however insignificant, in connection with it, he
handled over and over, examining its every facet,
bright or dull, as an expert might inspect a clever
imitation of a diamond; and like a perfect imitation
it defied analysis.
Of one or two things he was convinced; for one,
that Stryker was a liar worthy of classification with
Calendar and Mrs. Hallam. Kirkwood had not only
the testimony of his sense to assure him that the ship's
name, Alethea (not a common one, by the bye), had
been mentioned by both Calendar and Mulready dur-
ing their altercation on Bermondsey Old Stairs, but
he had the confirmatory testimony of the sleepy
waterman, William, who had directed Old Bob and
Young William to the anchorage off Bow Creek.
That there should have been two vessels of the same
unusual name at one and the same time in the Port
of London, was a coincidence too preposterous alto-
gether to find place in his calculations.
His second impregnable conclusion was that those
whom he sought had boarded the Alethea, but had
left her before she tripped her anchor. That they


240 THE BLACK BAG
were not stowed away aboard her seemed unquestion-
able. The brigantine was hardly large enough for
the presence of three persons aboard her to be long
kept a secret from an inquisitive fourth,,— unless,
indeed, they lay in hiding in the hold; for which,
once the ship got under way, there could be scant
excuse. And Kirkwood did not believe himself a
person of sufficient importance in Calendar's eyes, to
make that worthy endure the discomforts of a 'tween-
decks imprisonment throughout the voyage, even to
escape recognition.
With every second, then, he was traveling farther
from her to whose aid he had rushed, impelled by mo-
tives so hot-headed, so innately chivalric, so unthink-
ingly gallant, so exceptionally idiotic!
Idiot! Kirkwood groaned with despair of his ina-
bility to fathom the abyss of his self-contempt. There
seemed to be positively no excuse for him. Stryker
had befriended him indeed, had he permitted him to
drown. Yet he had acted for the best, as he saw it.
The fault lay in himself: an admirable fault, that
of harboring and nurturing generous and compas-
sionate instincts. But, of course, Kirkwood couldn't
see it that way.
"What else could I do?" he defended himself
against the indictment of common sense. "I
couldn't leave her to the mercies of that set of rogues!
• • . And Heaven knows I was given every reason


PICARESQUE PASSAGES 241
to believe she would be aboard this ship! Why, she
herself told me that she was sailing. . .!"
Heaven knew, too, that this folly of his had cost
him a pretty penny, first and last. His watch was
gone beyond recovery, his homeward passage for-
feited; he no longer harbored illusions as to the
steamship company presenting him with another berth
in lieu of that called for by that water-soaked slip of
paper then in his pocket — courtesy of Stryker. He
had sold for a pittance, a tithe of its value, his per-
sonal jewelry, and had spent every penny he could call
his own. With the money Stryker was to give him he
would be able to get back to London and his third-
rate hostelry, but not with enough over to pay that
one week's room-rent, or . . .
"Oh, the devil!" he groaned, head in hands.
The future loomed wrapped in unspeakable dark-
ness, lightened by no least ray of hope. It had been
bad enough to lose a comfortable living through a
gigantic convulsion of Nature; but to think that he
had lost all else through his own egregious folly, to
find himself reduced to the kennels!
So Care found him again in those weary hours,—
came and sat by his side, slipping a grisly hand in his
and tightening its grip until he could have cried out
with the torment of it; the while whispering insidi-
ously subtile, evil things in his ear. And he had not
even Hope to comfort him; at any previous stage


242
THE BLACK BAG
he had been able to distil a sort of bitter-sweet sat-
isfaction from the thought that he was suffering for
the love of his life. But now — now Dorothy was
lost, gone like the glamour of Romance in the search-
ing light of day.
Stryker, emerging from his room for breakfast,
found the passenger with a hostile look in his eye and
a jaw set in ugly fashion. His eyes, too, were the
abiding-place of smoldering devils; and the captain,
recognizing them, considerately forbore to stir them
up with any untimely pleasantries. To be sure, he
was autocrat in his own ship, and Kirkwood's stand-
ing aboard was nil; but then there was just enough
yellow in the complexion of Stryker's soul to incline
him to sidestep trouble whenever feasible. And be-
sides, he entertained dark suspicions of his guest —
suspicions he scarce dared voice even to his inmost
heart.
The morning meal, therefore, passed off in con-
strained silence. The captain ate voraciously and
vociferously, pushed back his chair, and went on deck
to relieve the mate. The latter, a stunted little Cock-
ney with a wizened countenance and a mind as foul
as his tongue, got small change of his attempts to
engage the passenger in conversation on topics that
he considered fit for discussion. After the sixth or
eighth snubbing he rose in dudgeon, discharged a
poisonous bit of insolence, and retired to his berth,


PICARESQUE PASSAGES 843
leaving Kirkwood to finish his breakfast in peace;
which the latter did literally, to the last visible scrap
of food and the ultimate drop of coffee, poor as both
were in quality.
To the tune of a moderating wind, the morning
wearied away. Kirkwood went on deck once, for dis-
traction from the intolerable monotony of it all, got a
sound drenching of spray, with a glimpse of a dark
line on the eastern horizon, which he understood to be
the low littoral of Holland, and was glad to dodge
'below once more and dry himself.
He had the pleasure of the mate's company at din-
ner, the captain remaining on deck until Hobbs had
finished and gone up to relieve him; and by that time
Kirkwood likewise was through.
Stryker blew down with a blustery show of cheer.
"Well, well, my little man!" (It happened that he
topped Kirkwood's stature by at least five inches.)
"Enj'yin' yer sea trip?"
"About as much as you'd expect," snapped Kirk-
wood.
"Ow?" The captain began to shovel food into
his face. (The author regrets he has at his command
no more delicate expression that is literal and il-
lustrative.) Kirkwood watched him, fascinated with
suspense; it seemed impossible that the man could con-
tinue so to employ his knife without cutting his throat
from the inside. But years of such manipulation


244
THE BLACK BAG
had made him expert, and his guest, keenly disap-
pointed, at length ceased to hope.
Between gobbles Stryker eyed him furtively.
"'Treat you all right?" he demanded abruptly.
Kirkwood started out of a brown study. "What?
Who? Why, I suppose I ought to be — indeed, I am
grateful," he asserted. "Certainly you saved my
life, and —"
"Ow, I don't mean that." Stryker gathered the
imputation into his paw and flung it disdainfully to
the four winds of Heaven. "Bless yer 'art, you're
welcome; I wouldn't let no dorg drownd, 'f I could
'elp it. No," he declared, " nor a loonatic, neither."
He thrust his plate away and shifted sidewise in
his chair. "I 'uz just wonderin'," he pursued, pick-
ing his teeth meditatively with a pen-knife, "'ow
they feeds you in them a*-ylums. 'Avin' never been
inside one, myself, it's on'y natural I'd be cur'us.
. . . There was one of them institootions near
where I was borned — Birming'am, that is. I used
to see the loonies playin' in the grounds. I remem-
ber just as well! . . . One of 'em and me struck
up quite an acquaintance—"
"Naturally he'd take to you on sight."
"Ow? Strynge 'ow me 'it it off, eigh? . . .
You myke me think of 'im. Young chap, 'e was, the
livin' spi't-'n-himage of you. It don't happen, does
it, you're the same man?"


PICARESQUE PASSAGES 245
"OH, go to the devil!"
"Naughty!" said the captain serenely, wagging a
reproving forefinger. "Bad, naughty word. You'll
be sorry when you find out wot it means.
Only 'e was allus plannin' to run awye and drownd
'is-self." ...
He wore the joke threadbare, even to his own taste,
and in the end got heavily to his feet, starting for
the companionway. "Land you this arternoon," he
remarked casually, "come three o'clock or there-
abahts. Per'aps later. I don't know, though, as
I 'ad ought to let you loose."
Kirkwood made no answer. Chuckling, Stryker
went on deck.
In the course of an hour the American followed
him.
Wind and sea alike had gone down wonderfully
since daybreak — a circumstance undoubtedly in
great part due to the fact that they had won in under
the lee of the mainland and were traversing shal-
lower waters. On either hand, like mist upon the
horizon, lay a streak of gray, a shade darker than
the gray of the waters. The Alethea was within the
wide jaws of the Western Scheldt. As for the wind,
it had shifted several points to the northwards; the
brigantine had it abeam and was lying down to it
and racing to port with slanting deck and singing
cordage.


248 THE BLACK BAG
Stryker swigged off his rum and wiped his lips with
the back of a red paw, hesitating a moment to watch
his guest.
"Mykes it seem more 'ome-like for you, I expect,"
he observed.
"What do you mean?"
"W'y, Bradshaw's first-cousin to a halmanack,
ain't 'e? Can't get one, take t'other — next best
thing. Sorry I didn't think of it sooner; like my pas-
sengers to feel comfy. . . . Now don't you go
trapsein' off to gay Paree and squanderin' wot money
you got left. You 'ear?"
"By the way, Captain!" Kirkwood looked up
at this, but Stryker was already half-way up the
companion.
Cautiously the American opened his right fist and
held to the light that which had been concealed, close
wadded in his grasp,— a square of sheer linen edged
with lace, crumpled but spotless, and diffusing in
the unwholesome den a faint, intangible fragrance,
the veriest wraith of that elusive perfume which he
would never again inhale without instantly recalling
that night ride through London in the intimacy of
a cab.
He closed his eyes and saw her again, as clearly
as though she stood before him,— hair of gold massed
above the forehead of snow, curling in adorable
tendrils at the nape of her neck, lips like scarlet


250 THE BLACK BAG
And now he saw it clearly — dolt that he had been
not to have divined it ere this! The Alethea had run
in to Queensborough, landing her passengers there,
that they might make connection with the eleven-ten
morning boat for Flushing,— the very side-wheel
steamer, doubtless, which he had noticed beating out
in the teeth of the gale just after the brigantine had
picked him up. Had he not received the passing
impression that the Alethea, when first he caught sight
of her, might have been coming out of the Medway,
on whose eastern shore is situate Queensborough Pier?
Had not Mrs. Hallam, going upon he knew not what
information or belief, been bound for Queensborough,
with design there to intercept the fugitives?
Kirkwood chuckled to recall how, all unwittingly,
he had been the means of diverting from her
chosen course that acute and resourceful lady; then
again turned his attention to the tables.
A third check had been placed against the train
for Amsterdam scheduled to leave Antwerp at 6:32
p. m. Momentarily his heart misgave him, when he
saw this, in fear lest Calendar and Dorothy should
have gone on from Antwerp the previous evening;
but then he rallied, discovering that the boat-train
from Flushing did not arrive at Antwerp till after
ten at night; and there was no later train thence for
Amsterdam. Were the latter truly their purposed
destination, they would have stayed overnight and be


PICARESQUE PASSAGES 251
leaving that very evening on the 6:32. On the other
hand, why should they wait for the latest train, rather
than proceed by the first available in the morning?
Why but because Calendar and Mulready were to
wait for Stryker to join them on the Alethea?
Very well, then; if the wind held and Stryker knew
his business, there would be another passenger on that
train, in addition to the Calendar party.
Making mental note of the fact that the boat-train
for Flushing and London was scheduled to leave Ant-
werp daily at 8:21 p. m., Kirkwood rustled the leaves
to find out whether or not other tours had been
planned, found evidences of none, and carefully re-
stored the guide to the locker, lest inadvertently the
captain should pick it up and see what Kirkwood had
seen.
An. hour later he went on deck. The skies had
blown clear and the brigantine was well in land-bound
waters and still footing a rattling pace. The river-
banks had narrowed until, beyond the dikes to right
and left, the country-side stretched wide and flat, a
plain of living green embroidered with winding roads
and quaint Old-World hamlets whose red roofs shone
like dull fire between the dark green foliage of
dwarfed firs.
Down with the Scheldt's gray shimmering flood
were drifting little companies of barges, sturdy and
snug both fore and aft, tough tanned sails burning


252 THE BLACK BAG
in the afternoon sunlight. A long string of canal-
boats, potted plants flowering saucily in their neatly
curtained windows, proprietors expansively smoking
on deck, in the bosoms of their very large families,
was being mothered up-stream by two funny, cluck-
ing tugs. Behind the brigantine a travel-worn At-
lantic liner was scolding itself hoarse about the right
of way. Outward bound, empty cattle boats, rough
and rusty, were swaggering down to the sea, with the
careless, independent thumbs-in-armholes air of so
many navvies off the job.
And then lifting suddenly above the level far-off
sky-line, there appeared a very miracle of beauty;
the delicate tracery of the great Cathedral's spue of
frozen lace, glowing like a thing of spun gold, set
against the sapphire velvet of the horizon.
Antwerp was in sight.
A troublesome care stirring in his mind, Kirkwood
looked round the deck; but Stryker was very busy,
entirely too preoccupied with the handling of his
ship to be interrupted with impunity. Besides, there
was plenty of time.
More slowly now, the wind falling, the brigantine
crept up the river, her crew alert with sheets and
halyards as the devious windings of the stream
rendered it necessary to trim the canvas at varying
angles to catch the wind.
Slowly, too, in the shadow of that Mechlin spire,


PICARESQUE PASSAGES 253
the horizon grew rough and elevated, taking shape
in the serrated profile of a thousand gables and a
hundred towers and cross-crowned steeples.
Once or twice, more and more annoyed a3 the time
of their association seemed to grow more brief, Kirk-
wood approached the captain; but Stryker continued
to be exhaustively absorbed in the performance of
his duties.
Up past the dockyards, where spidery masts stood
in dense groves about painted funnels, and men
swarmed over huge wharves like ants over a crust of
bread; up and round the final, great sweeping bend
of the river, the Alcthea made her sober way, ever
with greater slowness; until at length, in the rose
glow of a flawless evening, her windlass began to
clank like a mad thing and her anchor bit the river-
bed, near the left bank, between old Forts Isabelle
and Tete de Flandre, frowned upon from the right
by the grim pile of the age-old Steen castle.
And again. Kirkwood sought Stryker, his carking
query ready on his lips. But the captain impatiently
waved him aside.
"Don't you bother me now, me lud juke! Wyte
until I gets done with the custom hofficer."
Kirkwood acceded, perforce; and bided his time
with what tolerance he could muster.
A pluttering customs launch bustled up to the
Alethea's side, discharged a fussy inspector on the


PICARESQUE PASSAGES 255
Kirkwood's eyes narrowed. "Stryker," he said
steadily, " give me the four pounds and let's have no
more nonsense; or else hand over my things at once."
"Daffy," Stryker told vacancy, with conviction.
"Lor5 luv me if I sees 'ow he ever 'ad sense enough
to escype. W'y, yer majesty!" and he bowed,
ironic. "I 'ave given you yer quid."
"Just about as much as I gave you that pearl pin,"
retorted Kirkwood hotly. "What the devil do you
mean —"
"W'y, yer ludship, four pounds jus pyes yer
passyge; I thought you understood."
"My passage! But I can come across by steamer
for thirty shillings, first-class—"
"Aw, but them steamers! Tricky, they is, and
unsyfe. . . . No, yer gryce, the W. Stryker
Packet Line Lim'ted, London to Antwerp, charges
four pounds per passyge and no reduction for return
fare."
Stunned by his effrontery, Kirkwood stared in si-
lence.
"Any complynts," continued the captain, looking
over Kirkwood's head, " must be lyde afore the Board
of Directors in writin' not more'n thirty dyes
arf ter —"
"You damned scoundrel!" interpolated Kirkwood
thoughtfully.
Stoker's mouth closed with a snap; his features
,-


256 THE BLACK BAG
froze in a cast of wrath; cold rage glinted in his
small blue eyes. "W'y," he bellowed, " you bloomin'
loonatic, d'ye think you can sye that to Bill Stryker
on 'is own wessel!"
He hesitated a moment, then launched a heavy fist
at Kirkwood's face. Unsurprised, the young man
side-stepped, caught the hard, bony wrist as the cap-
tain lurched by, following his wasted blow, and with
a dexterous twist laid him flat on his back, with a
sounding thump upon the deck. And as the infu-
riated scamp rose — which he did with a bound that
placed him on his feet and in defensive posture; as
though the deck had been a spring-board — Kirkwood
leaped back, seized a capstan-bar, and faced him with
a challenge.
"Stand clear, Stryker!" he warned the man
tensely, himself livid with rage. "If you move a
step closer I swear I'll knock the head off your shoul-
ders! Not another inch, you contemptible whelp, or
I'll brain you! . . . That's better," he contin-
ued as the captain, caving, dropped his fists and
moved uneasily back. "Now give that boatman
money for taking me ashore. Yes, I'm going — and
if we ever meet again, take the other side of the way,
Stryker!"
Without response, a grim smile wreathing his thin,
hard lips, Stryker thrust one hand into his pocket,
and withdrawing a coin, tossed it to the waiting


PICARESQUE PASSAGES 257
waterman. Whereupon Kirkwood backed warily to
the rail, abandoned the capstan-bar and dropped over
the side.
Nodding to the boatman, "The Steen landing —
quickly," he said in French.
Stryker, recovering, advanced to the rail and waved
him a derisive bon voyage.
"By-by, yer hexcellency. I 'opes it may soon be
my pleasure to meet you again. You've been a real
privilege to know; I've henjoyed yer comp'ny some-
thin' immense. Don't know as I ever met such a
rippin', Ay Number One, all-round, entertynin' ass,
afore!"
He fumbled nervously about his clothing, brought
to light a rag of cotton, much the worse for service,
and ostentatiously wiped from the corner of each eye
tears of grief at parting. Then, as the boat swung
toward the farther shore, Kirkwood's back was to
the brigantine, and he was little tempted to turn and
invite fresh shafts of ridicule.
Rapidly, as he was ferried across the busy Scheldt,
the white blaze of his passion cooled; but the biting
irony of his estate ate, corrosive, into his soul. Hol-
low-eyed he glared vacantly into space, pale lips un-
moving, his features wasted with despair.
They came to the landing-stage and swung broad-
side on. Mechanically the American got up and
disembarked. As heedless of time and place he moved


THE BLACK BAG
up the Quai to the gangway and so gained the es-
planade; where pausing he thrust a trembling hand
into his trouser pocket.
The hand reappeared, displaying in its outspread
palm three big, round, brown, British pennies. Star-
ing down at them, Kirkwood's lips moved.
"Bed rock L" he whispered huskily.


