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WHIS PERS


BY LOUIS DOD GE
whispers
rosy
a Runaway woman
Illustrated by George Wright
children of the Desert
Bonnie may
Illustrated by Reginald Birch
the sandman’s Forest
Illustrated by Paul Bransom
cHARLEs SCRIBNER'S SONS


WHIS PERS
By
LOUIS DODGE
\
f
CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS
NEW YORK : ; ; ; ; ; 1920


T. TK
PUL... . . .-SAR
91 609 5
ASTOR, LENOx AND
TILDEN F.CUN dations
R 1920 L
CopyRIGHT, 1020, By
CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS
Published April, 1920
• ,-
-
* -
--
-
-
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-


>
*
*
|
TO
JOSEPH HERGESHEIMER





CONTENTS
What The Moon Found
ONE of Our MASTERs
“THE MAN IS HERE!”
The Lost TAvern
The TAverN's Guest
A HAND THAT TREMbled
The Confederate
The Two Journals .
A New Lodger
CApe Comes IN
EstabRook Wonders - - - -
IN THE PLAce of MAsks . . . . .
A Talk with CAMPBell -
“The DRUMM-CAse—Estabrook”
The Spider and The Fly .
The Weaving of The Web
The Fly AppEARs
The FLY ENTERs . -
The TERMs of The TREATY
Estabrook Shows His HAND .
SETTING The STAGE
A Compact with the Chief
“Pieces of EIGHT” .
SoMebody Blunders . .
A SUMMons for Estabrook - -
The House of The MoRGAN Ford Road
INTRoducING MR. CRADDock
What the MoRNING BRought . . .
Conclusion . . . . . . . . .
page
io
16
24
3I
39
50
57
64
72
85
90
Io:3
II4
I25
138
I49
162
172
182
188
193
20i
209
22O
229
238
245
257


WHISPERS
Chapter I
What the Moon Found
HE small back room of the shop was so still
that the ticking of the clock on the wall—
a small, quick-spoken thing of nickel—was like
the sounding of an alarm, or an agitated voice
uttering a warning. A tedious sound by day,
made little by the rumble of traffic on the street,
it now possessed a quality at once sinister and
urgent.
The street was deserted. The shops were
closed and dark save for the night-lamps which
burned dimly in the mean little temples of trade
along the thoroughfare. Half an hour ago a po-
liceman had passed along the pavement, peering
through the grimy windows, trying the doors. He
had made sure that no one was stirring. Later,
far down the street, his stick on the pavement had
shattered the stillness of the night.
In the back room where the clock ticked a man
sat alone. His elbows rested on a table of a
I


Whispers
dark, heavy wood, and his face was supported by
his hands. A single incandescent light, protected
by a green shade, was suspended above the table.
It cast a circle of illumination on the dark wood
of the table and on a very old book, curiously
illustrated with wood cuts, which the man was
reading. The figure of the man was outside that
circle of illumination and was absorbed by the
shadows which hung thick in the room.
Perhaps it was the ticking of the clock which
presently disturbed the solitary occupant of the
room—who, it might also have seemed, was the
solitary occupant of the building, of all the build-
ings on the street. At any rate there was a noise-
less movement. The man lifted slightly from his
stooped attitude. He removed his eyes from the
book before him. He permitted one hand to
descend until it lay on the table, within the circle
of light.
If the Book of Life had been as open to him as
the ancient volume he had been perusing, that
hand which now lay within the circle of light—the
only living thing visible, and it scarcely suggest-
ing the warm impulses of life—might well have
fallen into an attitude of surrender, of relinquish-
ment. Or it might have been lifted, for once in
its existence, with a gesture of supplication or
prayer. For it was written that that hand should
lie cold and rigid in death within the hour.
But the Book of Life is not an open book to
2