860 THE BLACK BAG
be experienced no difficulty in comprehending the
good woman's instructions.
Trains for Amsterdam, she said, left from the Gare
Centrale, a mile or so across the city. M'sieur had
plenty of time, and to spare. There was the tram
line, if m'sieur did not care to take a fiacre. If he
would go by way of the Vielle Bourse he would dis-
cover the tram cars of the Rue Kipdorp. M'sieur
was most welcome. . . .
Monsieur departed with the more haste since he
was unable to repay this courtesy with the most
trifling purchase; such slight matters annoyed Kirk-
wood intensely. Perhaps it was well for him that he
had the long walk to help him work off the fit of
nervous exasperation into which he was plunged every
time his thoughts harked back to that jovial black-
guard, Stryker. . . . He was quite calm when,
after a brisk walk of some fifteen minutes, he reached
the station.
A public clock reassured him with the information
that he had the quarter of an hour's leeway; it was
only seventeen minutes past eighteen o'clock (Belgian
railway time, always confusing). Inquiring his way
to the Amsterdam train, which was already waiting
at the platform, he pax-ed its length, peering brazenly
in at the coach windows, now warm with hope, now
shivering with disappointment, realizing as he could
not but realize that, all else aside, his only chance of


A PRIMER OF PROGRESSIVE CRIME 263
and gables and dormer windows, inclosing the other
sides of the square. The chimes (he could hear none
but those of the Cathedral) were heralding the hour
of seven. Listless and preoccupied in contemplation
of his wretched case he wandered purposelessly half
round the square, then dropped into a bench on its
outskirts.
It was some time later that he noticed, with a casual,
indifferent eye, a porter running out of the Hotel de
Flandre, directly opposite, and calling a fiacre in to
the carriage block.
As languidly he watched a woman, very becom-
ingly dressed, follow the porter down to the curb.
The fiacre swung in, and the woman dismissed the
porter before entering the vehicle; a proceeding so
unusual that it fixed the onlooker's interest. He sat
rigid with attention; the woman seemed to be giving
explicit and lengthy directions to the driver, who
nodded and gesticulated his comprehension.
The woman was Mrs. Hallam.
The first blush of recognition passed, leaving Kirk-
wood without any amazement. It was an easy mat-
ter to account for her being where she was. Thrown
off the scent by Kirkwood at Sheerness, the previous
morning, she had missed the day boat, the same which
had ferried over those whom she pursued. Return-
ing from Sheerness to Queensborough, however, she
had taken the night boat for Flushing and Antwerp,


A PRIMER OF PROGRESSIVE CRIME 265
of Notre Dame d'Anvers, through Grande Place and
past the Hotel de Ville, the cab proceeded, dogged by
what might plausibly be asserted the most persistent
and infatuated soul that ever crossed the water; and
so on into the Quai Van Byck, turning to the left
at the old Steen dungeon and, slowing to a walk,
moving soberly up the drive.
Beyond the lip of the embankment, the Scheldt
flowed, its broad shining surface oily, smooth and
dark, a mirror for the incandescent glory of the skies.
Over on the western bank old Tete de Flandre lifted
up its grim curtains and bastions, sable against the
crimson, rampart and parapet edged with fire. Busy
little side-wheeled ferry steamers spanked the waters
noisily and smudged the sunset with dark drifting
trails of smoke; and ever and anon a rowboat would
slip out of shadow to glide languidly with the cur-
rent. Otherwise the life of the river was gone;
and at their moorings the ships swung in great quiet-
ness, riding lights glimmering like low wan stars.
In the company of the latter the young man marked
down the Alethea; a sight which made him uncon-
sciously clench both fists and teeth, reminding him
of that rare wag, Stryker. . . .
To his way of thinking the behavior of the fiacre
was quite unaccountable. Hardly had the horse
paced off the length of two blocks on the Quai ere it
was guided to the edge of the promenade and brought


266 THE BLACK BAG
to a stop. And the driver twisted the reins round
his whip, thrust the latter in its socket, turned side-
wise on the box, and began to smoke and swing his
heels, surveying the panorama of river and sunset
with complacency — a cabby, one would venture,
without a care in the world and serene in the assurance
of a generous pour-boire when he lost his fare. But
as for the latter, she made no move; the door of the
cab remained closed,— like its occupant's mind, a mys-
tery to the watcher.
Twilight shadows lengthened, darkling, over the
land; street-lights flashed up in long, radiant ranks.
Across the promenade hotels and shops were lighted
up; people began to gather round the tables beneath
the awnings of an open-air cafe. In the distance,
somewhere, a band swung into the dreamy rhythm of
a haunting waltz. Scattered couples moved slowly,
arm in arm, along the riverside walk, drinking in the
fragrance of the night. Overhead stars popped out
in brilliance and dropped their reflections to swim
lazily on spellbound waters. . . . And still the
fiacre lingered in inaction, still the driver lorded it
aloft, in care-free abandon.
In the course of time this inertia, where he had
looked for action, this dull suspense when he had
forecast interesting developments, wore upon the
watcher's nerves and made him at once impatient and
suspicious. Now that he had begun to doubt, he


A PRIMER OF PROGRESSIVE CRIME 267
conceived it as quite possible that Mrs. Hallam (who
was capable of anything) should have stolen out of
the cab by the other and, to him, invisible door. To
resolve the matter, finally, he took advantage of the
darkness, turned up his coat collar, hunched up his
shoulders, hid his hands in pockets, pulled the visor
of his cap well forward over his eyes, and slouched
past the fiacre.
Mrs. Hallam sat within. He could see her profile
clearly silhouetted against the light; she was bend-
ing forward and staring fixedly out of the window,
across the driveway. Mentally he calculated the di-
rection of her gaze, then moved away and followed
it with his own eyes; and found himself staring at
the facade of a third-rate hotel. Above its roof the
gilded letters of a sign, catching the illumination
from below, spelled out the title of " Hotel du Com-
merce."
Mrs. Hallam was interested in the Hotel du Com-
merce?
Thoughtfully Kirkwood fell back to his former
point of observation, now the richer by another ob-
ject of suspicion, the hostelry. Mrs. Hallam was
waiting and watching for some one to enter or to leave
that establishment. It seemed a reasonable inference
to draw. Well, then, so was Kirkwood, no less than
the lady; he deemed it quite conceivable that their
objects were identical.
i


268 THE BLACK BAG
He started to beguile the time by wondering what
she would do, if . •« .
Of a sudden he abandoned this line of speculation,
and catching his breath, held it, almost afraid to
credit the truth that for once his anticipations were
being realized under his very eyes.
Against the lighted doorway of the Hotel du Com-
merce, the figures of two men were momentarily
sketched, as they came hurriedly forth; and of the
two, one was short and stout, and even at a distance
seemed to bear himself with an accent of assertiveness,
while the other was tall and heavy of shoulder.
Side by side they marched in step across the em-
bankment to the head of the Quai gangway, descend-
ing without pause to the landing-stage. Kirkwood,
hanging breathlessly over the guard-rail, could hear
their footfalls ringing in hollow rhythm on the planks
of the inclined way,— could even discern Calendar's
unlovely profile in dim relief beneath one of the water-
side lights; and he recognized unmistakably Mul-
ready's deep voice, grumbling inarticulately.
At the outset he had set after them, with intent to
accost Calendar; but their pace had been swift and
his irresolute. He hung fire on the issue, dreading
to reveal himself, unable to decide which were the
better course, to pursue the men, or to wait and dis-
cover what Mrs. Hallam was about. In the end he
waited; and had his disappointment for recompense.


A PRIMER OF PROGRESSIVE CRIME 269
For Mrs. Hallam did nothing intelligible. Had
she driven over to the hotel, hard upon the departure
of the men, he would have believed that she was seek-
ing Dorothy, and would, furthermore, have elected
to crowd their interview, if she succeeded in obtain-
ing one with the girl. But she did nothing of the
sort. For a time the fiacre remained as it had been
ever since stopping; then, evidently admonished by
his fare, the driver straightened up, knocked out his
pipe, disentangled reins and whip, and wheeled the
equipage back on the way it had come, disappearing
in a dark side street leading eastward from the
embankment.
Kirkwood was, then, to believe that Mrs. Hallam,
having taken all that trouble and having waited for
the two adventurers to appear, had been content with
sight of them? He could hardly believe that of the
woman; it wasn't like her.
He started across the driveway, after the fiacre,
but it was lost in a tangle of side streets before he
could make up his mind whether it was worth while
chasing or not; and, pondering the woman's singular
action, he retraced his steps to the promenade rail.
Presently he told himself he understood. Dorothy
was no longer of her father's party; he had a sus-
picion that Mulready's attitude had made it seem ad-
visable to Calendar either to leave the girl behind,
in England, or to segregate her from his associates


270 THE BLACK BAG
in Antwerp. If not lodged in another quarter of
the city, or left behind, she was probably traveling
on ahead, to a destination which he could by no means
guess. And Mrs. Hallam was looking for the girl;
if there were really jewels in that gladstone bag,
Calendar would naturally have had no hesitation
about intrusting them to his daughter's care; and
Mrs. Hallam avowedly sought nothing else. How
the woman had found out that such was the case,
Kirkwood did not stop to reckon; unless he explained
it on the proposition that she was a person of re-
markable address. It made no matter, one way or
the other; he had lost Mrs. Hallam; but Calendar
and Mulready he could put his finger on; they had
undoubtedly gone off to the Alethea to confer again
with Stryker,— that was, unless they proposed sail-
ing on the brigantine, possibly at turn of tide that
night.
Panic gripped his soul and shook it, as a terrier
shakes a rat, when he conceived this frightful propo-
sition.
In his confusion of mind he evolved spontaneously
an entirely new hypothesis: Dorothy had already been
spirited aboard the vessel; Calendar and his confed-
erate, delaying to join her from enigmatic motives,
were now aboard; and presently the word would be,
Up-anchor and away!
Were they again to elude him? Not, he swore, if


A PRIMER OF PROGRESSIVE CRIME 271
he had to swim for it. And he had no wish to swim.
The clothes he stood in, with what was left of his self-
respect, were all that he could call his own on that
side of the North Sea. Not a boatman on the Scheldt
would so much as consider accepting three English
pennies in exchange for boat-hire. In brief, it began
to look as if he were either to swim or ... to
steal a boat.
Upon such slender threads of circumstance depends
our boasted moral health. In one fleeting minute
Kirkwood's conception of the law of mcum et tuum,
its foundations already insidiously undermined by a
series of cumulative misfortunes, toppled crashing to
its fall; and was not.
He was wholly unconscious of the change. Be-
neath him, in a space between the quays bridged by
the gangway, a number of rowboats, a putative score,
lay moored for the night and gently rubbing against
each other with the soundless lift and fall of the
river. For all that Kirkwood could determine to
the contrary, the lot lay at the mercy of the public;
nowhere about was he able to discern a figure in any-
thing resembling a watchman.
Without a quiver of hesitation — moments were
invaluable, if what he feared were true — he strode
to the gangway, passed down, and with absolute non-
chalance dropped into the nearest boat, stepping from
one to another until he had gained the outermost.


272 THE BLACK BAG
To his joy he found a pair of oars stowed beneath
the thwarts.
If he had paused to moralize — which he didn't —
upon the discovery, he would have laid it all at the
door of his lucky star; and would have been wrong.
We who have never stooped to petty larceny know
that the oars had been placed there at the direction
of his evil genius bent upon facilitating his descent
into the avernus of crime. Let us, then, pity the
poor young man without condoning his offense.
Unhitching the painter he set one oar against the
gunwale of the next boat, and with a powerful thrust
sent his own (let us so call it for convenience) stern-
first out upon the river; then sat him composedly
down, fitted the oars to their locks, and began to
pull straight across-stream, trusting to the current
to carry him down to the Alethea. He had already
marked down that vessel's riding-light; and that not
without a glow of gratitude to see it still aloft and
in proper juxtaposition to the river-bank; proof
that it had not moved.
He pulled a good oar, reckoned his distance pret-
tily, and shipping the blades at just the right mo-
ment, brought the little boat in under the brigantine's
counter with scarce a jar. An element of surprise
he held essential to the success of his plan, whatever
that might turn out to be.
Standing up, he caught the brigantine's after-rail
i


A PRIMER OF PROGRESSIVE CRIME 273
with both hands, one of which held the painter of
the purloined boat, and lifted his head above the deck
line. A short survey of the deserted after-deck gave
him further assurance. The anchor-watch was not
in sight; he may have been keeping well forward
by Stryker's instructions, or he may have crept off
for forty winks. Whatever the reason for his ab-
sence from the post of duty, Kirkwood was relieved
not to have him to deal with; and drawing himself
gently in over the rail, made the painter fast, and
stepped noiselessly over toward the lighted oblong
of the companionway. A murmur of voices from
below comforted him with the knowledge that he had
not miscalculated, this time; at last he stood within
striking distance of his quarry.
The syllables of his surname ringing clearly in
his ears and followed by Stryker's fleering laugh,
brought him to a pause. He flushed hotly in the
darkness; the captain was retailing with relish some
of his most successful witticisms at Kirkwood's ex-
pense. ..." You'd ought to 've seed the wye
'e looked at me!" concluded the raconteur in a gale
of mirth.
Mulready laughed with him, if a little uncertainly.
Calendar's chuckle was not audible, but he broke the
pause that followed.
"I don't know," he said with doubting emphasis.
"You say you landed him without a penny in his


274
THE BLACK BAG
pocket? I don't call that a good plan at all. Of
course, he ain't a factor, but . . . Well, it
might've been as well to give him his fare home.
He might make trouble for us, somehow. ... I
don't mind telling you, Cap'n, that you're an ass."
The tensity of certain situations numbs the sensi-
bilities. Kirkwood had never in his weirdest dreams
thought of himself as an eavesdropper; he did not
think of himself as such in the present instance; he
merely listened, edging nearer the skylight, of which
the wings were slightly raised, and keeping as far
as possible in shadow.
"Ow, I sye!" the captain was remonstrating, ag-
grieved. "'Ow was I to know 'e didn't 'ave it in
for you? First off, when 'e comes on board (I'll
sye this for 'im, 'e's as plucky as they myke 'em),
I thought 'e was from the Yard. Then, when I see
wot a bally hinnocent 'e was, I mykes up my mind
'e's just some one you've been ply in' one of your
little gymes on, and 'oo was lookin' to square 'is
account. So I did 'im proper."
"Evidently," assented Calendar dryly. "You're
a bit of a heavy-handed brute, Stryker. Personally
I'm kind of sorry for the boy; he wasn't a bad sort,
as his kind runs, and he was no fool, from what little
I saw of him. ... I wonder what he wanted."
"Possibly," Mulready chimed in suavely, "you
can explain what you wanted of him, in the first


A PRIMER OF PROGRESSIVE CRIME 275
place. How did you come to drag him into this
business?"
"Oh, that!" Calendar laughed shortly. "That
was partly accident, partly inspiration. I happened
to see his name on the Pless register; he'd put him-
self down as from 'Frisco. I figured it out that he
would be next door to broke and getting desperate,
ready to do anything to get home; and thought we
might utilize him to smuggle some of the stuff into the
States. Once before, if you'll remember — no; that
was before we got together, Mulready — I picked up
a fellow-countryman on the Strand. He was down
and out, jumped at the job, and we made a neat
little wad on it."
"The more fool you, to take outsiders into your
confidence," grumbled Mulready.
"Ow?" interrogated Calendar, mimicking Stryk-
er's accent inimitably. "Well, you've got a heap to
learn about this game, Mul; about the first thing is
that you must trust Old Man Know-it-all, which is
me. I've run more diamonds into the States, in one
way or another, in my time, than you ever pinched
out of the shirt-front of a toff on the Empire Prom.,
before they made the graft too hot for you and you
came to take lessons from me in the gentle art of liv-
ing easy."
"Oh, cut that, cawn't you?"
"Delighted, dear boy. . . . One of the first


A PRIMER OF PROGRESSIVE CRIME 279
question now before the board is: Where now,— and
how?"
"Amsterdam," Mulready chimed in. "I told you
that in the beginning."
"But how?" argued Calendar. "The Lord
knows I'm willing but ... we can't go by rail,
thanks to the Hallam. We've got to lose her first of
all."
"But wot I'm arskin' is, wot's the matter with —"
"The Alethea, Cap'n? Nothing, so far as Dick
and I are concerned. But my dutiful daughter is
prejudiced; she's been so long without proper pater-
nal discipline," Calendar laughed, "that she's rather
high-spirited. Of course I might overcome her ob-
jections, but the girl's no fool, and every ounce of
pressure I bring to bear just now only helps make
her more restless and suspicious."
"You leave her to me," Mulready interposed, with
a brutal laugh. "I'll guarantee to get her aboard,
or ..."
"Drop it, Dick!" Calendar advised quietly. "And
go a bit easy with that bottle for five minutes, can't
you?"
"Well, then," Stryker resumed, apparently con-
curring in Calendar's attitude, " w'y don't one of you
tyke the stuff, go off quiet and dispose of it to a
proper fence, and come back to divide. I don't see
w'y that —"


280
THE BLACK BAG
"Naturally you wouldn't," chuckled Calendar.
"Few people besides the two of us understand the
depth of affection existing Jbetween Dick, here, and
me. We just can't bear to get out of sight of each
other. We're sure inseparable — since night before
last. Odd, isn't it?"
"You drop it!" snarled Mulready, in accents so
ugly that the listener was startled. "Enough's
enough and—"
"There, there, Dick! All right; I'll behave," Cal-
endar soothed him. "We'll forget and say no more
about it."
"Well, see you don't."
"But 'as cither of you a plan?" persisted Stryker.
"I have," replied Mulready; "and it's the sim-
plest and best, if you could only make this long-lost
parent here see it."-
"Wot is it?"
Mulready seemed to ignore Calendar and address
himself to the captain. He articulated with some dif-
ficulty, slurring his words to the point of indistinct-
ness at times.
"Simple enough," he propounded solemnly.
"We've got the gladstone bag here; Miss Dolly's
at the hotel — that's her papa's bright notion; he
thinks she's to be trusted . . . Now then, what's
the matter with weighing anchor and slipping quietly
out to sea?"


A PRIMER OP PROGRESSIVE CRIME 281
"Leavin' the dootiful darter?"
"Cert'n'y. She's only a drag any way. 'Better
off without her. . . . Then we can wait our time
and get highest market prices—"
"You forget, Dick," Calendar put it, " that there's
a thousand in it for each of us if she's kept out of
England for six weeks. A thousand's five thousand
in the land I hail from; I can use five thousand in
my business."
"Why can't you be content with what you've
got?" demanded Mulready wrathfully.
"Because I'm a seventh son of a seventh son; I can
see an inch or two beyond my nose. If Dorothy ever
finds her way back to England she'll spoil one of
the finest fields of legitimate graft I ever licked my
lips to look at. The trouble with you, Mul, is you're
too high-toned. You want to play the swell mobs-
man from post to finish. A quick touch and a clean
getaway for yours. Now, that's all right; that has
its good points, but you don't want to underestimate
the advantages of a good blackmailing connection.
If I can keep Dorothy quiet long enough, I
look to the Hallam and precious Freddie to be a great
comfort to me in my old age."
"Then, for God's sake," cried Mulready, "go to
the hotel, get your brat by the scruff of her pretty
neck and drag her aboard. Let's get out of this."
"I won't," returned Calendar inflexibly.


282 THE BLACK BAG
The dispute continued, but the listener had heard
enough. He had to get away and think, could no
longer listen; indeed, the voices of the three black-
guards below came but indistinctly to his ears, as if
from a distance. He was sick at heart and ablaze
with indignation by turns. Unconsciously he was
trembling violently in every limb; swept by alternate
waves of heat and cold, feverish one minute, shiver-
ing the next. All of which phenomena were due solely
to the rage that welled inside his heart.
Stealthily he crept away to the rail, to stand grasp-
ing it and staring across the water with unseeing eyes
at the gay old city twinkling back with her thousand
eyes of light. The cool night breeze, sweeping down
unhindered over the level Netherlands from the bleak
North Sea, was comforting to his throbbing temples.
By degrees his head cleared, his rioting pulses sub-
sided, he could think; and he did.
Over there, across the water, in the dingy and dis-
reputable Hotel du Commerce, Dorothy waited in her
room, doubtless the prey of unnumbered nameless ter-
rors, while aboard the brigantine her fate was being
decided by a council of three unspeakable scoundrels,
one of whom, professing himself her father, openly
declared his intention of using her to further his self-
ish and criminal ends.
His first and natural thought, to steal away to her
and induce her to accompany him back to England,



traddling Mulready's, body, he confronted Calendar and Stryker.
Page 285


XIV
STKATAGEMS AND SPOILS
Prepared as he had been for the shock, Kirkwood
was able to pick himself up quickly, uninjured, Mul-
ready's revolver in his grasp.
On his feet, straddling Mulready's insentient body,
he confronted Calendar and Stryker. The face of
the latter was a sickly green, the gift of his fright.
The former seemed coldly composed, already recover-
ing from his surprise and bringing his wits to bear
upon the new factor which had been so uncere-
moniously injected into the situation.
Standing, but leaning heavily upon a hand that
rested flat on the table, in the other he likewise held
a revolver, which he had apparently drawn in self-de-
fense, at the crisis of Mulready's frenzy. Its muzzle
was deflected. He looked Kirkwood over with a cool
gray eye, the color gradually returning to his fat,
clean-shaven checks, replacing the pardonable pallor
which had momentarily rested thereon.
As for Kirkwood, he had covered the fat adventurer
before he knew it. Stryker, who had been standing
immediately in the rear of Calendar, immediately,
885


286 THE BLACK BAG
cowered and cringed to find himself in the line of fire.
Of the three conscious men in the brigantine's
cabin, Calendar was probably the least confused or
excited. Striker was palpably unmanned. Kirk-
wood was tingling with a sense of mastery, but col-
lected~%nd rapidly revolving the combinations for the
reversed conditions which had been brought about by
Mulready's drunken folly. His elation was apparent
in his shining, boyish eyes, as well as in the bright
color that glowed in his cheeks. When he decided
to speak it was with rapid enunciation, but clearly and
concisely.
"Calendar," he began, "if a single shot is fired
about this vessel the river police will be buzzing
round your ears in a brace of shakes."
The fat adventurer nodded assent, his eyes con-
tracting.
"Very well!" continued Kirkwood brusquely.
"You must know that I have personally nothing to
fear from the police; if arrested, I wouldn't be de-
tained a day. On the other hand, you
Hand me that pistol, Calendar, butt first, please.
Look sharp, my man! If you don't . . ."
He left the ellipsis to be filled in by the corpulent
blackguard's intelligence. The latter, gray eyes
still intent on the younger man's face, wavered,
plainly impressed, but still wondering.
"Quick! I'm not patient to-night . . ."


STRATAGEMS AND SPOILS 287
No longer was Calendar of two minds. In the face
of Kirkwood's attitude there was but one course to
be followed: that of obedience. Calendar surrendered
an untenable position as gracefully as could be wished.
"I guess you know what you mean by this," he
said, tendering the weapon as per instruct' ns; " I'm
doggoned if I do. . . . You'll allow a certain
latitude in consideration of my relief; I can't say we
were anticipating this — ah — Heaven-sent visita-
tion."
Accepting the revolver with his left hand and set-
tling his forefinger on the trigger, Kirkwood beamed
with pure enjoyment. He found the deference of the
older man, tempered though it was by his indomitable
swagger, refreshing in the extreme.
"A little appreciation isn't exactly out of place,
come to think of it," he commented, adding, with an
eye for the captain: " Stryker, you bold, bad butter-
fly, have you got a gun concealed about your unclean
person?"
The captain shook visibly with contrition. "No,
Mr. Kirkwood," he managed to reply in a voice
singularly lacking in his wonted bluster.
"Say 'sir '!" suggested Kirkwood.
"No, Mr. Kirkwood, sir," amended Stryker
eagerly.
"Now come round here and let's have a look at
you. Please stay where you are, Calendar. . . .


288 THE BLACK BAG
Why, Captain, you're shivering from head to foot!
Not ill are you, you wag? Step over to the table
there, Stryker, and turn out your pockets; turn 'em
inside out and let's see what you carry in the way of
offensive artillery. And, Stryker, don't be rash;
don't do anything you'd be sorry for afterwards."
"No fear of that," mumbled the captain, meekly
shambling toward the table, and, in his anxiety to
give no cause for unpleasantness, beginning to empty
Lis pockets on the way.
"Don't forget the 'sir,' Stryker. And, Stryker,
if you happen to think of anything in the line of one
of your merry quips or jests, don't strain yourself
holding in; get it right off your chest, and you'll feel
better."
Kirkwood chuckled, in high conceit with himself,
watching Calendar out of the corner of his eye, but
with his attention centered on the infinitely diverting
spectacle afforded by Stryker, whose predacious hands
were trembling violently as, one by one, they brought
to light the articles of which he had despoiled his
erstwhile victim.
"Come, come, Stryker! Surely you can think of
something witty, surely you haven't exhausted the
possibilities of that almanac joke! Couldn't you ring
another variation on the lunatic wheeze? Don't
hesitate out of consideration for me, Captain; I'm
joke proof — perhaps you've noticed?"


STRATAGEMS AND SPOILS 289
Stryker turned upon him an expression at once
ludicrous, piteous and hateful. "That's all, sir," he
snarled, displaying his empty palms in token of his
absolute tractability.
"Good enough. Now right about face — quick!
Your back's prettier than your face, and besides, I
want to know whether your hip-pockets are empty.
I've heard it's the habit of you gentry to pack guns
in your clothes. . . . None? That's all right,
then. Now roost on the transom, over there in the
corner, Stryker, and don't move. Don't let me hear
a word from you. Understand?"
Submissively the captain retired to the indicated
spot. Kirkwood turned to Calendar; of whose atti-
tude, however, he had not been for an instant un-
mindful.
"Won't you sit down, Mr. Calendar?" he sug-
gested pleasantly. "Forgive me for keeping you
waiting."
For his own part, as the adventurer dropped pas-
sively into his chair, Kirkwood stepped over Mul-
ready and advanced to the middle of the cabin, at the
same time thrusting Calendar's revolver into his own
coat pocket. The other, Mulready's, he nursed sig-
nificantly with both hands, while he stood temporarily
quiet, surveying the fleshy face of the prime factor
in the intrigue.
A quaint, grim smile played about the American's


STRATAGEMS AND SPOILS 291
"I rather expected to."
"Well, I thought it best to leave her home, after
all."
"I'm glad to hear she's in safe hands," commented
Kirkwood.
The adventurer's glance analyzed his face. "Ah,"
he said slowly, "I see. You followed me on Doro-
thy's account, Mr. Kirkwood?"
"Partly; partly on my own. Let me put it to
you fairly. When you forced yourself upon me, back
there in London, you offered me some sort of employ-
ment; when I rejected it, you used me to your advan-
tage for the furtherance of your purposes (which I
confess I don't understand), and made me miss my
steamer. Naturally, when I found myself penniless
and friendless in a strange country, I thought again
of your offer; and tried to find you, to accept it."
"Despite the fact that you're an honest man, Kirk-
wood?" The fat lips twitched with premature en-
joyment.
"I'm a desperate man to-night, whatever I may
have been yesterday." The young man's tone was
both earnest and convincing. "I think I've shown
that by my pertinacity in hunting you down."
"Well — yes." Calendar's thick fingers caressed
his lips, trying to hide the dawning smile.
"Is that ofFer still open?"
His nonchalance completely restored by the very


STRATAGEMS AND SPOILS 293
right. . . . Stryker," reproachfully, "I don't
see my pearl pin."
"I got it 'ere," responded the sailor hastily, fum-
bling with his tie.
"Give it me, then." Kirkwood held out his hand
and received the trinket. Then, moving over to the
table, the young man, while abating nothing of his
watchfulness, sorted out his belongings from the mass
of odds and ends Stryker had disgorged. The tale
of them was complete; the captain had obeyed him
faithfully. Kirkwood looked up, pleased.
"Now see here, Calendar; this collection of truck
that I was robbed of by this resurrected Joe Miller
here, cost me upwards of a hundred and fifty. I'm
going to sell it to you at a bargain — say fifty dol-
lars, two hundred and fifty francs."
"The juice you are!" Calendar's eyes opened
wide, partly in admiration. "D'you realize that
this is next door to highway robbery, my young
friend?"
"High-seas piracy, if you prefer," assented Kirk-
wood with entire equanimity. "I'm going to have
the money, and you're going to give it up. The
transaction by any name would smell no sweeter, Cal-
endar. Come — fork over!"
"And if I refuse?"
"I wouldn't refuse, if I were you."
"Why not?"


THE BLACK BAG
"The consequences would be too painful."
"You mean you'd puncture me with that gun?"
"Not unless you attack or attempt to follow me. I
mean to say that the Belgian police are notoriously a
most efficient body, and that I'll make it my duty and
pleasure to introduce 'em to you, if you refuse. But
you won't," Kirkwood added soothingly, "will you,
Calendar?"
"No." The adventurer had become suddenly
thoughtful. "No, I won't. 'Glad to oblige you."
He tilted his chair still farther back, straightening
out his elephantine legs, inserted one fat hand into his
trouser pocket and with some difficulty extracted a
combined bill-fold and coin-purse, at once heavy with
gold and bulky with notes. Moistening thumb and
forefinger, "How'll you have it?" he inquired with
a lift of his cunning eyes; and when Kirkwood had
advised him, slowly counted out four fifty-franc notes,
placed them near the edge of the table, and weighted
them with five ten-franc pieces. And, "'That all?"
he asked, replacing the pocket-book.
"That will be about all. I leave you presently to
your unholy devices, you and that gay dog, over
there." The captain squirmed, reddening. "Just
by way of precaution, however, I'll ask you to wait in
here till I'm off." Kirkwood stepped backwards to
the door of the captain's room, opened it and removed
the key from the inside. "Please take Mulready in


296 THE BLACK BAG
same to me, beau." He laughed a nervous laugh.
"Come along and lend us a hand, Stryker."
The latter glanced timidly at Kirkwood, his eyes
pleading for leave to move; which Kirkwood accorded
with an imperative nod and a fine flourish of the revol-
ver. Promptly the captain sprang to Calendar's
assistance; and between the two of them, the one tak-
ing Mulready's head, the other his feet, they lugged
him quickly into the stuffy little state-room. Kirk-
wood, watching and following to the threshold, in-
serted the key.
"One word more," he counseled, a hand on the knob.
"Don't forget I've warned you what'll happen if
you try to break even with me."
"Never fear, little one!" Calendar's laugh was
nervously cheerful. "The Lord knows you're wel-
come."
"Thank you 'most to death," responded Kirk-
wood politely. "Good-by — and good-by to you,
Stryker. 'Glad to have humored your desire to meet
me soon again."
Kirkwood, turning the key in the lock, withdrew it
and dropped it on the cabin table; at the same time
he swept into his pocket the money he had extorted of
Calendar. Then he paused an instant, listening;
from the captain's room came a sound of murmurs and
scuffling. He debated what they were about in there
— but time pressed. Not improbably they were


STRATAGEMS AND SPOILS 297
crowding for place at the keyhole, he reflected, as he
crossed to the port locker forward.
He had its lid up in a twinkling, and in another
had lifted out the well-remembered black gladstone
bag.
This seems to have been his first compound larceny.
As if stimulated by some such reflection he sprang
for the companionway, dropping the lid of the locker
with a bang which must have been excruciatingly edi-
fying to the men in the captain's room. Whatever
their emotions, the bang was mocked by a mighty kick,
shaking the door; which, Kirkwood reflected, opened
outward and was held only by the frailest kind of a
lock: it would not hold long.
Spurred onward by a storm of curses, Stryker's
voice chanting infuriated cacophony with Calendar's,
Kirkwood leapt up the companionway even as the
second tremendous kick threatened to shatter the pan-
els. Heart in mouth, a chill shiver of guilt running
up and down his spine, he gained the deck, cast loose
the painter, drew in his rowboat, and dropped over
the side; then, the gladstone bag nestling between
his feet, sat down and bent to the oars.
And doubts assailed him, pressing close upon the
ebb of his excitement — doubts and fears innumer-
able.
There was no longer a distinction to be drawn be-
tween himself and Calendar; no more could he esteem


298
THE BLACK BAG
himself a better and more honest man than that ac-
complished swindler. He was not advised as to the
Belgian code, but English law, he understood, made
no allowance for the good intent of those caught in
possession of stolen property; though he was acting
with the most honorable motives in the world, the law,
if he came within its cognizance, would undoubtedly
place him on Calendar's plane and judge him by the
same standard. To all intents and purposes he was
a thief, and thief he would remain until the glad-
stone bag with its contents should be restored to its
rightful owner.
Voluntarily, then, he had stepped from the ranks
of the hunters to those of the hunted. He now feared
police interference as abjectly as did Calendar and his
set of rogues; and Kirkwood felt wholly warranted in
assuming that the adventurer, with his keen intelli-
gence, would not handicap himself by ignoring this
point. Indeed, if he were to be judged by what
Kirkwood had inferred of his character, Calendar
would let nothing whatever hinder him, neither fear of
bodily hurt nor danger of apprehension at the hands
of the police, from making a determined and savage
play to regain possession of his booty.
Well! (Kirkwood set his mouth savagely) Calen-
dar should have a run for his money!
For the present he could compliment himself with
the knowledge that he had outwitted the rogues, had


300 THE BLACK BAG
aboard an adventitious car and broke his first ten-
franc piece in order to pay his fare.
The car made a leisurely progress up past the old
Steen castle and the Quai landing, Kirkwood sitting
quietly, the gladstone bag under his hand, a searching
gaze sweeping the waterside. No sign of the ad-
venturers rewarded him, but it was now all chance,
all hazard. He had no more heart for confidence.
They passed the Hotel du Commerce. Kirkwood
stared up at its windows, wondering . . .
A little farther on, a disengaged fiacre, its driver
alert for possible fares, turned a corner into the es-
planade. At sight of it Kirkwood, inspired, hopped
nimbly off the tram-car and signaled the cabby. The
latter pulled up and Kirkwood started to charge him
with instructions; something which he did haltingly,
hampered by a slight haziness of purpose. While
thus engaged, and at rest in the stark glare of the
street-lamps, with no chance of concealing himself, he
was aware of a rising tumult in the direction of the
landing, and glancing round, discovered a number of
people running toward him. With no time to wonder
whether or no he was really the object of the hue-and-
cry, he tossed the driver three silver francs.
"Gare Centrale!" he cried. "And drive like the
devil!"
Diving into the fiacre he shut the door and stuck his
head out of the window, taking observations. A


STRATAGEMS AND SPOILS SOI
ragged fringe of silly rabble was bearing down upon
them, with one or two gendarmes in the forefront, and
a giant, who might or might not be Striker, a close
second. Furthermore, another cab seemed to have
been requisitioned for the chase. His heart misgave
him momentarily; but his driver had taken him at his
word and generosity, and in a breath the fiacre had
turned the corner on two wheels, and the glittering
reaches of the embankment, drive and promenade, were
blotted out, as if smudged with lamp-black, by the
obscurity of a narrow and tortuous side street.
He drew in his head the better to preserve his brains
against further emergencies.
After a block or two Kirkwood picked up the glad-
stone bag, gently opened the door, and put a foot
on the step, pausing to look back. The other cab
was pelting after him with all the enthusiasm of a
hound on a fresh trail. He reflected that this mad
progress through the thoroughfares of a civilized
city would not long endure without police interven-
tion. So he waited, watching his opportunity. The
fiacre hurtled onward, the driver leaning forward
from his box to urge the horse with lash of whip and
tongue, entirely unconscious of his fare's intentions.
Between two streets the mouth of a narrow and
darksome byway flashed into view. Kirkwood threw
wide the door, and leaped, trusting to the night to
hide his stratagem, to luck to save his limbs. Neither


302 THE BLACK BAG
failed him; in a twinkling he was on all fours in the
mouth of the alley, and as he picked himself up, the
second fiacre passed, Calendar himself poking a round
bald poll out of the window to incite his driver's cu-
pidity with promises of redoubled fare.
Kirkwood mopped his dripping forehead and whis-
tled low with dismay; it seemed that from that in-
stant on it was to be a vendetta with a vengeance.
Calendar, as he had foreseen, was stopping at nothing.
At a dog trot he sped down the alley to the next
street, on which he turned back — more sedately —
toward the river, debouching on the esplanade just
one block from the Hotel du Commerce. As he swung
past the serried tables of a cafe, whatever fears he had
harbored were banished by the discovery that the ex-
citement occasioned by the chase had already sub-
sided. Beneath the garish awnings the crowd was
laughing and chattering, eating and sipping its
bock with complete unconcern, heedless altogether of
the haggard and shabby young man carrying a black
hand-bag, with the black Shade of Care for company
and a blacker threat of disaster dogging his foot-
steps. Without attracting any attention whatever,
indeed, he mingled with the strolling crowds, making
his way toward the Hotel du Commerce. Yet he was
not at all at case; his uneasy conscience invested the
gladstone bag with a magnetic attraction for the
public eye. To carry it unconcealed in his hand


STRATAGEMS AND SPOILS 303
furnished him with a sensation as disturbing as though
its worn black sides had been stenciled STOLEN! in
letters of flame. He felt it rendered him a cynosure
of public interest, an object of suspicion to the wide
cold world, that the gaze which lit upon the bag trav-
eled to his face only to espy thereon the brand of
guilt.
For ease of mind, presently, he turned into a con-
venient shop and spent ten invaluable francs for a
hand satchel big enough to hold the gladstone bag.
With more courage, now that he had the hateful
thing under cover, he found and entered the Hotel du
Commerce.
In the little closet which served for an office, over a
desk visibly groaning with the weight of an enormous
and grimy registry book, a sleepy, fat, bland and
good-natured woman of the Belgian bourgeoisie pre-
sided, a benign and drowsy divinity of even-tempered
courtesy. To his misleading inquiry for Monsieur
Calendar she returned a cheerful permission to seek
that gentleman for himself.
"Three flights, M'sieu ', in the front; suite sev-
enteen it is. M'sieu' does not mind walking up?"
she inquired.
M'sieu' did not in the least, though by no strain of
the imagination could it be truthfully said that he
walked up those steep and redolent stairways of the
Hotel du Commerce d'Anvers. More literally, he


STRATAGEMS AND SPOILS 305
Burning with impatience as with a fever, he en-
dured a long minute's wait.
Misgivings were prompting him to knock again and
summon her by name, when he heard footfalls on the
other side of the door, followed by a click of the lock.
The door was opened grudgingly, a bare six inches.
Of the alarmed expression in the eyes that stared
into his, he took no account. His face lengthened a
little as he stood there, dumb, panting, staring; and
his heart sank, down, deep down into a gulf of dis-
appointment, weighted sorely with chagrin.
Then, of the two the first to recover countenance, he
doffed his cap and bowed.
"Good evening, Mrs. Hallam," he said with a
rueful smile.


XV
REFUGEES
Now, if Kirkwood's emotion was poignant, Mrs.
Hallam's astonishment paralleled, and her relief tran-
scended it. In order to understand this it must be re-
membered that while Mr. Kirkwood was aware of the
lady's presence in Antwerp, on her part she had known
nothing of him since he had so ungallantly fled her
company in Sheerness. She seemed to anticipate that
either Calendar or one of his fellows would be dis-
covered at the door,— to have surmised it without
any excessive degree of pleasure.
Only briefly she hesitated, while her surprise swayed
her; then with a hardening of the eyes and a curt little
nod, " I'm sorry," she said with decision, "but I am
busy and can't see you now, Mr. Kirkwood "; and at-
tempted to shut the door in his face.
Deftly Kirkwood forestalled her intention by in-*
serting both a foot and a corner of the newly pur-
chased hand-bag between the door and the jamb. He
had dared too greatly to be thus dismissed. "Pardon
me," he countered, unabashed, "but I wish to speak
with Miss Calendar."
806


REFUGEES
307
"Dorothy," returned the lady with spirit, "is
engaged . . ."
She compressed her lips, knitted her brows, and
with disconcerting suddenness thrust one knee against
the obstructing hand-bag; Kirkwood, happily, an-
ticipated the movement just in time to reinforce the
bag with his own knee; it remained in place, the door
•standing open.
The woman flushed angrily; their glances crossed,
her eyes flashing with indignation; but Kirkwood's
held them with a level and unyielding stare.
"I intend," he told her quietly, " to sec Miss Cal-
endar. It's useless your trying to hinder me. We
may as well understand each other, Madam, and I'll
tell you now that if you wish to avoid a scene —"
"Dorothy!" the woman called over her shoulder;
"ring for the porter."
"By all means," assented Kirkwood agreeably.
"I'll send him for a gendarme."
"You insolent puppy!"
"Madam, your wit disarms me —"
"What is the matter, Mrs. Hallam? " interrupted a
voice from the other side of the door. "Who is it?"
"Miss Calendar!" cried Kirkwood hastily, raising
his voice.
"Mr. Kirkwood!" the reply came on the instant.
She knew his voice!" Please, Mrs. Hallam, I will
see Mr. Kirkwood."