What the Moon Found
any man; and so it was that the hand on the table
made known no hint of contrition or humility.
Rather it expressed the ruling passion dwelling in
the brain which controlled it. It was a slender
hand, long, colorless—and grasping. It was the
hand of Sothern's Shylock. The fingers turned
slightly at the ends, covetously, acquisitively—all
save one. The little finger lay straight. It was
held so by the long nail, which thwarted the in-
clination to curve. - -
That nail was, obviously, a matter of freakish
pride. It was like a talon. It was slender, dis-
colored, a little ghastly. It represented the
growth of years—and how much of painstaking
care, of proud display, of petty boasting!
For a moment the pale hand with its talon-like
nail lay within the circle of light; and then it was
withdrawn with startling swiftness.
No need to ask of the man who sat alone if he
had been suddenly alarmed. The fact was plain.
Out of the oppressive silence, broken only by the
ticking of the clock, there had been the sound of
a footfall.
The sound of a footfall; and—more discon-
certing still to the man who heard it—in a region
which should now have been a slumbering void.
It was on the floor above, in a room which was
seldom entered by day and never by night, where
certain old articles were stored.
The man's body had become rigid, his pulses
3


Whispers
were pounding. His head, lowered as if a blow
was about to fall, turned slowly this way and that.
He listened with painful intensity. Minutes
passed, and with them the first shock of agonized
terror.
It could have been no footfall, after all, he re-
flected. A distant shutter must have swung in
the wind. Somewhere in an adjacent house a
door must have been caught in a draft. Or per-
haps a homeless vagrant had passed along the
street. There was nothing in the storeroom
above to attract thieves. There was no way to
reach that room at night save by the fire-escape,
descending to the dark alley. And—most reas-
suring of all—there was no repetition of that
muffled sound.
The man began to breathe naturally again, his
heart ceased to pound. He leaned back in his
chair and surveyed the shadowy spaces surround-
ing him. Through the doorway connecting with
the front of the shop he caught the faint gleam
of glass surfaces: the fronts of certain cabinets
in which rows of fantastic faces looked out fix-
edly. These constituted part of the stock of the
shop, which was a costumer's shop. They were
painted masks.
Droll or comic by day, they achieved a kind
of ghastly lifelessness at night. Their rosiness
paled; their grimaces suggested agony; the eye-
holes were black as those of a human skull.
4.


What the Moon Found
In other cabinets fantastic costumes were hung:
the costume of a Spanish cavalier, of a monk, of
Harlequin and Pierrot, of a seer, of a sorceress,
of a gipsy, of a hangman. And though many
of them held a laughing suggestion by day of
secret delights and transgressions and revelries,
they all hinted darkly at night of the end of all
things, which is vanity.
Yet to the man in the back room they hinted
at none of these things, but only of easy profits,
and the follies of youth, from which calculating
age may reap a benefit in gold, and of a discreet
system of excessive profits exacted from those who
came to rent his wares.
The back room, too, was given over in part
to the costumer's stock. The wigs, the toupees,
the false beards and mustaches—they were here.
And most impressive of all the costumer's col-
lection was the complete set of armor, with
gleaming gauntlets and visor and shield and sword
and all, which had its place, very like a medieval
warrior, at the foot of the narrow staircase which
ascended to the storeroom on the floor above.
Here the knight-like figure stood by day and
night, with a certain spurious gallantry which was
dissipated easily enough when a careless or curi-
ous customer touched it, and elicited the tinkle of
tin, and set the whole frame to vibrating in a
way which proved that it was but a hollow shell.
Yet just now, while the shadows of night filled
5


What the Moon Found
room and had reflected them upon the bright ar-
mor. And then by almost imperceptible degrees
a face had appeared in the doorway.
A face—yet scarcely a face. The vague out-
lines of a face, occupying a position so high that
it remained quite obscure in its place among the
other shadows. Indeed, one would have guessed
that the face was there only because of the un-
mistakable outlines of feet on the sill, and by a
darkly luminous hint of staring eyes at the alti-
tude where one might have expected to find a
face.
The man at the table heard nothing. But hu-
man beings who thrive on the folly and gaiety of
youth, and are pleased to do so, are sometimes
possessed of a sense other than the original and
common five. Prescience is the word usually em-
ployed when this sense is in mind—as if anyone
had ever yet clearly defined that word.
Prescience it may have been: or perhaps a real-
ization that the temperature of the room had
changed, or that a draft had been liberated,
or that the odor of disuse from the storeroom
above had penetrated the room. At any rate the
man at the table became suddenly and dreadfully
alarmed. The thought of that muffled footstep
returned with renewed and increased terror. He
sprang to his feet and faced about. So conscious
was he of looming disaster that he would have
screamed for help within the moment.
7