308 THE BLACK BAG
"You have no time to waste with him, Dorothy,"
said the woman coldly. "I must insist —"
"But you don't seem to understand; it is Mr. Kirk-
wood !" argued the girl,— as if he were ample excuse
for any imprudence!
Kirkwood's scant store of patience was by this time
rapidly becoming exhausted. "I should advise you
not to interfere any further, Mrs. Hallam," he told
her in a tone low, but charged with meaning.
How much did he know? She eyed him an instant
longer, in sullen suspicion, then swung open the door,
yielding with what grace she could. "Won't you
come in, Mr. Kirkwood?" she inquired with acidulated
courtesy.
"If you press me," he returned winningly, "how
can I refuse? You are too good!"
His impertinence disconcerted even himself; he
wondered that she did not slap him as he passed her,
entering the room; and felt that he deserved it, de-
spite her attitude. But such thoughts could not long
trouble one whose eyes were enchanted by the sight of
Dorothy, confronting him in the middle of the dingy
room, her hands, bristling dangerously with hat pins,
busy with the adjustment of a small gray toque atop
the wonder that was her hair. So vivacious and
charming she seemed, so spirited and bright her wel-
coming smile, so foreign was she altogether to the
picture of her, worn and distraught, that he had


REFUGEES
309
mentally conjured up, that he stopped in an ex-
treme of disconcertion; and dropped the hand-bag,
smiling sheepishly enough under her ready laugh —
mirth irresistibly incited by the plainly-read play of
expression on his mobile countenance.
"You must forgive the unconventionality, Mr.
Kirkwood," she apologized, needlessly enough, but to
cover his embarrassment. "I am on the point of go-
ing out with Mrs. Hallam — and of course you are
the last person on earth I expected to meet here!"
"It's good to see you, Miss Calendar," he said sim-
ply, remarking with much satisfaction that her trim
walking costume bore witness to her statement that
she was prepared for the street.
The girl glanced into a mirror, patted the small,
bewitching hat an infinitesimal fraction of an inch to
one side, and turned to him again, her hands free.
One of them, small but cordial, rested in his grasp for
an instant all too brief, the while he gazed earnestly
into her face, noting with concern what the first glance
had not shown him,— the almost imperceptible shad-
ows beneath her eyes and cheek-bones, pathetic
records of the hours the girl had spent, since last he
had seen her, in company with his own grim familiar,
Care.
Not a little of care and distress of mind had sea-
soned her portion in those two weary days. He saw
and knew it; and his throat tightened inexplicably,


310 THE BLACK BAG
again, as it had out there in the corridor. Pos-
sibly the change in her had passed unchallenged by
any eyes other than his, but even in the little time
that he had spent in her society, the image of her had
become fixed so indelibly on his memory, that he could
not now be deceived. She was changed — a little, but
changed; she had suffered, and was suffering and,
forced by suffering, her nascent womanhood was stir-
ring in the bud. The child that he had met in Lon-
don, in Antwerp he found grown to woman's stature
and slowly coming to comprehension of the nature of
the change in herself,—the wonder of it glowing
softly in her eyes.
The clear understanding of mankind that is an
appanage of woman's estate, was now added to the in-
tuitions of a girl's untroubled heart. She could
not be blind to the mute adoration of his gaze; nor
could she resent it. Beneath it she colored and low-
ered her lashes.
"I was about to go out," she repeated in confusion.
"I — it's pleasant to see you, too."
I "Thank you," he stammered ineptly; "I — I —"
"If Mr. Kirkwood will excuse us, Dorothy," Mrs.
Hallam's sharp tones struck in discordantly, "we
shall be glad to see him when we return to London."
"I am infinitely complimented, Mrs. Hallam,"
Kirkwood assured her; and of the girl quickly:
"You're going back home?" he asked.


REFUGEES
311
She nodded, with a faint, puzzled smile that in-
cluded the woman. "After a little — not immedi-
ately. Mrs. Hallam is so kind —"
"Pardon me," he interrupted; "but tell me one
thing, please: have you any one in England to whom
you can go without invitation and be welcomed and
cared for — any friends or relations?"
"Dorothy will be with me," Mrs. Hallam answered
for her, with cold defiance.
Deliberately insolent, Kirkwood turned his back to
the woman. "Miss Calendar, will you answer my
question for yourself?" he asked the girl pointedly.
"Why — yes; several friends; none in London,
but —"
"Dorothy —"
"One moment, Mrs. Hallam," Kirkwood flung
crisply over his shoulder. "I'm going to ask you
something rather odd, Miss Calendar," he continued,
seeking the girl's eyes. "I hope —"
"Dorothy, I—"
"If you please, Mrs. Hallam," suggested the girl,
with just the right shade of independence. "I wish
to listen to Mr. Kirkwood. He has been very kind to
me and has every right. . . ." She turned to
him again, leaving the woman breathless and speech-
less with anger.
"You told me once," Kirkwood continued quickly,
and, he felt, brazenly, "that you considered me kind,


REFUGEES 313
between them, confronting Kirkwood in white-lipped
desperation, her small, gloved hands clenched and
quivering at her sides, her green eyes dangerous.
But Kirkwood could silence her; and he did. "Do
you wish me to speak frankly, Madam? Do you
wish me to tell what I know — and all I know —,"
with rising emphasis,—" of your social status and
your relations with Calendar and Mulready? I prom-
ise you that if you wish it, or force me to it . . ."
But he had need to say nothing further; the
woman's eyes wavered before his and a little sob of
terror forced itself between her shut teeth. Kirk-
wood smiled grimly, with a face of brass, impenetra-
ble, inflexible. And suddenly she turned from him
with indifferent bravado.
"As Mr. Kirkwood says, Dorothy," she said in her
high, metallic voice, "I have no authority over you.
But if you're silly enough to consider for a moment
this fellow's insulting suggestion, if you're fool
enough to go with him, unchaperoned through Eu-
rope and imperil your—"
"Mrs. Hallam!" Kirkwood cut her short with a
menacing tone.
"Why, then, I wash my hands of you," concluded
the woman defiantly. "Make your choice, my child,"
she added with a meaning laugh and moved away,
humming a snatch from a French chanson which
brought the hot blood to Kirkwood's face.



,1
From the window. Mrs. Hallam turned with a curling lip. Page 314


.•• • •


316 THE BLACK BAG
Kirkwood jumped in and shut the door; the vehicle
drew slowly away from the curb, then with gratify-
ing speed hammered up-stream on the embankment.
Bending forward, elbows on knees, Kirkwood watched
the sidewalks narrowly, partly to cover the girl's con-
straint, due to Mrs. Hallam's attitude, partly on the
lookout for Calendar and his confederates. In a few
moments they passed a public clock.
« We've missed the Flushing boat," he announced.
"I'm making a try for the Hoek van Holland line.
We may possibly make it. I know, that it leaves by
the Sud Quai, and that's all I do know," he concluded
with an apologetic laugh.
"And if we miss that?" asked the girl, breaking
silence for the first time since they had left the hotel.
"We'll take the first train out of Antwerp."
"Where to?"
"Wherever the first train goes, Miss Calendar.
. . . The main point is to get away to-night.
That we must do, no matter/vhere we land, or how we
get there. To-morrow we can plan with more cer-
tainty."
"Yes . . ." Her assent was more a sigh than
a word.
The cab, dashing down the Rue Leopold de Wael,
swung into the Place du Sud, before the station.
Kirkwood, acutely watchful, suddenly thrust head and
shoulders out of his window (fortunately it was the


REFUGEES
317
one away from the depot), and called up to the
driver.
"Don't stop! Gare Centrale now — and treble
fare!"
"Out, M'situ'! Allonsl"
The whip cracked and the horse swerved sharply
round the corner into the Avenue du Sud. The
young man, with a hushed exclamation, turned in his
seat, lifting the flap over the little peephole in the
back of the carriage.
He had not been mistaken. Calendar was stand-
ing in front of the station; and it was plain to be
seen, from his pose, that the madly careering fiacre
interested him more than slightly. Irresolute, per-
turbed, the man took a step or two after it, changed
his mind, and returned to his post of observation.
Kirkwood dropped the flap and turned back to
find the girl's wide eyes searching his face. He said
nothing.
"What was that?" she asked after a patient mo-
ment.
"Your father, Miss Calendar," he returned un-
comfortably.
There fell a short pause; then: "Why — will you
• tell me — is it necessary to run away from my
father, Mr. Kirkwood? " she demanded, with a moving
little break in her voice.
Kirkwood hesitated. It were unfeeling to tell her


318 THE BLACK.BAG
why; yet it was essential that .she should know, how-
ever painful the knowledge might prove to her.
And she was insistent; he might not dodge the issue.
"Why?" she repeated as he paused.
"I wish you wouldn't press me for an answer just
now, Miss Calendar." ^
"Don't you think I had better know?"
Instinctively he inclined his nead in assent.
"Then wky —?"
Kirkwood bent forward and patted the flank of the
satchel that held the gladstone bag.
"What does that mean, Mr. Kirkwood?"
"That I have the jewels," he told her tersely, look-
ing straight ahead. ^
At his shoulder he heard a low gasp of amazement,
and incredulity commingled.
"But —! How did you get them? My father
deposited them in bank this morning?"
"He must have taken them out again. ... I
got them on board the Alethea, where your father was
conferring with Mulready and Captain Stryker."
"The Alethea!"
"Yes."
| "You took them from those men? — you! . . .
But didn't my father—?"
"I had to persuade him," said Kirkwood simply.
"But there were three of them against you!"
"Mulready wasn't — ah — feeling very well, and


322 THE BLACK BAG
and throw himself on the forward steps of their coach,
on the very instant of the start.
Presently he entered by the forward door and
walked slowly through, narrowly inspecting the va-
rious passengers. As he approached the seats occu-
pied by Kirk wood and Dorothy Calendar, his eyes
encountered the young man's, and he leered evilly.
Kirkwood met the look with one that was like a kick,
and the fellow passed with some haste into the car
behind.
"Who was that? " demanded the girl, without mov-
ing her head.
"How did you know?" he asked, astonished.
"You didn't look —-"
"I saw your knuckles whiten beneath the skin.
. . . Who was it?"
"Hobbs," he acknowledged bitterly; " the mate of
the Alethea."
"I know. . . . And you think —?"
"Yes. He must have been ashore when I was on
board the brigantine; he certainly wasn't in the cabin.
Evidently they hunted him up, or ran across him, and
pressed him into service. . . . You see, they're
watching every outlet. . . . But we'll win
through, never fear!"


XVI
TRAVELS WITH A CHAPERON
The train, escaping the outskirts of the city, re-
marked the event with an exultant shriek, then set-
tled down, droning steadily, to night-devouring flight.
In the corridor-car the few passengers disposed them-
selves to drowse away the coming hour — the short
hour's ride that, in these piping days of frantic trav-
eling, separates Antwerp from the capital city of
Belgium.
A guard, slamming gustily in through the front
door, reeled unsteadily down the aisle. Kirkwood,
rousing from a profound reverie, detained him with a
gesture and began to interrogate him in French.
When he departed presently it transpired that the girl
was unaquainted with that tongue.
"I didn't understand, you know," she told him with
a slow, shy smile. *
"I was merely questioning him about the trains
from Brussels to-night. We daren't stop, you see;
we must go on,— keep Hobbs on the jump and lose
him, if possible. There's where our advantage lies -—
323


324 THE BLACK BAG
in having only Hobbs to deal with. He's not par-
ticularly intellectual; and we've two heads to his one,
besides. If we can prevent him from guessing our
destination and wiring back to Antwerp, we may win
away. You understand?"
"Perfectly," she said, brightening. "And what
do you purpose doing now?"
"I can't tell yet. The guard's gone to get me
some information about the night trains on other
lines. In the meantime, don't fret about Hobbs; I'll
answer for Hobbs."
"I shan't be worried," she said simply, " with you
here. ..."
Whatever answer he would have made he was
obliged to postpone because of the return of the
guard, with a handful of time-tables; and when, re-
warded with a modest gratuity, the man had gone
his way, and Kirkwood turned again to the girl, she
had withdrawn her attention for the time.
Unconscious of his bold regard, she was dreaming,
her thoughts at loose-ends, her eyes studying the in-
calculable depths of blue-black night that swirled
and eddied beyond the window-glass. The most
shadowy of smiles touched her lips, the faintest shade
of deepened color rested on her cheeks. . . . She
was thinking of — him? As long as he dared, the
young man, his heart in his own eyes, watched her
greedily, taking a miser's joy of her youthful beauty,


TRAVELS WITH A CHAPERON 325
striving with all his soul to analyze the enigma of
that most inscrutable smile.
It baffled him. He could not say of what she
thought; and told himself bitterly that it was not
for him, a pauper, to presume a place in her medita-
tions. He must not forget his circumstances, nor let
her tolerance render him oblivious to his place, which
must be a servant's, not a lover's.
The better to convince himself of this, he plunged
desperately into a forlorn attempt to make head or
tail of Belgian railway schedule, complicated as
these of necessity are by the alternation from normal
time notation to the abnormal system sanctioned by
the government, and vice-versa, with every train that
crosses a boundary line of the state.
So preoccupied did he become in this pursuit, that
he was subconsciously impressed that the girl had
spoken twice, ere he could detach his interest from
the exasperatingly inconclusive and incoherent cohorts
of ranked figures.
"Can't you find out anything? " Dorothy was ask-
ing.
"Precious little," he grumbled. "I'd give my
head for a Bradshaw! Only it wouldn't be a fair
exchange. . . . There seems to be an express for
Bruges leaving the Gare du Nord, Brussels, at fifty-
five minutes after twenty-three o'clock; and if I'm not
mistaken, that's the latest train out of Brussels and


326 THE BLACK BAG
the earliest we can catch, . . . if we can catch
it. I've never been in Brussels, and Heaven only
knows how long it would take us to cab it from the
Gare du Midi to the Nord."
In this statement, however, Mr. Kirkwood was for-
tunately mistaken; not only Heaven, it appeared,
had cognizance of the distance between the two sta-
tions. While Kirkwood was still debating the ques-
tion, with pessimistic tendencies, the friendly guard
had occasion to pass through the coach; and, being
tapped, yielded the desired information with entire
tractability.
It would be a cab-ride of perhaps ten minutes.
Monsieur, however, would serve himself well if he of-
fered the driver an advance tip as an incentive to
speedy driving. Why? Why because (here the
guard consulted his watch; and Kirkwood very keenly
regretted the loss of his own)—because this train,
announced to arrive in Brussels some twenty minutes
prior to the departure of that other, was already late.
But yes — a matter of some ten minutes. Could that
not be made up? Ah, Monsieur, but who should say?
The guard departed, doubtless with private views
as to the madness of all English-speaking travelers.
"And there we are!" commented Kirkwood in
factitious resignation. "If we're obliged to stop
overnight in Brussels, our friends will be on our back
before we can get out in the morning, if they have


TRAVELS WITH A CHAPERON 327
to come by motor-car." He reflected bitterly on the
fact that with but a little more money at his dis-
posal, he too could hire a motor-car and cry defiance
to their persecutors. "However," he amended, with
rising spirits, "so much the better our chance of los-
ing Mr. Hobbs. We must be ready to drop off the'
instant the train stops."
He began to unfold another time-table, threaten-
ing again to lose himself completely; and was thrown
into the utmost confusion by the touch of the girl's
hand, in appeal placed lightly on his own. And had
she been observant, she might have seen a second time
his knuckles whiten beneath the skin as he asserted
his self-control — though this time not over his tem-
per.
. His eyes, dumbly eloquent, turned to meet hers.
She was smiling.
"Please!" she iterated, with the least imperative
pressure on his hand, pushing the folder aside.
"I beg pardon?" he muttered blankly.
"Is it quite necessary, now, to study those sched-
ules? Haven't you decided to try for the Bruges
express?"
"Why yes, but —"
"Then please don't leave me to my thoughts all
the time, Mr. Kirkwood." There was a tremor of
laughter in her voice, but her eyes were grave and
earnest. "I'm very weary of thinking round in a


328 THE BLACK BAG
circle — and that," she concluded, with a nervous lit-
tle laugh, " is all I've had to do for days!"
"I'm afraid I'm very stupid," he humored her.
"This is the second time, you know, in the course of
a very brief acquaintance, that you have found it
necessary to remind me to talk to you."
"Oh-h!" She brightened. "That night, at the
Pless? But that was ages ago!"
"It seems so," he admitted.
"So much has happened!"
"Yes," he assented vaguely.
She watched him, a little piqued by his absent-
minded mood, for a moment; then, and not without
a trace of malice: "Must I tell you again what to
talk about?" she asked.
"Forgive me. I was thinking about, if not talk-
ing to, you. . . . I've been wondering just why
it was that you left the Alethea at Queensborough, to
go on by steamer."
And immediately he was sorry that his tactless
query had swung the conversation to bear upon her
father, the thought of whom could not but prove
painful to her. But it was too late to mend matters;
already her evanescent flush of amusement had given
place to remembrance.
"It was on my father's account," she told him
in a steady voice, but with averted eyes; "he is a
very poor sailor, and the promise of a rough passage


TRAVELS WITH A CHAPERON 329
\
terrified him. I believe there was a difference of opin-
ion about it, he disputing with Mr. Mulready and
Captain Stryker. That was just after we had left
the anchorage. They both insisted that it was safer
to continue by the Alethea, but he wouldn't listen to
them, and in the end had his way. Captain Stryker
ran the brigantine into the mouth of the Medway and
put us ashore just in time to catch the steamer."
"Were you sorry for the change?"
"I?" She shuddered slightly. "Hardly! I
think I hated the ship from the moment I set foot on
board her. It was a dreadful place; it was all night-
marish, that night, but it seemed most terrible on the
Alethea with Captain Stryker and that abominable
Mr. Hobbs. I think that my unhappiness had as
much to do with my father's insistence on the change,
as anything. He ... he was very thoughtful,
most of the time."
Kirkwood shut his teeth on what he knew of the
blackguard.
"I don't know why," she continued, wholly with-
out affectation, "but I was wretched from the mo-
ment you left me in the cab, to wait while you went
in to see Mrs. Hallam. And when we left you, at
Bermondsey Old Stairs, after what you had said to
me, I felt — I hardly know what to say, — abandoned,
in a way."
"But you were with your father, in his care —"


TRAVELS WITH A CHAPERON 331
far as you know, I'd be better able to figure out what
we ought to do."
Briefly the girl sat silent, staring before her with
sweet somber eyes. Then, " In the very beginning,"
she told him, with a conscious laugh,—" this sounds
very story-bookish, I know — in the very beginning,
George Burgoyne Calendar, an American, married his
cousin a dozen times removed, and an Englishwoman,
Alice Burgoyne Hallam."
"Hallam!"
"Wait, please." She sat up, bending forward and
frowning down upon her interlacing, gloved fingers;
she was finding it difficult to say what she must.
Kirkwood, watching hungrily the fair drooping head,
the flawless profile clear and radiant against the night-
blackened window, saw hot signals of shame burning
on her cheek and throat and forehead.
"But never mind," he began awkwardly.
"No," she told him with decision. "Please let
me go on. . . ." She continued, stumbling,
trusting to his sympathy to bridge the gaps in her
narrative. "My father . . . There was trou-
ble of some sort . . . At all events, he disap-
peared when I was a baby. My mother
died. I was brought up in the home of my great
uncle, Colonel George Burgoyne, of the Indian Army
— retired. My mother had been his favorite niece,
they say; I presume that was why he cared for me.


TRAVELS WITH A CHAPERON
"I have met the young gentleman," interpolated
Kirkwood.
"His name was new to me, but my father assured
me that he was the next of kin mentioned in Colonel
Burgoyne's will, and convinced me that I had no
real right to the property. . . . After all, he
was my father; I agreed; I could not bear the thought
of wronging anybody. I was to give up everything
but my mother's jewels. It seems,— my father said,
— I don't — I can't believe it now —"
She choked on a little, dry sob. It was some time
before she seemed able to continue.
"I was told that my great-uncle's collection of
jewels had been my mother's property. He had in
life a passion for collecting jewels, and it had been his
whim to carry them with him, wherever he went.
When he died in Frognall Street, they were in the safe
by the head of his bed. I, in my grief, at first forgot
them, and then afterwards carelessly put off removing
them.
"To come back to my father: Night before last
we were to call on Mrs. Hallam. It was to be our
last night in England; we were to sail for the Conti-
nent on the private yacht of a friend of my father's,
the next morning. . . . This is what I was told
— and believed, you understand. . . .
"That night Mrs. Hallam was dining at another
table at the Pless, it seems. I did not then know


384 THE BLACK BAG
her. When leaving, she put a note on our table,
by my father's elbow. I was astonished beyond
words. . . . He seemed much agitated, told me
that he was called away on urgent business, a matter
of life and death, and begged me to go alone to Frog-
nall Street, get the jewels and meet him at Mrs.
liallam's later. ... I wasn't altogether a fool,
for I began dimly to suspect, then, that something
was wrong; but I was a fool, for I consented to do
as he desired. You understand — you know —?"
"I do, indeed," replied Kirkwood -grimly. "I un-
derstand a lot of things now that I didn't five minutes
ago. Please let me think . . ."
But the time he took for deliberation was short.
He had hoped to find a way to spare her, by sparing
Calendar; but momentarily he was becoming more
impressed with the futility of dealing with her save
in terms of candor, merciful though they might seem
harsh.
"I must tell you," he said, "that you have been
outrageously misled, swindled and deceived. I have
heard from your father's own lips that Mrs. Hallam
was to pay him two thousand pounds for keeping
you out of England and losing you your inheritance.
I'm inclined to question, furthermore, the assertion
that these jewels were your mother's. Frederick Hal-
lam was the man who followed you into the Frog-
nall Street house and attacked me on the stairs; Mrs.


TRAVELS WITH A CHAPERON 335
Hallam admits that he went there to get the jewels.
But he didn't want anybody to know it."
"But that doesn't prove —"
"Just a minute." Rapidly and concisely Kirk-
wood recounted the events wherein he had.played a
part, subsequent to the adventure of Bermondsey Old
Stairs. He was guilty of but one evasion; on one
point only did he slur the truth: he conceived it his
honorable duty to keep the girl in ignorance of his
straitened circumstances; she was not to be distressed
by knowledge of his distress, nor could he tolerate the
suggestion of seeming to play for her sympathy. It
was necessary, then, to invent a motive to excuse his
return to 9, Frognall Street. I believe he chose to
exaggerate the inquisitiveness of his nature and threw
in for good measure a desire to recover a prized trinket
of no particular moment, esteemed for its associations,
and so forth. But whatever the fabrication, it passed
muster; to the girl his motives seemed less important
than the discoveries that resulted from them.
"I am afraid," he concluded the summary of the
confabulation he had overheard at the skylight of the
Alethea's cabin, " you'd best make up your mind that
your father—"
"Yes," whispered the girl huskily; and turned her
face to the window, a quivering muscle in the firm
young throat alone betraying her emotion.
"It's a bad business," he pursued relentlessly:


336 THE BLACK BAG
"bad all round. Mulready, in your father's pay,
tries to have him arrested, the better to rob him.
Mrs. Hallam, to secure your property for that
precious pet, Freddie, connives at, if she doesn't in-
stigate, a kidnapping. Your father takes her money
to deprive you of yours,— which could profit him
nothing so long as you remained in lawful possession
of it; and at the same time he conspires to rob,
through you, the rightful owners — if they are right-
ful owners. And if they are, why does Freddie
Hallam go like a thief in the night to secure prop-
erty that's his beyond dispute? ... I don't
really think you owe your father any further con-
sideration."
He waited patiently. Eventually, "No-o," the
girl sobbed assent.
"It's this way: Calendar, counting on your spar-
ing him in the end, is going to hound us. He's
doing it now: there's Hobbs in the next car, for
proof. Until these jewels are returned, whether to
Frognall Street or to young Hallam, we're both in
danger, both thieves in the sight of the law. And
your father knows that, too. There's no profit to be
had by discounting the temper of these people; they're
as desperate a gang of swindlers as ever lived.
They'll have those jewels if they have to go as far as
murder —"
"Mr. Kirkwood!" she deprecated, in horror.


TRAVELS WITH A CHAPERON 387
He wagged his head stubbornly, ominously. "I've
seen them in the raw. They're hot on our trail now;
ten to one, they'll be on our backs before we can get
across the Channel. Once in England we will be com-
paratively safe. Until then . . . But I'm a
brute — I'm frightening you!"
"You are, dreadfully," she confessed in a tremu-
lous voice.
"Forgive me. If you look at the dark side first,
the other seems all the brighter. Please don't worry;
we'll pull through with flying colors, or my name's
not Philip Kirkwood!"
"I have every faith in you," she informed him,
flawlessly sincere. "When I think of all you've done
and dared for me, on the mere suspicion that I needed
j'our help—"
"We'd best be getting ready," he interrupted has-
tily. "Here's Brussels."
It was so. Lights, in little clusters and long,
wheeling lines, were leaping out of the darkness and
flashing back as the train rumbled through the sub-
urbs of the little Paris of the North. Already the
other passengers were bestirring themselves, gather-
ing together wraps and hand luggage, and preparing
for the journey's end.
Rising, Kirkwood took down their two satchels
from the overhead rack, and waited, in grim abstrac-
tion planning and counterplanning against the


342
THE BLACK BAG
his love, to offer her the protection of his name as
well as his devotion; to-day he was an all but penni-
less vagabond, and there could be no dishonor deeper
than to let her know the nature of his heart's desire.
Was ever lover hedged from a declaration to his
mistress by circumstances so hateful, so untoward!
He could have raged and railed against his fate like
any madman. For he desired her greatly, and she
was very lovely in his sight. If her night's rest had
been broken and but a mockery, she showed few signs
of it; the faint, wan complexion of fatigue seemed
only to enhance the beauty of her maidenhood; her
lips were as fresh and desirous as the dewy petals of
a crimson rose; beneath her eyes soft shadows lurked
where her lashes lay tremulous upon her cheeks of
satin. . . . She was to him of all created things
the most wonderful, the most desirable.
The temptation of his longing seemed more than
he could long withstand. But resist he must, or part
for ever with any title to her consideration — or his
own. He shut his teeth and knotted his brows in a
transport of desire to touch, if only with his finger-
tips, the woven wonder of her hair .
And thus she saw him, when, without warning, she
awoke.
Bewilderment at first informed the wide brown eyes;
then, as their drowsiness vanished, a little laughter, a
little tender mirth.


TRAVELS WITH A CHAPERON 843
"Good morning, Sir Knight of the Somber Coun-
tenance!" she cried, standing up. "Am I so ut-
terly disreputable that you find it necessary to frown
on me so darkly?"
He shook his head, smiling.
"I know I'm a fright," she asserted vigorously,'
shaking out the folds of her pleated skirt. "And as
for my hat, it will never be on straight — but then
you wouldn't know."
"It seems all right," he replied vacantly.
"Then please to try to look a little happier, since
you find me quite presentable."
"I do . . ."
Without lifting her bended head, she looked up,
laughing, not ill-pleased. "You'd say so . . .
really?"
Commonplace enough, this banter, this pitiful en-
deavor to be oblivious of their common misery; but
like the look she gave him, her words rang in his
head like potent fumes of wine. He turned away,
utterly disconcerted for the time, knowing only that
he must overcome his weakness.
Far down the railway tracks there rose a mur-
muring, that waxed to a rumbling roar. A passing
porter answered Kirk^rood's inquiry: it was the night
boat-train from Osten^fifcHe picked up their bags
and drew the girl into the waiting-room, troubled by
a sickening foreboding.


TRAVELS WITH A CHAPERON 345
with them back to the station, lacking leisure as they
did to partake of the food before train-time.
Without attempting concealment (Hobbs, he knew,
was eavesdropping round the corner of the door)
Kirkwood purchased at the ticket-window passages on
the Dunkerque train. Mr. Hobbs promptly flattered
him by imitation; and so jealous of his luck was
Kirkwood by this time grown, through continual dis-
appointment, that he did not even let the girl' into
his plans until they were aboard the 5:09, in a com-
partment all to themselves. Then, having with his
own eyes seen Mr. Hobbs dodge into the third com-
partment in the rear of the same carriage, Kirkwood
astonished the girl by requesting her to follow him;
and together they left by the door opposite that by
which they had entered.
The engine was running up and down a scale of
staccato snorts, in preparation for the race, and the
cars were on the edge of moving, couplings clanking,
wheels a-groan, ere Mr. Hobbs condescended to join
them between the tracks.
Wearily, disheartened, Kirkwood reopened the
door, flung the bags in, and helped the girl back into
their despised compartment; the quicker route to
England via Ostend was now out of the question.
As for himself, he waited for a brace of seconds, ey-
ing wickedly the ubiquitous Hobbs, who had popped
back into his compartment, but stood ready to pop


346 THE BLACK BAG
out again on the least encouragement. In the mean-
time he was pleased to shake a friendly foot at Mr.
Kirkwood, thrusting that member out through the
half-open door.
Only the timely departure of the train, compelling
him to rejoin Dorothy at once, if at all, prevented the
American from adding murder to the already note-
worthy catalogue of his high crimes and misde-
meanors.
Their simple meal, consumed to the ultimate drop
and crumb while the Dunkerque train meandered se-
renely through a sunny, smiling Flemish country-
side, somewhat revived their jaded spirits. After all,
they were young, enviably dowered with youth's ex-
uberant elasticity of mood; the world was bright in
the dawning, the night had fled leaving naught but
an evil memory; best of all things, they were to-
gether: tacitly they were agreed that somehow the
future would take care of itself and all be well with.
them.
For a time they laughed and chattered, pretend-
ing that the present held no cares or troubles; but
soon the girl, nestling her head in a corner of the
dingy cushions, was smiling ever more drowsily on
Kirkwood; and presently she slept in good earnest,
the warm blood ebbing and flowing beneath the ex-
quisite texture of her cheeks, the ghost of an uncon-
scious smile quivering about the sensitive scarlet


518
THE BLACK BAG
anticipated their arrival, whether by sea in the brigan-
tine, or by land, taking the direct route via Brussels
and Lille. If such proved to be the case, it were
scarcely sensible to count upon the arch-adventurer
contenting himself with a waiting role like Hobbs'.
With such unhappy apprehensions for a stimulant,
between them the man and the girl contrived a make-
shift counter-stratagem; or it were more accurate to
say that Kirkwood proposed it, while Dorothy re-
jected, disputed, and at length accepted it, albeit with
sad misgivings. For it involved a separation that
might not prove temporary.
Together they could never escape the surveillance
of Mr. Hobbs; parted, he would be obliged to follow
one or the other. The task of misleading the
Alethea's mate, Kirkwood undertook, delegating to the
girl the duty of escaping when he could provide her
the opportunity, of keeping under cover until the
hour of sailing, and then proceeding to England, with
the gladstone bag, alone if Kirkwood was unable, or
thought it inadvisable, to join her on the boat.
In furtherance of this design, a majority of the
girl's belongings were transferred from her travel-
ing bag to Kirkwood's, the gladstone taking their
place; and the young man provided her with vol-
uminous instructions, a revolver which she did not
know how to handle and declared she would never
use for any consideration, and enough money to


TRAVELS WITH A CHAPERON 349
pay for her accommodation at the Terminus Hotel,
near the pier, and for two passages to London. It
was agreed that she should secure the steamer book-
ing, lest Kirkwood be delayed until the last moment.
These arrangements concluded, the pair of blessed
idiots sat steeped in melancholy silence, avoiding each
other's eyes, until the train drew in at the Gare Ccn-
trale, Calais.
In profound silence, too, they left their compart-
ment and passed through the station, into the quiet,
sun-drenched streets of the seaport,— Hobbs hovering
solicitously in the offing.
Without comment or visible relief of mind they
were aware that their fears had been without apparent
foundation; they saw no sign of Calendar, Stryker
or Mulready. The circumstance, however, counted
for nothing; one or all of the adventurers might ar-
rive in Calais at any minute.
Momentarily more miserable as the time of parting
drew nearer, dumb with unhappiness, they turned
aside from the main thoroughfares of the city, leav-
ing the business section, and gained the sleepier side
streets, bordered by the residences of the proletariat,
where for blocks none but children were to be seen, and
of them but few — quaint, sober little bodies playing
almost noiselessly in their dooryards.
At length Kirkwood spoke.
"Let's make it the corner," he said, without


TRAVELS WITH A CHAPERON 351
unexpected furtive pressure of the girl's gloved fingers
on his own.
"Good-by," she whispered.
He caught at her hand, protesting. -" Dor-
othy—!"
"Good-by," she repeated breathlessly, with a queer
little catch in her voice. "God be .with you, Philip,
and — and send you safely back to me . . ."
- And she was running away.
Dumfounded with dismay, seeing in a flash how all
his plans might be set at naught by this her unfore-
seen insubordination, he took a step or two after her;
but she was fleet of foot, and, remembering Hobbs, he
halted.
By this time the mate, too, was running; Kirkwood
could hear the heavy pounding of his clumsy feet.
Already Dorothy had almost gained the farther cor-
ner; as she whisked round it with a flutter of skirts,
Kirkwood dodged hastily behind a gate-post. A
thought later, Hobbs appeared, head down, chest out,
eyes straining for sight of his quarry, pelting along
for dear life.
As, rounding the corner, he stretched out in swifter
stride, Kirkwood was inspired to put a spoke in his
wheel; and a foot thrust suddenly out from behind the
gate-post accomplished his purpose with more suc-
cess than he had dared anticipate. Stumbling, the
mate plunged headlong, arms and legs a-sprawl; and


352 THE BLACK BAG
the momentum of his pace, though checked, carried
him along the sidewalk, face downwards, a full yard
ere he could stay himself.
Kirkwood stepped out of the gateway and sheered
off as Hobbs picked himself up; something which he
did rather slowly, as if in a daze, without compre-
hension of the cause of his misfortune. And for a
moment he stood pulling his wits together and sway-
ing as though on the point of resuming his rudely
interrupted chase; when the noise of Kirkwood's heels
brought him about face in a twinkling.
"Ow, it's you, eh!" he snarled in a temper as
vicious as his countenance; and both of these were
much the worse for wear and tear.
"Myself," admitted Kirkwood fairly; and then, in
a gleam of humor: "Weren't you looking for me?"
His rage seemed to take the little Cockney and
shake him by the throat; he trembled from head to
foot, his face shockingly congested, and spat out dust
and fragments of lurid blasphemy like an infuriated
cat.
Of a sudden, "W'ere's the gel?" he sputtered
thickly as his quick shifting eyes for the first time
noted Dorothy's absence.
"Miss Calendar has other business — none with
you. I've taken the liberty of stopping you because
I have a word or two —"
"Ow, you 'ave, 'ave you? Gawd strike me blind,


TRAVELS WITH A CHAPERON 353
but I've a word for you, too! . . . 'And over
that bag — and look nippy, or I'll myke you pye for
w'at you've done to me . . . I'll myke you
pye!" he iterated hoarsely, edging closer. "'And it
over or —"
"You've got another guess —" Kirkwood began,
but saved his breath in deference to an imperative
demand on him for instant defensive action.
To some extent he had underestimated the brute
courage of the fellow, the violent, desperate courage
that is distilled of anger in men of his kind. De-
spising him, deeming him incapable of any overt
act of villainy, Kirkwood had been a little less wary
than he would have been with Calendar or Mulready.
Hobbs had seemed more of the craven type which
Stryker graced so conspicuously. But now the Amer-
ican was to be taught discrimination, to learn that if
Stryker's nature was like a snake's for low cunning
and deviousness, Hobbs' soul was the soul of a viper.
Almost imperceptibly he had advanced upon Kirk-
wood; almost insensibly his right hand had moved to-
ward his chest; now, with a movement marvelously
deft, it had slipped in and out of his breast pocket.
And a six-inch blade of tarnished steel was winging
toward Kirkwood's throat with the speed of light.
Instinctively he stepped back; as instinctively he
guarded with his right forearm, lifting the hand that
held the satchel. The knife, catching in his sleeve,


354. THE BLACK BAG
scratched the arm beneath painfully, and simulta-
neously was twisted from the mate's grasp, while in his
surprise Kirkwood's grip on the bag-handle relaxed.
It was torn forcibly from his fingers just as he re-
ceived a heavy Blow on his chest from the mate's fist.
He staggered back.
By the time he had recovered from the shock, Hobbs
was a score of feet away, the satchel tucked under
his arm, his body bent almost double, running like a
jack-rabbit. Ere Kirkwood could get under way, in
pursuit, the mate had dodged out of sight round the
corner. When the American caught sight of him
again, he was far down the block, and bettering his
pace with every'jump.
He was approaching, also, some six or eight good
citizens of Calais, men of the laboring class, at a
guess. Their attention attracted by his frantic
flight, they stopped to wonder. One or two moved
as though to intercept him, and he doubled out into
the middle of the street with the quickness of thought;
an instant later he shot round another corner
jand disappeared, the natives streaming after in hot
chase, electrified by the inspiring strains of "Stop,
thief!"— or its French equivalent.
Kirkwood, cheering them on with the same wild
cry, followed to the farther street; and there paused,
so winded and weak with laughter that he was fain
to catch at a fence picket for support. Standing


TRAVELS WITH A CHAPERON 355
thus he saw other denizens of Calais spring as if from
the ground miraculously to swell the hue and cry; and
a dumpling of a gendarme materialized from no-
where at all, to fall in behind the rabble, waving his
sword above his head and screaming at the top of his
lungs, the while his fat legs twinkled for all the world
like thick sausage links marvelously animated.
The mob straggled round yet another corner and
was gone; its clamor diminished on the still Spring
air; and Kirkwood, recovering, abandoned Mr. Hobbs
to the justice of the high gods and the French sys-
tem of jurisprudence (at least, he hoped the latter
would take an interest in the case, if haply Hobbs
were laid by the heels), and went his way rejoicing.
As for the scratch on his arm, it was nothing, as
he presently demonstrated to his complete satisfac-
tion in the seclusion of a chance-sent fiacre. Kirk-
wood, commissioning it to drive him to the American
Consulate, made his diagnosis en route; wound a hand-
kerchief round the negligible wound, rolled down his
sleeve, and forgot it altogether in the joys of pictur-
ing to himself Hobbs in the act of opening the satchel
in expectation of finding therein the gladstone bag.
At the consulate door he paid off the driver and
dismissed him.; the fiacre had served his purpose, and
he could find his way to the Terminus Hotel at in-
finitely less expense. He had a considerably harder
task before him as he ascended the steps to the con-


356 THE BLACK BAG
sular doorway, knocked and made known the nature
of his errand.
No malicious destiny could have timed the hour of
his call more appositely; the consul was at. home and
at the disposal of his fellow-citizens — within bounds.
In the course of thirty minutes or so Kirkwood
emerged with dignity from the consulate, his face
crimson to the hair, his soul smarting with shame
and humiliation; and left an amused official repre-
sentative of his country's government with the im-
pression of having been entertained to the point of
ennui by an exceptionally clumsy but pertinacious
liar.
For the better part of the succeeding hour Kirk-
wood circumnavigated the neighborhood of the
steamer pier and the Terminus Hotel, striving to ren-
der himself as inconspicuous as he felt insignificant,
and keenly on the alert for any sign or news of Hobbs.
In this pursuit he was pleasantly disappointed.
At noon precisely, his suspense grown too onerous
for his strength of will, throwing caution and their
understanding to the winds, he walked boldly into the
Terminus, and inquired for Miss Calendar.
The assurance he received that she was in safety
under its roof did not deter him from sending up
his name and asking her to receive him in the public
lounge; he required the testimony of his senses to
convince him that no harm had come to her in the long


TRAVELS WITH A CHAPERON 357
hour and a half that had elapsed since their separa-
tion.
Woman-like, she kept him waiting. Alone in the
public rooms of the hotel, he suffered excruciating
torments. How was he to know that Calendar had
not arrived and found his way to her?
When at length she appeared on the threshold of
the apartment, bringing with her the traveling bag
and looking wonderfully the better for her ninety
minutes of complete repose and privacy, the relief
he experienced was so intense that he remained trans-
fixed in the middle of the floor, momentarily able
neither to speak nor to move.
On her part, so fagged and distraught did he seem,
that at sight of his care-worn countenance she hur-
ried to him with outstretched, compassionate hands
and a low pitiful cry of concern, forgetful entirely
of that which he himself had forgotten — the emo-
tion she had betrayed on parting.
"Oh, nothing wrong," he hastened to reassure her,
with a sorry ghost of his familiar grin; "only I
have lost Hobbs and the satchel with your things; and
there's no sign yet of Mr. Calendar. We can feel
pretty comfortable now, and — and I thought it time
we had something like a meal."
The narrative of his adventure which he delivered
over their dtjeuner £ la fourchette contained no men-
tion either of his rebuff at the American Consulate