Whispers
But it was too late now. The door leading
to the upper floor was flung wide open. An ob-
scure figure was purposefully advancing toward
him.
The costumer was no longer a young man, yet
he was capable of great agility of movement.
Moreover, at that moment terror lent swiftness
to his limbs. A single step, a noiseless movement,
and the light above the table had been extin-
guished. But the intruder had marked his loca-
tion, even as the light was extinguished.
For an instant the drama between the two men
in the dark was suspended. Then there was the
sound of a blow. There was a groan, so short-
lived that it ended in an almost tranquil sigh. A
chair was overturned; a human body, collapsing,
pitched headlong to the floor. There was a move-
ment of feet; a tramping and creaking on the
stairs, an echo overhead. And then there was
silence, a terrible silence, broken only by the
nickel clock which went on ticking monotonously.
Time passed: time, which no longer concerned
the man who had crossed over into eternity. And
now the shop seemed indeed really deserted.
The moon, arising above a thousand city house-
tops, entered upon an open area and sent its
beams into the shop. At first they touched the
shining armor of the knight by the doorway.
They touched the door, revealing that it was now
closed again, just as if nothing had happened.
8 -


What the Moon Found
And then they sank lower and lower against the
wall until they were creeping along the floor.
Again time passed, its passing now marked by the
progress of a shaft of moonlight across the floor.
The shaft of light glorified one mean object
after another: faint colors in an old rug, the legs
of the table, the carved back of an overturned
chair. And then it came upon an object which
no power on earth or in heaven itself could glo-
rify: a dead man's hand, curled at the finger tips.
The moonbeams touched, with a kind of halting,
perplexed inspection, a nail which grew, curiously
curled and discolored, from a human finger.
And then at last the silence was rudely shat-
tered. The door at the front of the shop was
violently shaken, and then stormed. The police-
man, making his rounds again, had peered into
the spaces where the moonbeams searched out the
silences, and he had seen an elderly man lying
dead on the floor.


Chapter II
One of Our Masters
IGH up above the street, above tier upon
tier of darkened windows, a row of lights
—so far above the pavement that they seemed
like lanterns in the sky—shone steadily out upon
the night. In one of the rooms from which these
lights beamed a little man sat at a big desk alone.
He had stood at a window a moment before,
looking out at the picture of the city at night.
Grouped about him were immense office-buildings,
like gigantic, perforated monoliths: with a beam
of light showing in some of the perforations. He
had watched while one light after another winked
out, and he knew that when a light was extin-
guished it meant that one more belated clerk or
draughtsman or bookkeeper had finished his work
for the day and was about to set out for home.
He felt an ironic contempt for those belated work-
ers, whose tasks seemed to him humdrum and
tedious and mean.
Now as he sat at his desk he was still pictur-
ing those perforated monoliths, and he was see-
ing one light after another as it was blotted out.
IO


One of Our Masters
He knew that the great façades of the monoliths
would be in total obscurity before long; and he
liked to picture the belated clerks and other work-
ers going home with drooping spirits and per-
haps with rebellion stirring dully in their souls.
The work of these other men, he thought, was
inglorious, ant-like. No one's work save his own
was really splendid. But his own work—how all-
important it was 1 How like it was to the cap-
sheaf and crown of all other men's activitiesl
He occupied one of the nerve-centers of the
great city. There was a telephone instrument on
the desk beside him. There was a telephone
booth over against the wall. There were tele-
phone instruments on a number of desks which
were ranged about his own desk. There was a
girl who, in an adjacent room, presided over a
switchboard: who sat with her fingers within
reach of a thousand wire-ends, and who, with
an unsightly apparatus about her brow and ears,
listened to the voice of the city, to the voice of
the world.
The little man arose and moved once more to
one of the windows looking out over the city;
and as he stood, with his hands thrust deep into
his trousers pockets, his countenance expressed at
once a deep complacency and the cold pride of a
cynic. There lay the city which he held in the
hollow of his hand. Such was his reflection.
He leaned forward and looked down into the
II