364
THE BLACK BAG
He appealed speechlessly for tolerance, with a face
utterly woebegone and eyes piteous.
The train began to move slowly across the Thames
to Charing Cross.
Mercilessly the girl persisted. "We've only a min-
ute more. Surely you can trust me. . . ."
In exasperation he interrupted almost rudely.
"It's only this: I — I'm strapped."
"Strapped?" She knitted her brows over this
fresh specimen of American slang.
"Flat strapped — busted — broke — on my up-
pers — down and out," he reeled off synonyms
without a smile. "I haven't enough money to pay
cab-fare across the town —"
"Oh!" she interpolated, enlightened.
"— to say nothing of taking us to Chiltern. I
couldn't buy you a glass of water if you were thirsty.
There isn't a soul on earth, within hail, who would
trust me with a quarter — I mean a shilling — across
London Bridge. I'm the original Luckless Wonder
and the only genuine Jonah extant."
With a face the hue of fire, he cocked his eyebrows
askew and attempted to laugh unconcernedly to hide
'his bitter shame. "I've led you out of the frying-
pan into the fire, and I don't know what to do!
Please call me names."
And in a single instant all that he had consistently
tried to avoid doing, had been irretrievably done; if,


ROGUES AND VAGABONDS 365
with dawning comprehension, dismay flickered in her
eyes — such dismay as such a confession can rouse
only in one who, like Dorothy Calendar, has never
known the want of a penny — it was swiftly driven
out to make place for the truest and most gracious
and unselfish solicitude.
"Oh, poor Mr. Kirkwood! And it's all because of
me! You've beggared yourself—"
"Not precisely; I was beggared to begin with."
He hastened to disclaim the extravagant generosity
of which she accused him. "I had only three or four
pounds to my name that night we met. ... I
haven't told you — I —"
"You've told me nothing, nothing whatever about
yourself," she said reproachfully.
"I didn't want to bother you with my troubles;
I tried not to talk about myself. . . . You knew
I was an American, but I'm worse than that; I'm a
Californian — from San Francisco." He tried un-
successfully to make light of it. "I told you I was
the Luckless Wonder; if I'd ever had any luck I
would have stored a little money away. As it was,
I lived on my income, left my principal in 'Frisco;
and when the earthquake came, it wiped me out com-
pletely."
"And you were going home that night we made
you miss your steamer!"
"It was my own fault, and I'm glad this blessed


366 THE BLACK BAG
minute that I did miss it. Nice sort I'd have been,
to go off and leaVe you at the mercy —"
"Please! I want to think, I'm trying to remem-
ber how much you've gone through—"
"Precisely what I don't want you to do. Anyway,
I did nothing more than any other fellow would've!
Please don't give me credit that I don't deserve."
But she was not listening; and a pause fell, while
the train crawled warily over the trestle, as if in fear
of the foul, muddy flood below.
"And there's no way I can repay you. . . ."
"There's nothing to be repaid," he contended
stoutly.
She clasped her hands and let them fall gently in
her lap. "I've not a farthing in the world!
I never dreamed. . . . I'm so sorry, Mr. Kirk-
wood — terribly, terribly sorry! . . . But what
can we do? I can't consent to be a burden —"
"But you're not! You're the one thing that
. . ." He swerved sharply, at an abrupt tangent.
"There's one thing we can do, of course."
She looked up inquiringly.
"Craven Street is just round the corner."
"Yes ?"— wonderingly.
"I mean we must go to Mrs. Hallam's house, first
off. . . . It's too late now,— after five, else we
could deposit the jewels in some bank. Since — since
they are no longer yours, the only thing, and the


ROGUES AND VAGABONDS 867
proper thing to do is to place them in safety or in
the hands of their owner. If you take them directly
to young Hallam, your hands will be clear.
And — I never did such a thing in my life, Miss Cal-
endar; but if he's got a spark of gratitude in his
make-up, I ought to be able to — er — to borrow a
pound or so of him."
"Do you think so?" She shook her head in doubt.
"I don't know; I know so little of such things.
. You are right; we must take him the jewels,
but . . ." Her voice trailed off into a sigh of
profound perturbation.
He dared not meet her look.
Beneath his wandering gaze a County Council steam-
boat darted swiftly down-stream from Charing Cross
pier, in the shadow of the railway bridge. It seemed
curious to reflect that from that very floating pier
he had started first upon his quest of the girl beside
him, only — he had to count — three nights ago!
Three days and three nights! Altogether incredible
seemed the transformation they had wrought in the
complexion of the world. Yet nothing material was
changed. . . . He lifted his eyes.
Beyond the river rose the Embankment, crawling
with traffic, backed by the green of the gardens and
the' shimmering walls of glass and stone of the great
hotels, their windows glowing weirdly golden in the
late sunlight. A little down-stream Cleopatra's


368 THE BLACK BAG
Needle rose, sadly the worse for London smoke,
flanked by its couchant sphinxes, wearing a nimbus of
circling, sweeping, swooping, wheeling gulls. Far-
ther down, from the foot of that magnificent pile,
Somerset House, Waterloo Bridge sprang overstream
in its graceful arch. . . . All as of yesterday;
yet all changed. Why? Because a woman had en-
tered into his life; because he had learned the lesson
of love and had looked into the bright face of Ro-
mance.
With a jar the train started and began to move
more swiftly.
Kirkwood lifted the traveling bag to his knees.
"Don't forget," he said with some difficulty,
"you're to stick by me, whatever happens. You
mustn't desert me."
"You know," the girl reproved him.
"I know; but there must be no misunderstanding.
. . . Don't worry; we'll win out yet. I've a
plan."
Splendide mendax! He had not the glimmering
of a plan.
The engine panting, the train drew in beneath the
vast sounding dome of the station, to an accompani-
ment of dull thunderings; and stopped finally.
Kirkwood got out, not without a qualm of regret
at leaving the compartment; therein, at least, they
had some title to consideration, by virtue of their


ROGUES AND VAGABONDS 369
tickets; now they were utterly vagabondish, penniless
adventurers.
The girl joined him. Slowly, elbow to elbow, the
treasure bag between them, they made their way
down toward the gates, atoms in a tide-rip of hu-
manity,— two streams of passengers meeting on the
narrow strip of platform, the one making for the
streets, the other for the suburbs.
Hurried and jostled, the girl clinging tightly to his
arm lest they be separated in the crush, they came
to the ticket-wicket; beyond the barrier surged a sea
of hats — shining " toppers," dignified and upstand-
ing, the outward and visible manifestation of the
sturdy, stodgy British spirit of respectability;
"bowlers" round and sleek and humble; shapeless
caps with cloth visors, manufactured of outrageous
plaids; flower-like miracles of millinery from Bond
Street; strangely plumed monstrosities from Petti-
coat Lane and Mile End Road. Beneath any one of
these might lurk the maleficent brain, the spying eyes
of Calendar or one of his creatures; beneath all of
them that he encountered, Kirkwood peered in fear-
ful inquiry.
Yet, when they had passed unhindered the ordeal
of the wickets, had run the gantlet of those thousand
eyes without lighting in any pair a spark of recog-
nition, he began to bear himself with more assurance,
to be sensible to a grateful glow of hope. Perhaps


ROGUES AND VAGABONDS 371
And to himself, "Oh, the devil!" cried the panic-
stricken young man.
He drew back to let the girl precede him into the
cab; at the same time he kept an eye on Calendar,,
whose conveyance stood half the length of the station-
front away.
The fat adventurer had finished paying off the
driver, standing on the deck of the hansom. Stryker
was already out, towering above the mass of people,
and glaring about him with his hawk-keen vision.
Calendar had started to alight, his foot was leaving
the step when Stryker's glance singled out their
quarry. Instantly he turned and spoke to his con-
"federate. Calendar wheeled like a flash, peering
eagerly in the direction indicated by the captain's
index finger, then, snapping instructions to his driver,
threw himself heavily back on the seat. Stryker,
awkward on his land-legs, stumbled and fell in an
ill-calculated attempt to hoist himself hastily back
into the vehicle.
To the delay thus occasioned alone Kirkwood and
Dorothy owed a respite of freedom. Their hansom
was already swinging down toward the great gates
of the yard, the American standing to make the
driver comprehend the necessity for using the ut-
most speed in reaching the Craven Street address.
The man proved both intelligent and obliging; Kirk-
wood had barely time to drop down beside the girl,


ROGUES AND VAGABONDS 375
excitement was running like liquid fire. "What
wouldn't I dare for you, Dorothy?"
"What have you not?" she amended softly, add-
ing with a shade of timidity: "Philip . . ."
The long lashes swept up from her cheeks, like
clouds revealing stars, unmasking eyes radiant and
brave to meet his own; then they fell, even as her lips
drooped with disappointment. And she sighed.
. . . For he was not looking. Man-like, hot with
the ardor of the chase, he was deaf and blind to all
else.
She saw that he had not even heard. Twice within
the day she had forgotten herself, had overstepped
the rigid bounds of her breeding in using his Chris-
tian name. And twice he had been oblivious to that
token of their maturing understanding. So she
sighed, and sighing, smiled again; resting an elbow
on the window-sill and flattening one small gloved
hand against the frame for a brace against the jounc-
ing of the hansom. It swept on with unabated speed,
up-stream beside the tawny reaches of the river; and
for a time there was no speech between them, the
while the girl lost consciousness of self and her most
imminent peril, surrendering her being to the linger-
ing sweetness of her long, dear thoughts.
"I've got a scheme!" Kirkwood declared so ex-
plosively that she caught her breath with the surprise
of it. "There's the Pless; they know me there, and


ST6
THE BLACK BAG
my credit's good. When we shake them off, we can
have the cabby take us to the hotel. I'll register and
borrow from the management enough to pay our way
to Chiltern and the tolls for a cable to New York.
I've a friend or two over home who wouldn't let me
want for a few miserable pounds. ... So you
see," he explained boyishly, " we're at the end of our
troubles already!"
She said something inaudible, holding her face
averted. He bent nearer to her, wondering. "I
didn't understand," he suggested.
Still looking from him, " I said you were very good
to me," she said in a quavering whisper.
"Dorothy!" Without his knowledge or intention
before the fact, as instinctively as he made use of
her given name, intimately, his strong fingers dropped
and closed upon the little hand that lay beside him.
"What is the matter, dear?" He leaned still far-
ther forward to peer into her face, till glance met
glance in the ending and his racing pulses tightened
with sheer delight. of the humid happiness in her glis-
tening eyes. "Dorothy, child, don't worry so. No
harm shall come to you. It's all working out — all
working out right. Only have a little faith in me,
and I'll make everything wcrk out right, Dorothy."
Gently she freed her fingers. "I wasn't," she told
him in a voice that quivered between laughter and
tears, "I wasn't worrying. I was . . . You


ROGUES AND VAGABONDS
377
wouldn't understand. Don't be afraid I shall break
down or — or anything."
"I shan't," he reassured her; " I know you're not
that sort. Besides, you'd have no excuse. We're
moving along famously. That cabby knows his busi-
ness."
In fact that gentleman was minute by minute dem-
onstrating his peculiar fitness for the task he had so
cheerfully undertaken. The superior horsemanship
of the London hackney cabman needs no exploitation,
and he in whose hands rested the fate of the Calendar
treasure was peer of his compeers. He was instant
to advantage himself of every opening to forward
his pliant craft, quick to foresee the fortunes of the
way and govern himself accordingly.
Estimating with practised eye the precise moment
when the police supervisor of traffic at the junction
of Parliament and Bridge Streets, would see fit to
declare a temporary blockade, he so managed that
his was the last vehicle to pass ere the official wand,
to ignore which involves a forfeited license, was lifted;
and indeed, so close was his calculation that he es-
caped only with a scowl and word of warning from
the bobby. A matter of no importance whatever,
since his end was gained and the pursuing cab had
been shut off by the blockade.
In Calendar's driver, however, he had an adversary
of abilities by no means to be despised. Precisely


378 THE BLACK BAG
how the man contrived it, is a question; that he
made a detour by way of Derby Street is not im-
probable, unpleasant as it may have been for Stryker
and Calendar to find themselves in such close prox-
imity to "the Yard." At all events, he evaded the
block, and hardly had the chase swung across Bridge
Street, than the pursuer was nimbly clattering in its
wake.
Past the Houses of Parliament, through Old Palace
Yard, with the Abbey on their left, they swung awayj
into Abingdon Street, whence suddenly they dived
into the maze of backways, great and mean, which
lies to the south of Victoria. Doubling and twisting,
now this way, now that, the driver tooled them
through the intricate heart of this labyrinth, leading
the pursuers a dance that Kirkwood thought calcu-
lated to dishearten and shake off the pursuit in the
first five minutes. Yet always, peering back through
the little peephole, he saw Calendar's cab pelting dog-
gedly in their rear — a hundred yards behind, no
more, no less, hanging on with indomitable grit and
determination.
By degrees they drew westwards, threading Pim-
lico, into Chelsea — once dashing briefly down the
Grosvenor Road, the Thames a tawny flood beyond
the river wall.
Children cheered them on, and policemen turned
to stare, doubting whether they should interfere.


ROGUES AND VAGABONDS 379
Minutes rolled into tens, measuring out an hour; and
still they hammered on, hunted and hunters, playing
their game of hare-and-hounds through the highways
and byways of those staid and aged quarters.
In the leading cab there were few words spoken.
Kirkwood and Dorothy alike sat spellbound with the
fascination of the game; if it is conceivable that the
fox enjoys his part in the day's sport, then they were
enjoying themselves. Now one spoke, now another
— chiefly in the clipped phraseology of excitement.
As —
"We're gaining?"
"Yes —think so."
Or, "We'll tire them out?"
"Sure-ly."
"They can't catch us, can they, Philip?*
"Never in the world."
But he spoke with a confidence that he himself
did not feel, for hope as he would he could never see
that the distance between the two had been materially
lessened or increased. Their horses seemed most
evenly matched.
The sun was very low behind the houses of the
Surrey Side when Kirkwood became aware that their
horse was flagging, though (as comparison deter-
mined) no more so than the one behind.
In grave concern the young man raised his hand,
thrusting open the trap in the roof, Immediately the


380 THE BLACK BAG
square of darkling sky was eclipsed by the cabby's
face.
"Yessir?"
"You had better drive as directly as you can to
the Hotel Pless," Kirkwood called up. "I'm afraid
it's no use pushing your horse like this."
"I'm sure of it, sir. 'E's a good 'oss, 'e is, but
'e carn't keep goin' for hever, you know, sir."
"I know. You've done very well; you've done
your best."
"Very good, sir. The Pless, you said, sir?
Right."
The trap closed.
Two blocks farther, and their pace had so sensibly
moderated that Kirkwood was genuinely alarmed.
The pursuing cabby was lashing his animal without
mercy, while, " It aren't no use my w'ippin' 'im, sir,"
dropped through the trap. "'E's doing orl 'e can."
"I understand."
Despondent recklessness tightened Kirkwood's lips
and kindled an unpleasant light in his eyes. He
touched his side pocket; Calendar's revolver was still
there. . . . Dorothy should win away clear, if
— if he swung for it.
He bent forward with the traveling bag in his
hands.
"What are you going to do?" The girl's voice
was very tremulous.
*.


382 THE BLACK BAG
to logical reasoning, his memory to respond to his
call upon it.
The hansom was traversing a street in Old Bromp-
ton — a quaint, prim by-way lined with dwellings
singularly Old-Worldish, even for London. He
seemed to know it subjectively, to have retained a
memory of it from another existence: as the stage
setting of a vivid dream, all forgotten, will some-
times recur with peculiar and exasperating intensity,
in broad daylight. The houses, with their sloping,
red-tiled roofs, unexpected gables, spontaneous dor-
mer windows, glass panes set in leaded frames, red
brick facades trimmed with green shutters and door-
steps of white stone, each sitting back, sedate and
self-sufficient, in its trim dooryard fenced off from
the public thoroughfare: all wore an aspect haunt-
ingly familiar, and yet strange.
A corner sign, remarked in passing, had named
the spot "Aspen Villas "; though he felt he knew
the sound of those syllables as well as he did the name
of the Pless, strive as he might he failed to make them
convey anything tangible to his intelligence. When
had he heard of it? At what time had his errant
footsteps taken him through this curious survival of
Eighteenth Century London?
Not that it mattered when. It could have no possi-
ble bearing on the emergency. He really gave it
little thought; the mental processes recounted were


884
THE BLACK BAG
argue. You promised — run! I'll come. . .
"Philip!" she pleaded.
"Dorothy!" he cried in torment.
Perhaps it was his unquestionable distress that
weakened her. Suddenly she yielded — with whatever
reason. He was only hazily aware of the swish
of her skirts behind him; he had no time to look round
and see that she got away safely. He had only eyes
and thoughts for Calendar and Stryker.
Thej' were both afoot, now, and running toward
him, the one as awkward as the other, but neither
yielding a jot of their malignant purpose. He held
the picture of it oddly graphic in his memory for
many a day thereafter: Calendar making directly.
for him, his heavy-featured face a dull red with the
exertion, his fat head dropped forward as if too heavy
for his neck of a bull, his small eyes bright with
anger; Stryker shying off at a discreet angle, evi-
dently with the intention of devoting himself to the
capture of the girl; the two cabs with their dejected
screws, at rest in the middle of the quiet, twilit street.
He seemed even to see himself, standing stockily pre-
pared, hands in his coat pockets, his own head
inclined with a suggestion of pugnacity.
To this mental photograph another succeeds, of
the same scene an instant later; all as it had been
before, their relative positions unchanged, save that
Stryker and Calendar had come to a dead stop, and



\ costume consisting mainly of a flowered dressing-gown and slippers.
Page 385


ROGUES AND VAGABONDS 385
that Kirkwood's right arm was lifted and extended,
pointing at the captain.
So forgetful of self was he, that it required a
moment's thought to convince him that he was really
responsible for the abrupt transformation. Incredu-
lously he realized that he had drawn Calendar's re-
volver and pulled Stryker up short, in mid-stride, by
the mute menace of it, as much as by his hoarse cry
of warning:
"Stryker — not another foot —"
With this there chimed in Dorothy's voice, ringing
bell-clear from a little distance:
"Philip!"
Like a flash he wheeled, to add yet another picture
to his mental gallery.
Perhaps two-score feet up the sidewalk a gate stood
open; just outside it a man of tall and slender figure,
rigged out in a bizarre costume consisting mainly of
a flowered dressing-gown and slippers, »was waiting
in an attitude of singular impassivity; within it,
pausing with a foot lifted to the doorstep, bag in
hand, her head turned as she looked back, was Dor-
othy.
As he comprehended these essential details of the
composition, the man in the flowered dressing-gown
raised a hand, beckoning to him in a manner as im-
perative as his accompanying words.
"Kirkwood !" he saluted the young man in a clear


386
THE BLACK BAG
and vibrant voice, "put up that revolver and stop
this foolishness." And, with a jerk of his head to-
wards the doorway, in which Dorothy now waited,
hesitant: " Come, sir — quickly!"
Kirkwood choked on a laugh that was half a sob.
"Brentwick!" he cried, restoring the weapon to his
pocket and running toward his friend. "Of all
happy accidents!"
"You may call it that," retorted the elder man
with a fleeting smile as Kirkwood slipped inside the
dooryard. "Come," he said; "let's get into the
house."
"But you said — I thought you went to Munich,"
stammered Kirkwood; and so thoroughly impregnated
was his mind with this understanding that it was
hard for him to adjust his perceptions to the truth.
"I was detained — by business," responded Brent-
wick briefly. His gaze, weary and wistful behind his
glasses, rested on the face of the girl on the threshold
of his home; and the faint, sensitive flush of her face
deepened. He stopped and honored her with a bow
that, for all his fantastical attire, would have graced
a beau of an earlier decade. "Will you be pleased
to enter? " he suggested punctiliously. "My house,
such as it is, is quite at your disposal. And," he
added, with a glance over his shoulder, " I fancy that
a word or two may presently be passed which you
would hardly. care to hear."