Whispers
street, where long lines of lights were burning
brightly and where many vehicles passed to and
fro. It was ten o'clock at night and the day's
commercial traffic was finished; but the night life
—the life of gaiety and pleasure—was getting
under way. The vehicles down on the street ap-
peared somewhat goblin-like; and the pedestri-
ans who passed from pavement to pavement with
spasmodic movements seemed strangely fearful
and insignificant. Yet they were not insignifi-
cant to the man who gazed down upon them. He
despised them—and yet it was they who brought
grist to his mill. One of them might stumble
and fall beneath swiftly-rolling wheels before the
night was out—and be carried to the hospital, or
to the morgue. Or one of them might even now
be stealthily going forth to take the life of one
of his kind; or he might be seeking the means of
self-destruction. One might be an inglorious
Othello, and another an unsung Caesar. That ob-
scure figure of a woman yonder might be a new
Desdemona with a crude Iago by her side, or
perhaps a proud Cleopatra of the people.
The little man's lips curled faintly and he
mused: “Among them they will keep the hospi-
tals filled, and the morgue occupied, and the
courts busy, and the wheels of commerce revolv-
ing—and so I shall not want.”
He was a newspaper man of the old school,
Beakman by name. He believed in the policy of
I2


One of Our Masters
ruling with an iron hand. To him the power of
the press meant the browbeating of the friend-
less, the exposure of the weak, the thwarting of
the ambitious; it meant a policy of conciliation
toward the strong, of bargaining with the rich.
Just now he was afflicted with the tedium of
Alexander. He could think of no more worlds
to conquer. And he leaned further out into the
warm June air and noted the flaming theater-
fronts down the street, and the distant tangles
and mazes of night traffic at a busy corner. Then
with a kind of slow moroseness he returned once
more to his desk. -
He had scarcely seated himself this time when
one of the telephones in the booth against the
wall rang sharply, insistently.
He arose with a mumbled word of anger.
Didn't the girl at the switchboard know that he
was alone in the local room at present? And
didn't she know that he had his own phone there
on the desk before him?
He went into the booth, leaving the door open
behind him.
He took down the receiver and in an instant
he was listening to the voice of Cook, the police
reporter. “Ah, Cook!” he said; and the sense
of tedium left him now. Manna was descend-
ing from his heaven. He was always glad to
hear from police headquarters. It so often
meant that grist was coming to his mill.
I3


Whispers
He leaned close to the instrument. It was
sometimes a little difficult to get Cook's messages.
The police reporter mumbled his words as a rule,
and his sentences were often incoherent and his
diction peculiarly colloquial. He was an illiter-
ate man whose abilities were confined almost
wholly to a complete lack of sensibilities and what
Beakman would have described as a sharp nose
for news.
Beakman's first contribution to the conversa-
tion over the wire—after a professionally weary
“Yes, this is Beakman,”—was one word, uttered
in a low yet rather intense tone: “Drumm?”
And then, “Old Pheneas Drumm, do you mean?”
He then waited for Cook to proceed, remain-
ing silent save for the repetition of some of Cook's
most highly specialized communications—as for
example, “He was a crappie when they found
him. Yes. His thatch was leaking—smashed
in. All right. A blunt instrument. Yes. But,
Cook—hold up, Cook! Get off o' that blunt in-
strument. Yes, I know that's what the police re-
port says. It always says it. But we don't want
the News to say it. It's been said too often.
Now go ahead. Nothing disturbed. All right.
And—well, never mind the police theory, Cook.
They don't know whether it was a vendetta or
not. And put that word vendetta up in Aunt
Maud's room, together with your blunt instru-
ment. You know we're not conducting a mu-
I4.


Chapter III
“The Man is Here!”
NTRUDER is the word which occurred to
Beakman, though scores of persons, even
strangers, might have entered the office without
intruding. But the young man who had made his
appearance had brought with him a certain air
of aloofness, and he was behaving in a manner
so extraordinary that Beakman might have been
excused for staring at him in amazement and with
a puzzled question in his eyes.
Nevertheless, the city editor restrained him-
self. His first impulse had been to address sharp
words to the youth who had appeared from no-
where, silently, unannounced, and who was now
moving about the room in the aimless fashion of
a sleep-walker. But if Beakman greatly enjoyed
the fullest exercise of the “little brief authority”
with which he was clothed, love of authority was
not, after all, his ruling passion. The least dis-
cerning of the reporters who worked under him
could have told you that by nature he was an
eavesdropper, a spy, who was never so wholly
alive as when he could furtively watch a human
I6


“The Man is Here!”
being who was unaware of being observed. He
would rather have peeped through a key-hole to
see a petty thief at work than to have stood upon
a mountain-top to witness the destruction of Pom-
peii. He would rather have crouched behind a
half-closed door, listening to the harmless secrets
of two humble creatures, than to have had an
open seat in a forum within hearing of a Cicero
or a Demosthenes.
So it was that he now stood just outside the
telephone booth, with an air almost of suspended
animation, gazing from under lowered brows at
an exhibition of conduct which was, it must have
been conceded, at least a little peculiar.
The young man who had entered the room had
paused very casually at Beakman's desk, obvi-
ously taking note of the city map which was
spread on the desk under a protecting sheet of
beveled glass, and of the pigeon-holes over-filled
with dusty memoranda. And then he had moved
aimlessly along the line of reporters' desks, paus-
ing almost imperceptibly at each, as if the aban-
doned notes strewn here and there, and the con-
dition of the machines, and the adjustment of the
lights, constituted for him a familiar and pleas-
ing study.
Finally he moved toward the open window and
stood looking at the obscure façades of the great
office-buildings, and then down into the lighted
Street.
17


Whispers
He could not have helped knowing that there
had been someone in the telephone booth a mo-
ment ago; yet he was exasperatingly indifferent
to other presences than his own. And it was cer-
tainly not to Beakman's liking to be ignored by
any man, here in the room where his word was
law, and where his authority was supreme.
He decided to say something severely cutting,
something witheringly scornful. It was plain that
the intruder was not a person of consequence. He
was a slight youth, wearing a threadbare gray
coat and a soft hat—also of a gray color—which
had lost whatever of smartness it had originally
possessed. A person of no consequence, cer-
tainly.
But Beakman found it extraordinarily difficult
for once in his life to frame a neatly offensive
or insulting remark—though many a reporter
would have testified that such a predicament, on
Beakman's part, was altogether unprecedented.
There was, however, an expression of aloofness
in the slender back of the intruder, and an air at
once unconcerned and detached—a manner which
was as a fortress which is not to be taken by di-
rect attack, but only by maneuvering.
Then, very deliberately, the youth turned and
stood face to face with the city editor.
His countenance, somehow, did not invite
abuse or contempt. His manner was singularly
tranquil, though his eyes were keen and search-
I8


“The Man is Here!”
ing. He stood regarding Beakman in an oddly
impersonal manner, as a veteran bank teller might
regard a coin to determine its mintage or quality.
“The city editor?” he asked, drawing a few
steps nearer without removing his eyes from Beak-
man's. He asked the question; yet Beakman did
not hear it. He only saw the intruder's lips
move, and noted the expression of courteous in-
terrogation in his eyes.
“I am the city editor,” he said in a blunt tone.
He had guessed what the question was. What
else could it have been? And his anger was
stirred anew. For one of Beakman's secrets was
that he was hard of hearing. He habitually
shouted to all his reporters and by the sugges-
tion of his own manner required them to speak to
him in lifted voices. His men had all learned
long ago that if they wished to draw upon them-
selves the wrath of the city editor they had only
to address him in subdued tones. He added, with
something more akin to his habitually offensive
manner, “What do you want?”
The answer came, after a quietly thoughtful
pause, “I was looking for work.”
“We’re full, here,” said Beakman. He spoke
angrily. Indeed, he was angry. He had heard
what the other man said only by the utmost con-
centration of his faculties. The stranger had
enunciated his words with almost meticulous pre-
cision, but he had spoken in a whisper; and the
I9


Whispers
city editor had been required to bend above his
desk, as if in search of something, to bring his
least defective ear closer to the whispering lips.
“Well—don't distress yourself,” said the in-
truder mildly. “I didn't mean, necessarily, that
I wanted to work here. I was just looking
around.” He continued to regard Beakman a lit-
tle curiously.
Beakman had heard only a part of this utter-
ance; and now he blurted out savagely—“Speak
up, man! What's the matter with you? It won't
hurt you to let yourself be heard, unless—unless
you're a confederate, or something of the sort.”
The intruder considered this. An expression
of regret came into his eyes. “My voice,” he
said, still whispering, “it—it's a physical infirm-
ity.”
The manner rather than the words affected
Beakman. It robbed him of a certain readiness.
He dropped into his seat as if he were serving
notice upon the other that the interview was at
an end. He took a bundle of notes from a pigeon-
hole. “Well, we don't want men here who have
physical infirmities,” he said.
But still the intruder did not go. He rested
an arm lightly on the top of the city editor's desk.
He spoke again, in the same rather sinister whis-
per: “I gather from what your police reporter
—from what Cook—tells you that there's been a
murder committed.”
2O