ROGUES AND VAGABONDS 387
Dorothy's hesitation was but transitory; Kirkwood
was reassuring her with a smile more like his wonted
boyish grin than anything he had succeeded in con-
juring up throughout the day. Her own smile
answered it, and with a murmured word of gratitude
and a little, half timid, half distant bow for Brent-
wick, she passed on into the hallway.
Kirkwood lingered with his friend upon the door-
stoop. Calendar, recovered from his temporary con-
sternation, was already at the gate, bending over it,
fat fingers fumbling with the latch, his round red
face, lifted to the house, darkly working with chagrin.
From his threshold, watching him with a slight
contraction of the eyes, Brentwick hailed him in tones
of cloying courtesy.
"Do you wish to see me, sir?"
The fat adventurer faltered just within the gate-
way; then, with a truculent swagger, "I want my
daughter," he declared vociferously.
Brentwick peered mildly over his glasses, first at
Calendar, then at Kirkwood. His glance lingered a
moment on the young man's honest eyes, and swung
back to Calendar.
"My good man," he said with sublime tolerance,
"will you be pleased to take yourself off — to the
devil if you like? Or shall I take the trouble to
interest the police?"
He removed one fine and fragile hand from a


ROGUES AND VAGABONDS 389
a real 'orse, sir; don't you go on wastin' time on 'im."
A jerk of a derisive thumb singled out the other cab-
man. "'E aren't pl'yin' you fair, sir; I knows 'im,
—'e's a hartful g'y deceiver, 'e is. Look at 'is 'orse,
— w'ich it aren't; it's a snyle, that's w'at it is.
. . . Tyke a father's hadvice, sir, and next time
yer fairest darter runs awye with the dook in disguise,
chyse 'em in a real kebsir, not a cheap imita-
shin. . . . Kebsir? . . . Garn, you 'ard-
'arted —"
Here he swooped upwards in a dizzy flight of vitu-
peration best unrecorded. Calendar, beyond an ab-
sent-minded flirt of one hand by his ear, as who should
shoo away a buzzing insect, ignored him utterly.
Sullenly extracting money from his pocket, he
paid off his driver, and in company with Stryker,
trudged in morose silence down the street.
Brentwick touched Kirkwood's arm and drew him
into the house.


xvin
ADVENTURERS' LUCK
As the door closed, Kirkwood swung impulsively to
Brentwick, with the brief, uneven laugh of fine-drawn
nerves.
"Good God, sir!" he cried. "You don't
know —"
"I can surmise," interrupted the elder man
shrewdly.
"You turned up in the nick of time, for all the
world like —"
"Harlequin popping through a stage trap?"
"No! — an incarnation of the Providence that
watches over children and fools."
Brentwick dropped a calming hand upon his
shoulder. "Your simile seems singularly happy,
Philip. Permit me to suggest that you join the child
in my study." He laughed quietly, with a slight nod
toward an open door at the end of the hallway.
"For myself, I'll be with you in one moment."
A faint, indulgent smile lurking in the shadow of
his white mustache, he watched the young man wheel
390


THE BLACK BAG
mystery in the waning and waxing ruddy glow up-
flung from the bedded coals.
"Oh, Philip!" She turned swiftly to Kirkwood
with extended hands and a low, broken cry. "I'm
so glad. . . ."
A trace of hysteria in her manner warned him, and
he checked himself upon the verge of a too dangerous
tenderness. "There!" he said soothingly, letting
her hands rest gently in his palms while he led her
to a chair. "We can make ourselves easy now."
She sat down and he released her hands with a reluc-
tance less evident than actual. "If ever I say
another word against my luck—"
"Who," inquired the girl, lowering her voice,
"who is the gentleman in the flowered dressing-
gown?"
"Brentwick — George Silvester Brentwick: an old
friend. I've known him for years,— ever since I came
abroad. Curiously enough, however, this is the first
time I've ever been here. I called once, but he wasn't
in,— a few days ago,— the day we met. I thought
the place looked familiar. Stupid of me!"
"Philip," said the girl with a grave face but a
shaking voice, "it was." She laughed provokingly.
. . . "It was so funny, Philip. I don't know
why I ran, when you told me to, but I did; and while
I ran, I was conscious of the front door, here, open-
ing, and this tall man in the flowered dressing-gown


394 THE BLACK BAG
The shrewd eyes flashed their amusement into Kirk-
wood's. "Tut, tut!" Brentwick chuckled. "Be-
tween gentlemen, my dear boy! Dear me! you are
slow to learn."
"I'll never be contented to sponge on my friends,"
explained Kirkwood in deepest misery. "I can't
tell when —"
"Tut, tut! How much did you say?"
"Ten shillings — or say twelve, would be about
right," stammered the American, swayed by conflict-
ing emotions of gratitude and profound embarrass-
ment.
A soft-footed butler, impassive as Fate, material-
ized mysteriously in the doorway.
"You rang, sir? " he interrupted frigidly.
"I rang, Wotton." His master selected a sov-
ereign from his purse and handed it to the servant.
"For the cabby, Wotton."
"Yessir." The butler swung automatically on
one heel.
"And Wotton!"
"Sir?"
"If any one should ask for me, I'm not at home."
"Very good, sir."
"And if you should see a pair of disreputable
scoundrels skulking in the neighborhood, one short
and stout, the other tall and evidently a seafaring
man, let me know."


396
THE BLACK BAG
"So! so!" pursued Brentwick, rising on his toes
and dropping back again; "so this world of ours
wags on to the old, old tune! . . . And I, who
in my younger days pursued adventure without suc-
cess, in dotage find myself dragged into a romance
by my two ears, whether I will or no! Eh? And
now you are going to tell me all about it, Philip.
There is a chair. . . . Well, Wotton?"
The butler had again appeared noiselessly in the
doorway.
"Beg pardon, sir; they're waiting, sir."
"The caitiffs, Wotton?"
"Yessir."
"Where waiting?"'
"One at each end of the street, sir."
"Thank you. You may bring us sherry and bis-
cuit, Wotton."
"Thank you, sir."
The servant vanished.
Brentwick removed his glasses, rubbed them, and
blinked thoughtfully at the girl. "My dear," he
said suddenty, with a peculiar tremor in his voice,
"you resemble your mother remarkably. Tut — I
should know! Time was when I was one of her most
ardent admirers."
"You — y-you knew my mother?" cried Dorothy,
profoundly moved.
"Did I not know you at sight? My dear, you are


398 THE BLACK BAG
as softly as a cat, "grows daily a more valuable
mechanism. He is by no means human in any re-
spect, but I find him extremely handy to have round
the house. . . . And now, my dear," turning to
Dorothy, "with your permission I desire to drink to
the memory of your beautiful mother and to the hap-
piness of her beautiful daughter."
"But you will tell me —"
"A number of interesting tllings, Miss Calendar,
if you'll be good enough to let me choose the time.
I beg you to be patient with the idiosyncrasies of an
old man, who means no harm, who has a reputation
as an eccentric to sustain before his servants. . • .
And now," said Brentwick, setting aside his glass,
"now, my dear boy, for the adventure."
Kirkwood chuckled, infected by his host's genial
humor. "How do you know —"
"How can it be otherwise?" countered Brentwick
with a trace of asperity. "Am I to be denied my
adventure? Sir, I refuse without equivocation.
Your very bearing breathes of Romance. There
must be an adventure forthcoming, Philip; otherwise
my disappointment will be so acute that I shall be re-
gretfully obliged seriously to consider my right, as a
householder, to show you the door."
"But Mr. Brentwick—!"
"Sit down, sir!" commanded Brentwick with such
a peremptory note that the young man, who had risen,


ADVENTURERS' LUCK 401
Calendar should go to Chiltern this evening, where she
has friends who will receive and protect her."
"Mm-mm," grumbled their host, meditative. "My
faith!" he commented, with brightening eyes. "It
sounds almost too good to be true! And I've been
growing afraid that the world was getting to be a
most humdrum and uninteresting planet!
Miss Calendar, I am a widower of so many years'
standing that I had almost forgotten I had ever been
anything but a bachelor. I fear my house contains
little that will be of service to a young lady. Yet a
room is at your disposal; the parlor-maid shall show
you the way. And Philip, between you and me, I
venture to remark that hot water and cold steel would
add to the attractiveness of your personal appear-
ance ; my valet will attend you in my room. Dinner,"
concluded Brentwick with anticipative relish, "will
be served in precisely thirty minutes. I shall expect
you to entertain me with a full and itemized account
of every phase of your astonishing adventure.
Later, we will find a way to Chiltern."
Again he put a hand upon the bell-pull. Simul-
taneously Dorothy and Kirkwood rose.
"Mr. Brentwick," said the girl, her eyes starred
with tears of gratitude, " I don't, I really don't know
how —"
"My dear," said the old gentleman, "you will
thank me most appropriately by continuing, to the


402
THE BLACK BAG
best of your ability, to resemble your mother more
remarkably every minute."
"But I," began Kirkwood
"You, my dear Philip, can thank me best by per-
mitting me to enjoy myself; which I am doing
thoroughly at the present moment. My pleasure in
being invited to interfere in your young affairs is
more keen than you can well surmise. Moreover,"
said Mr. Brentwick, " so long have I been an amateur
adventurer that I esteem it the rarest privilege to find
myself thus on the point of graduating into profes-
sional ranks." He rubbed his hands, beaming upon
them. "And," he added, as a maid appeared at the
door, "I have already schemed me a scheme for the
discomfiture of our friends the enemy: a scheme which
we will discuss with our dinner, while the heathen rage
and imagine a vain thing, in the outer darkness."
Kirkwood would have lingered, but of such in-
flexible temper was his host that he bowed him into
the hands of a man servant without permitting him
another word.
"Not a syllable," he insisted. "I protest I am
devoured with curiosity, my dear boy, but I have also
bowels of compassion. When we are well on with
our meal, when you are strengthened with food and
drink, then you may begin. But now — Dickie," to
the valet, " do your duty!"
Kirkwood, laughing with exasperation, retired at


ADVENTURERS' LUCK 403
discretion, leaving Brentwick the master of the
situation: a charming gentleman with a will of his
own and a way that went with it.
He heard the young man's footsteps diminish on
the stairway; and again he smiled the indulgent,
melancholy smile of mellow years. "Youth!" he
whispered softly. "Romance! . . . And now,"
with a brisk change of tone as he closed the study
door, "now we are ready for this interesting Mr.
Calendar."
Sitting down at his desk, he found and consulted
a telephone directory; but its leaves, at first rustling
briskly at the touch of the slender and delicate fingers,
were presently permitted to lie unturned,— the book
resting open on his knees the while he stared wistfully
into the fire.
A suspicion of moisture glimmered in his eyes.
"Dorothy!" he whispered huskily. And a little
later, rising, he proceeded to the telephone.
An hour and a half later Kirkwood, his self-respect
something restored by a bath, a shave, and a resump-
tion of clothes which had been hastily but thoroughly
cleansed and pressed by Brentwick's valet; his con-
fidence and courage mounting high under the com-
bined influence of generous wine, substantial food, the
presence of his heart's mistress and the admiration —
which was unconcealed — of his friend, concluded at
the dinner-table, his narration.


404- THE BLACK BAG
"And that," he said, looking up from his savory,
"is about all."
"Bravo!" applauded Brentwick, eyes shining with
delight.
"All," interposed Dorothy in warm reproach, " but
what he hasn't told —"
"Which, my dcnr, is to be accounted for wholly
by a very creditable modesty, rarely encountered in
the young men of the present day. It was, of course,
altogether different with those of my younger years.
Yes, Wotton?"
Brentwick sat back in his chair, inclining an atten-
tive ear to a communication murmured by the butler.
Kirkwood's gaze met Dorothy's across the expanse
of shining cloth; he deprecated her interruption with
a whimsical twist of his eyebrows. "Really, you
shouldn't," he assured her in an undertone. "I've
done nothing to deserve . . ." But under the
spell of her serious sweet eyes, he fell silent, and
presently looked down, strangely abashed; and con-
templated the vast enormity of his unworthiness.
Coffee was set before them by Wotton, the im-
passive, Brentwick refusing it with a little sigh. "It
is one of the things, as Philip knows," he explained
to the girl, " denied me by the physician who makes
his life happy by making mine a waste. I am allowed
but three luxuries; cigars, travel in moderation, and
the privilege of imposing on my friends. The first


ADVENTURERS' LUCK 405
I propose presently. to enjoy, by your indulgence;
and the second I shall this evening undertake by vir-
tue of the third, of which I have just availed myself.""
Smiling at the involution, he rested his head against
the back of the chair, eyes roving from the girl's face
to Kirkwood's. "Inspiration to do which," he pro-
ceeded gravely, "came to me from the seafaring
picaroon (Stryker did you name him?) via the excel-
lent Wotton. While you were preparing for dinner,
Wotton returned from his constitutional with the news
that, leaving the corpulent person on watch at the
corner, Captain Stryker had temporarily made him-
self scarce. However, we need feel no anxiety con-
cerning his whereabouts, for he reappeared in good
time and a motor-car. From which it becomes evident
that you have not overrated their pertinacity; the
fiasco of the cab-chase is not to be reenacted."
Resolutely the girl repressed a gasp of dismay.
Kirkwood stared moodily into his cup.
"These men bore me fearfully," he commented
at last.
"And so," continued Brentwick, " I bethought me
of a counter-stroke. It is my good fortune to have
a friend whose whim it is to support a touring-car,
chiefly in innocuous idleness. Accordingly I have
telephoned him and commandeered the use of this
machine — mechanician, too. . . . Though not
a betting man, I am willing to risk recklessly a few


406 THE BLACK BAG
pence in support of my contention, that of the two,
Captain Stryker's car and ours, the latter will prove
considerably the most speedy. . . .
"In short, I suggest," he concluded, thoughtfully
lacing his long white fingers, "that, avoiding the
hazards of cab and railway carriage, we motor to
Chiltern: the night being fine and the road, I am
told, exceptionally good. Miss Dorothy, what do you
think?"
Instinctively the girl looked to Kirkwood; then
shifted her glance to their host. "I think you are
wonderfully thoughtful and kind," she said simply.
"And you, Philip?"
"It's an inspiration," the younger man declared.
"I can't think of anything better calculated to throw
them off, than to distance them by motor-car. It
would be always possible to trace our journey by
rail." .
"Then," announced Brentwick, making as if to
rise, "we had best go. If neither my hearing nor
Captain Stryker's car deceives me, our fiery chariot
is panting at the door."
A little sobered from the confident spirit of quiet
gaiety in which they had dined, they left the table.
Not that, in their hearts, either greatly questioned
their ultimate triumph; but they were allowing for
the element of error so apt to set at naught human
calculations. Calendar himself had already been


ADVENTURERS' LUCK 407
proved fallible. Within the bounds of possibility,
their turn to stumble might now be imminent.
When he let himself dwell upon it, their utter help-
lessness to give Calendar pause by commonplace
methods, maddened Kirkwood. With another scoun-
drel it had been so simple a matter to put a period to
his activities by a word to the police. But he was her
father; for that reason he must continually be spared
. . . Even though, in desperate extremity, she
should give consent to the arrest of the adventurers,
retaliation would follow, swift and sure. For they
might not overlook nor gloze the fact that hers had
been the hands responsible for the theft of the
jewels; innocent though she had been in committing
that larceny, a cat's-paw guided by an intelligence
unscrupulous and malign, the law would not hold
her guiltless were she once brought within its cogni-
zance. Nor, possibly, would the Hallams, mother and
son.
Upon their knowledge and their fear of this, un-
doubtedly Calendar was reckoning: witness the bare-
faced effrontery with which he operated against them.
His fear of the police might be genuine enough, but
he was never for an instant disturbed by any doubt
lest his daughter should turn against him. She would
never dare that.
Before they left the house, while Dorothy was
above stairs resuming her hat and coat, Kirkwood


408 THE BLACK BAG
and Brentwick reconnoitered from the drawing-room
windows, themselves screened from observation by the
absence of light in the room behind.
Before the door a motor-car waited, engines hum-
ming impatiently, mechanician ready in his seat, an
uncouth shape in goggles and leather garments that
shone like oilskins under the street lights.
At one corner another and a smaller car stood
in waiting, its lamps like baleful eyes glaring through
the night.
In the shadows across the way, a lengthy shadow
lurked: Stryker, beyond reasonable question. Other-
wise the street was deserted. Not even that adventi-
tous bobby of the early evening was now in evidence.
Dorothy presently joining them, Brentwick led the
way to the door.
Wotton, apparently nerveless beneath his absolute
immobility, let them out — and slammed the door be-
hind them with such promptitude as to give cause for
the suspicion that he was a fraud, a sham, beneath
his icy exterior desperately afraid lest the house be
stormed by the adventurers.
Kirkwood to the right, Brentwick to the left of
Dorothy, the former carrying the treasure bag, they
hastened down the walk and through the gate to the
car.
The watcher across the way was moved to whistle
shrilly; the other car lunged forward nervously.


XIX
I THE UXBBIDGE EOAD
At a steady gait, now and again checked in defer-
ence to the street traffic, Brentwick's motor-car rolled,
with resonant humming of the engine, down the Crom-
well Road, swerved into Warwick Road and swung
northward through Kensington to Shepherd's Bush.
Behind it Calendar's car clung as if towed by an
invisible cable, never gaining, never losing, mutely
testifying to the adventurer's unrelenting, grim deter-
mination to leave them no instant's freedom from
surveillance, to keep for ever at their shoulders, watch-
ing his chance, biding his time with sinister patience
until the moment when, wearied, their vigilance should
relax. . . .
To some extent he reckoned without his motor-car.
As long as they traveled within the metropolitan
limits, constrained to observe a decorous pace in
view of the prejudices of the County Council, it was
a matter of no difficulty whatever to maintain his dis-
tance. But once they had won through Shepherd's
Bush and, paced by huge doubledeck trolley trams,
were flying through Hammersmith on the Uxbridge
410


THE UXBRIDGE ROAD 411
Road; once they had run through Acton, and knew
beyond dispute that now they were without the city
boundaries, then the complexion of the business was
suddenly changed.
Not too soon for honest sport; Calendar was to
have (Kirkwood would have said in lurid American
idiom) a run for his money. The scattered lights
of Southall were winking out behind them before
Brentwick chose to give the word to the mechanician.
Quietly the latter threw in the clutch for the third
speed — and the fourth. The car leaped forward
like a startled race-horse. The motor lilted merrily
inta its deep-throated song of the open road, its
contented, silken humming passing into a sonorous
and sustained purr.
Kirkwood and the girl were first jarred violently
forward, then thrown together. She caught his arm
to steady herself; it seemed the most natural thing
imaginable that he should take her hand and pass
it beneath his arm, holding her so, his fingers closed
above her own. Before they had recovered, or had
time to catch their breath, a mile of Middlesex had
dropped to the rear.
Not quite so far had they distanced Calendar's
trailing Nemesis of the four glaring eyes; the pur-
suers put forth a gallant effort to hold their place.
At intervals during the first few minutes a heavy
roaring and crashing could be heard behind them;


THE UXBRIDGE ROAD 413
waiting; and so sat rigid in his time of trial, clinging
with what strength he could to the standards of his
honor, and trying to lose his dream in dreaming of
the bitter struggle that seemed likely to be his future
portion.
Perhaps she guessed a little of the fortunes of the
battle that was being waged within him. Perhaps
not. Whatever the trend of her thoughts, she did
not draw away from him. . . . Perhaps the
breath of night, fresh and clean and fragrant with
the odor of the fields and hedges, sweeping into
her face with velvety caress, rendered her drowsy.
Presently the silken lashes drooped, fluttering upon
her cheeks, the tired and happy smile hovered about
her lips. . . .
In something less than half an hour of this wild
driving, Kirkwood roused out of his reverie sufficiently
to become sensible that the speed was slackening. In-
coherent snatches of sentences, fragments of words
and phrases spoken by Brentwick and the mechani-
cian, were flung back past his ears by the rushing
wind. Shielding his eyes he could see dimly that the
mechanician was tinkering (apparently) with the
driving gear. Then, their pace continuing steadily
to abate, he heard Brentwick fling at the man a
sharp-toned and querulously impatient question:
What was the trouble? His reply came in a single
word, not distinguishable.


414 THE BLACK BAG
The girl sat up, opening her eyes, disengaging her
arm.
Kirkwood bent forward and touched Brentwick on
the shoulder; the latter turned to him a face lined
with deep concern.
"Trouble," he announced superfluously. "I fear
we have blundered."
"What is it? " asked Dorothy in a troubled voice.
"Petrol seems to be running low. Charles here"
'(he referred to the mechanician) " says the tank must
be leaking. We'll go on as best we can and try to
find an inn. Fortunately, most of the inns nowadays
keep supplies of petrol for just such emergencies."
"Are we —? Do you think —?"
"Oh, no; not a bit of danger of that," returned
Brentwick hastily. "They'll not catch up with us
this night. That is a very inferior car they have,
— so Charles says, at least; nothing to compare with
this. If I'm not in error, there's the Crown and
Mitre just ahead; we'll make it, fill our tanks, and be
off again before they can make up half their loss."
Dorothy looked anxiously to Kirkwood, her lips
forming an unuttered query: What did he think?
"Don't worry; we'll have no trouble," he assured
her stoutly; "the chauffeur knows, undoubtedly."
None the less he was moved to stand up in the
tonneau, conscious of the presence of the traveling
bag, snug between his feet, as well as of the weight


THE UXBRIDGE ROAD 415
of Calendar's revolver in his pocket, while he stared
back along the road.
There was nothing to be seen of their persecutors.
The car continued to crawl. Five minutes dragged
out tediously. Gradually they drew abreast a tavern
standing back a distance from the road, embowered
in a grove of trees between whose ancient boles the
tap-room windows shone enticingly, aglow with com-
fortable light. A creaking sign-board, much worn
by weather and age, swinging from a roadside post,
confirmed the accuracy of Brentwick's surmise, an-
nouncing that here stood the Crown and Mitre, house
of entertainment for man and beast.
Sluggishly the car rolled up before it and came to
a dead and silent halt. Charles, the mechanician,
jumping out, ran hastily up the path towards the
inn. In the car Brentwick turned again, his eyes
curiously bright in the starlight, his forehead quaint-
ly furrowed, his voice apologetic.
"It may take a few minutes," he said undecidedly,
plainly endeavoring to cover up his own dark doubts.
"My dear," to the girl, " if I have brought trouble
upon you in this wise, I shall never earn my own for-
giveness."
Kirkwood stood up again, watchful, attentive to
the sounds of night; but the voice of the pursuing
motor-car was not of their company. "I hear noth-
ing," he announced.


416
THE BLACK BAG
"You will forgive me,— won't you, my dear? —
for causing you these few moments of needless
anxiety?" pleaded the old gentleman, his tone tremu-
lous.
"As if you could be blamed!" protested the girl.
"You mustn't think of it that way. Fancy, what
should we have done without you!"
"I'm afraid I have been very clumsy," sighed
Brentwick, "clumsy and impulsive. . . . Kirk-
wood, do you hear anything?"
"Not yet, sir."
"Perhaps," suggested Brentwick a little later,
"perhaps we had better alight and go up to the inn.
It would be more cosy there, especially if the
petrol proves hard to obtain, and we have long to
wait"
"I should like that," assented the girl decidedly.
Kirkwood nodded his approval, opened the door
and jumped out to assist her; then picked up the
bag and followed the pair,— Brentwick leading the
way with Dorothy on his arm.
At the doorway of the Crown and Mitre, Charles
met them evidently seriously disturbed. "No petrol
to be had here, sir," he announced reluctantly; "but
the landlord will send to the next inn, a mile up the
road, for some. You will have to be patient, I'm
afraid, sir."
"Very well. Get some one to help you push the


THE CROWN AND MITRE 417
car in from the road," ordered Brentwick; "we will
be waiting in one of the private parlors."
"Yes, sir; thank you, sir." The mechanician
touched the visor of his cap and hurried off.
"Come, Kirkwood." Gently Brentwick drew the
girl in with him.
Kirkwood lingered momentarily on the doorstep, to
listen acutely. But the wind was blowing into that
quarter whence they had come, and he could hear
naught save the soughing in the trees, together with
an occasional burst of rude rustic laughter from the
tap-room. Lifting his shoulders in dumb dismay, and
endeavoring to compose his features, he entered the
tavern.
II THE CKOWN AND MITRE
A rosy-cheeked and beaming landlady met him in
the corridor and, all bows and smiles, ushered him
into a private parlor reserved for the party, immedi-
ately bustling off in a desperate flurry, to secure
refreshments desired by Brentwick.
The girl had seated herself on one end of an ex-
tremely comfortless lounge and was making a palpa-
ble effort to seem at ease. Brentwick stood at one of
the windows, shoulders rounded and head bent, hands
clasped behind his back as he peered out into the night.
Kirkwood dropped the traveling bag beneath a chair


418
THE BLACK BAG
the farthest removed from the doorway, and took to
pacing the floor.
In a corner of the room a tall grandfather's clock
ticked off ten interminable minutes. For some reason
unconscionably delaying, the landlady did not reap-'
pear. Brentwick, abruptly turning from the window,
remarked the fact querulously, then drew a chair up
to a marble-topped table in the middle of the floor.
"My dear," he requested the girl, " will you oblige
me by sitting over here? And Philip, bring up a
chair, if you will. We must not permit ourselves to
worry, and I have something here which may, per-
haps, engage your interest for a while."
To humor him and alleviate his evident distress of
mind, they acceded. Kirkwood found himself seated
opposite Dorothy, Brentwick between them. Aft
some hesitation, made the more notable by an air of
uneasiness which sat oddly on his shoulders, whose
composure and confident mien had theretofore been
so complete and so reassuring, the elder gentleman
fumbled in an inner coat-pocket and brought to light
a small black leather wallet. He seemed to be on the
point of opening it when hurried footfalls sounded
in the hallway. Brentwick placed the wallet, still with
its secret intact, on the table before him, as Charles
burst unceremoniously in, leaving the door wide open.
"Mr. Brentwick, sir!" he cried gustily. "That
other car —"


THE CROWN AND MITRE 419
With a smothered ejaculation Kirkwood leaped to
his feet, tugging at the weapon in his pocket. In
another instant he had the revolver exposed. The
girl's cry of alarm, interrupting the machinist, fixed
Brentwick's attention on the young man. He, too,
stood up, reaching over very quickly to clamp strong
supple fingers round Kirkwood's wrist, while with the
other hand he laid hold of the revolver and by a single
twist wrenched it away.
Kirkwood turned upon him in fury. "So!" he
cried, shaking with passion. "This is what your hos-
pitality meant! You're going to —"
"My dear young friend," interrupted Brentwick
with a flash of impatience, "remember that if I had
designed to betray you, I could have asked no better
opportunity than when you were my guest under my
own roof."
-.j "But — hang it all, Brentwick!" expostulated
Kirkwood, ashamed and contrite, but worked upon
by desperate apprehension; "I didn't mean that,
but —"
"Would you have bullets flying when she is near?"
demanded Brentwick scathingly. Hastily he slipped
the revolver upon a little shelf beneath the table-top.
"Sir!" he informed Kirkwood with some heat, "I
love you as my own son, but you're a young fool!
. . . as I have been in my time . . . and as
I would to Heaven I might be again! Be advised,


420
THE BLACK BAG
Philip,— be calm. Can't you see it's the only way to
save your treasure?"
"Hang the jewels!" retorted Kirkwood warmly.
"What —"
"Sir, who said anything about the jewels?"
As Brentwick spoke, Calendar's corpulent figure
filled the doorway; Stryker's weather-worn' features
loomed over his shoulder, distorted in a cheerful leer.
"As to the jewels," announced the fat adventurer,
"I've got a word to say, if you put it to me that
way."
He paused on the threshold, partly for dramatic
effect, partly for his own satisfaction, his quick eyes
darting from face to face of the four people whom
he had caught so unexpectedly. A shade of compla-
cency colored his expression, and he smiled evilly be-
neath the coarse short thatch of his gray mustache.
In his hand a revolver appeared, poised for immediate
use if there were need.
There was none. Brentwick, at his primal appear-
ance, had dropped a peremptory hand on Kirkwood's
shoulder, forcing the young man back to his seat; at
the same time he resumed his own. The girl had not
stirred from hers since the first alarm; she sat as if
transfixed with terror, leaning forward with her
elbows on the table, her hands tightly clasped, her
face, a little blanched, turned to the door. But her
scarlet lips were set and firm with inflexible purpose,



"Good evening, all!" lie saluted them blandly. Page 421


THE CROWN AND MITRE 425
"I am content. Won't you be kind enough to leave
me alone?"
For a breath, Calendar glowered over her; then,
"I presume," he observed, "that all these heroics
are inspired by that whipper-snapper, Kirkwood. Do
you know that he hasn't a brass farthing to bless
himself with?"
"What has that — ?" cried the girl indignantly.
"Why, it has everything to do with me, my child.
As your doting parent, I can't consent to your mar-
rying nothing-a-year. . . . For I surmise you
intend to marry this Mr. Kirkwood, don't you?"
There followed a little interval of silence, while the
warm blood flamed in the girl's face and the red lips
trembled as she faced her tormentor. Then, with a
quaver that escaped her control, "If Mr. Kirkwood
asks me, I shall," she stated very simply.
"That," interposed Kirkwood, " is completely un-
derstood." His gaze sought her eyes, but she looked
away.
"You forget that I am your father," sneered Cal-
endar; "and that you are a minor. I can refuse
my consent."
"But you won't," Kirkwood told him with assur-
ance.
The adventurer stared. "No," he agreed, after
slight hesitation; " no, I shan't interfere. Take her,
my boy, if you want her — and a father's blessing


THE CROWN AND MITRE 427
"when you catch me admitting anything, you write
it down in your little book and tell the bobby on the
corner. Just at present I've got other business than
to stand round admitting anything about anything.
. . Cap'n, let's have that bag of my dutiful
daughter's."
"'Ere you are." Stryker spoke for the first time
since entering the room, taking the valise from be-
neath the chair and depositing it on the table.
"Well, we shan't take anything that doesn't be-
long to us," laughed Calendar, fumbling with the
catch; " not even so small a matter as my own child's
traveling bag. A small — heavy — gladstone bag,"
he grunted, opening the valise and plunging in one
greedy hand, " will — just — about — do for mine!"
With which he produced the article mentioned.
"This for the discard, Cap'n," he laughed content-
edly, pushing the girl's valise aside; and, railing
with stentorian mirth, stood beaming benignantly
over the assembled company.
"Why," he exclaimed, "this moment is worth all
it cost me! My children, I forgive you freely. Mr.
Kirkwood, I felicitate you cordially on having secured
a most expensive wife. Really — d'you know ?— I
feel as if I ought to do a little something for you
both." Gurgling with delight he smote his fat palms
together. "I just tell you what," he resumed, "no
one yet ever called Georgie Calendar a tight-wad. I


428
THE BLACK BAG
just believe I'm going to make you kids a handsome
wedding present. . . . The good Lord knows
there's enough of this for a fellow to be a little gen-
erous and never miss it!"
The thick mottled fingers tore nervously at the
catch; eventually he got the bag open. Those about
the table bent forward, all quickened by the prospect
of for the first time beholding the treasure over which
they had fought, for which they had suffered, so
long.
A heady and luscious fragrance pervaded the at-
mosphere, exhaling from the open mouth of the bag.
A silence, indefinitely sustained, impressed itself upon
the little audience,— a breathless pause ended even-
tually by a sharp snap of Calendar's teeth. "Mmm!"
grunted the adventurer in bewilderment. He began
to pant.
Abmptly his heavy hands delved into the contents
of the bag, like the paws of a terrier digging in
earth. To Kirkwood the air seemed temporarily
thick with flying objects. Beneath his astonished
eyes a towel fell upon the table — a crumpled, soiled
towel, bearing on its dingy hem the inscription in
indelible ink: "Hotel du Commerce, Anvers." A
tooth-mug of substantial earthenware dropped to the
floor with a crash. A slimy soap-dish of the same
manufacture slid across the table and into Brent-
wick's lap. A battered alarm clock with never a tick


THE CROWN AND MITRE 429
left In its abused carcass rang vacuously as it fell by
the open bag. . . . The remainder was — or-
anges: a dozen or more small, round, golden globes
of ripe fruit, perhaps a shade overripe, therefore the
more aromatic.
The adventurer ripped out an oath. "Mulready,
by the living God!" he raged in fury. "Done up,
I swear! Done by that infernal sneak — me, blind as
a bat!"
He fell suddenly silent, the blood congesting in his
face; as suddenly broke forth again, haranguing the
company.
"That's why he went out and bought those damned
oranges, is it? Think of it — me sitting in the hotel
in Antwerp and him lugging in oranges by the bag-
ful because he was fond of fruit! When did he do
it? How do I know? If I knew, would I be here
and him the devil knows where, this minute? When
my back was turned, of course, the damned snake!
That's why he was so hot about picking a fight on
the boat, hey? Wanted to get thrown off and take
to the woods — leaving me with this! And that's
why he felt so awful' done up he wouldn't take a hand
at hunting you two down, hey? Well — by — the
— Eternal! I'll camp on his trail for the rest of his
natural-born days! I'll have his eye-teeth for this,
I'll —"
He swayed, gibbering with rage, his countenance


THE CROWN AND MITRE
431
other men outside, waiting for you to come out. Un-
derstand?"
Trembling like a whipped cur, Stryker meekly
obeyed his instructions to the letter.
The mechanician, with a contemptuous laugh leav-
ing him, strode back to Calendar, meanwhile whipping
off his goggles; and clapped a hearty hand upon the
adventurer's quaking shoulders.
"Well!" he cried. "And are you still sailing
circles round the men from Scotland Yard, Simmons,
or Bellows, or Sanderson, or Calendar, or Crumbstone,
or whatever name you prefer to sail under?"
Calendar glared at him aghast; then heaved a
profound sigh, shrugged his fat shoulders, and bent
his head in thought. An instant later he looked up.
"You can't do it," he informed the detective
vehemently; "you haven't got a shred of evidence
against me! What's there? A pile of oranges and
a peck of trash! What of it? . . . Besides,"
he threatened, " if you pinch me, you'll have to take
the girl in, too. I swear that whatever stealing was
done, she did it. I'll not be trapped this way by
her and let her off without a squeal. Take me — take
her; d'you hear?"
"I think," put in the clear, bland accents of Brent-
wick, "we can consider that matter settled. I have
here, my man,"— nodding to the adventurer as he
took up the black leather wallet,—" I have here a


432 THE BLACK BAG
little matter which may clear up any lingering doubts
as to your standing, which you may be disposed at
present to entertain."
He extracted a slip of cardboard and, at arm's
length, laid it on the table-edge beneath the adven-
turer's eyes. The latter, bewildered, bent over it for
a moment, breathing heavily; then straightened back,
shook himself, laughed shortly with a mirthless note,
and faced the detective.
"It's come with you now, I guess? " he suggested
very quietly.
"The Bannister warrant is still out for you," re-
turned the man. "That'll be enough to hold you on
till extradition papers arrive from the States."
"Oh, I'll waive those; and I won't give you any
trouble, either. . . . . I reckon," mused the ad-
venturer, jingling his manacles thoughtfully, " I'm a
back-number, anyway. When a half-grown girl, a
half-baked boy, a flub like Mulready — damn his
eyes! — and a club-footed snipe from Scotland Yard
can put it all over me this way, . . . why, I
guess it's up to me to go home and retire to my coun-
try-place up the Hudson." He sighed wearily.
"Yep; time to cut it out. But I would like to be
free long enough to get in one good lick at that mutt,
Mulready. My friend, you get your hands on him,
and I'll squeal on him till I'm blue in the face.
That's a promise."


JOURNEY'S END 435
Charles by telephone,— his name is really Charles, by
the bye,— overcame his conscientious scruples about
playing his fish when they were already all but landed,
and settled the artistic details."
He chuckled delightedly. "It's the instinct," he
declared emphatically, "the instinct for adventure.
I knew it was in me, latent somewhere, but never till
this day did it get the opportunity to assert itself.
A born adventurer — that's what I am! . . .
You see, it was essential that they should believe we
were frightened and running from them; that way,
they would be sure to run after us. Why, we might
have baited a dozen traps and failed to lure them
into my house, after that stout scoundrel knew you'd
had the chance to tell me the whole yarn. . . .
Odd!"
"Weren't you taking chances, you and Charles?"
asked Kirkwood curiously.
"Precious few. There was another motor from
Scotland Yard trailing Captain Stryker's. If they
had run past, or turned aside, they would have been
overhauled in short order."
He relapsed into his whimsical reverie; the wistful
look returned to his eyes, replacing the glow of tri-
umph and pleasure. And he sighed a little regret-
fully.
"What I don't understand," contended Kirkypod,
"is how you convinced Calendar that he couldn't get


436 THE BLACK BAG
revenge by pressing his charge against Miss Cal-
endar — Dorothy."
"Oh-h?" Mr. Brentwick elevated his fine white
eyebrows and sat up briskly. "My dear boy, that
was the most delectable dish on the entire menu. I
have been reserving it, I don't mind owning, that
I might better enjoy the full relish of it. . . . I
may answer you best, perhaps, by asking you to scan
what I offered to the fat scoundrel's respectful con-
sideration, my dear sir."
He leveled a forefinger at the card.
At first glance it conveyed nothing to the younger
man's benighted intelligence. He puzzled over it,
twisting his brows out of alignment. An ordinary
oblong slip of thin white cardboard, it was engraved
in fine script as follows:
MR. GEORGE BURGOYNE CALENDAR
SI, ASPEN VILLAS, S. W.
"Oh!" exclaimed Kirkwood at length, standing
up, his face bright with understanding. "You —/"


JOURNEY'S END 437
"I," laconically assented the elder man.
Impulsively Kirkwood leaned across the table.
"Dorothy," he said tenderly; and when the girl's
happy eyes met his, quietly drew her attention to the
card.
Then he rose hastily, and went over to stand by
the window, staring mistily into the blank face of
night beyond its unseen panes.
Behind him there was a confusion of little noises;
the sound of a chair pushed hurriedly aside, a rustle
of skirts, a happy sob or two, low voices intermin-
gling; sighs. . . . Out of it finally came the
father's accents.
"There, there, my dear! My dearest dear!" pro-
tested the old gentleman. "Positively I don't deserve
a tithe of this. I—" The young old voice quav-
ered and broke, in a happy laugh. ..." You
must understand," he continued more soberly, "that
no consideration of any sort is due me. . . .
When we married, I was too old for your mother,
child; we both knew it, both believed it would never
matter. But it did. By her wish, I went back to
America; we were to see what separation would do
to heal the wounds dissension had caused. It was
a very foolish experiment. Your mother died before
I could return. . . ."
There fell a silence, again broken by the father.
"After that I was in no haste to return. But some


440
THE BLACK BAG
prize of Romance, your inalienable inheritance! **
Abruptly Brentwick, who was no longer Brentwick,
but the actual Calendar, released the girl from his
embrace and hopped nimbly toward the door.
"Really, I must see about that petrol!" he cried.
"While it's perfectly true that Charles bed about it's
running out, we must be getting on. I'll call you
when. we're ready to start."
And the door crashed to behind him. . * .
Between them was the table. Beyond it the girl
stood with head erect, dim tears glimmering on the
lashes of those eyes with which she met Philip's steady
gaze so fearlessly.
Singing about them, the silence deepened. Fas-
cinated, though his heart was faint with longing,
Kirkwood faltered on the threshold of his kingdom.
"Dorothy! . . . You did mean it, dear?"
She laughed, a little, low, sobbing laugh that had
its source deep in the hidden sanctuary of her heart
of a child.
"I meant it, my dearest. ... If you'll have
a girl so bold and forward, who can't wait till she's
asked but throws herself into the arms of the man
she loves — Philip, I meant it, every word! . . ."
And as he went to her swiftly, round the table, she
turned to meet him, arms uplifted, her scarlet lips
a-tremble, the brown and bewitching lashes drooping
over her wondrously lighted eyes. . . .


V


UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN
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