“The Man is Here!”
Beakman could not have told why he felt sin-
gularly fascinated by this man's manner—why he
should have wished so intensely to hear what he
had to say. Now he looked up sharply. “How
did you know it was Cook?” he demanded.
The other smiled faintly. “You called his
name, two or three times, when you were at the
phone.”
Beakman flushed. Then, triumphantly, “Well,
then, how did you know he was the police re-
porter?” he demanded.
“Oh, as to that—none but the police reporter
would have called you up to turn in a police item.”
The smile on the stranger's lips was less like the
ghost of a smile now. It was a very human
smile.
Beakman flushed slightly and grunted; and then
he shrank down in his chair and crossed his legs
and pretended to give his undivided attention to
the notes on the desk before him.
“And he was right—Cook, I mean—about its
being a-a vendetta, as he quaintly expressed it,”
the whispering voice went on. “The murder, you
know.”
Beakman could not resist the temptation to
lift his eyes. “Yes?” he asked. His tone was
contemptuous.
“Yes. You see, there's nothing stirring at night
on Fourth street. A burglar wouldn't have been
interrupted or frightened away.”
2 I


Whispers
The city editor regarded him with insolence.
“You know the city, then?” he asked.
“Not at all. I arrived from the east only an
hour ago. I've never set foot on one of your
streets before.”
Beakman's expression changed from facile
scorn to a strange, malignant intensity. He
leaned forward and placed his clenched hand on
the desk before him. “Then,” he demanded,
“how did you know that the murder occurred on
Fourth street?”
He was utterly disconcerted by the simplicity
of the reply. “I walked the streets an hour be-
fore I called here. I walked down Fourth street.
I passed old Drumm's place—though I didn't
know he was old Drumm. I saw his name above
his door. I was attracted by a cabinet of false
faces out in front. They seemed rather ghastly,
staring out of the darkness on a deserted street.
You see, there's no great mystery.”
Again the city editor lowered his eyes. He
was experiencing the antipathy of a jealous, tyran-
nical soul toward an alerter, more candid intelli-
gence. Presently he heard a whispered word. It
was the word “Good-night.” And he looked up
to find himself alone.
He sat cogitating in silence for only an in-
stant; and then the newspaper man in him gained
the ascendancy over the narrow creature who
liked to spurn all men who were in a position
22


“The Man is Here!”
where they must sue. The fellow—this mysteri-
ous whisperer—had eyes in his head. He had
learned how to observe. He had a brain which
was quick to receive impressions. He might be
a very good reporter indeed—and the News really
needed good men.
He arose and strolled out into the hall, check-
ing the impulse to hurry.
There had been no sound of the elevator as-
cending or descending; yet his late caller was no-
where to be seen.
23


Chapter IV.
The Lost Tavern
HE reporters began to come in. The ele-
vators began to be active, there were voices
in the hall. The men paused briefly at Beak-
man's desk, each with a word or two of explana-
tion, of inquiry. Then they passed on to their
own desks and sat down before their typewrit-
ers. They adjusted their lights and their memo-
randa; they began to work. They were men of
a certain unique type, all reflecting Beakman's
ideals and taste. Those among them who were
youthful—the majority—manifested a kind of
perkiness, a notable self-satisfaction. They af-
fected a degree of smartness in their attire. They
were a class of men to whom the word cynicism
was a delicious word. To be really cynical meant,
to them, to be very superior. They greatly de-
sired to be cynical, to be thought cynical. Their
minds were so curiously formed that they re-
garded themselves as incomparably superior when
they sat up nearly all night playing poker, or
drinking, and then fell asleep in swivel chairs,
with their feet thrust forward on their desks, and
24


The Lost Tavern
spent the remainder of the night so instead of go-
ing home to their beds. In a majority of cases
they were unfit men, untrained, all but worthless.
They drew salaries of perhaps fifteen or eighteen
dollars a week and were always in debt. Yet they
regarded all other classes of young men as un-
fortunate and inferior. The few older men
among them, some of whom were quite elderly,
but who had been young and cynical in their day,
were now particularly skeptical of the value and
glory of cynicism. They were quiet men, in-
clined to be moody, yet not unkind. They gave
advice and loaned money to the younger men,
knowing that both were thrown away.
The clatter of typewriters arose in the local
room. An atmosphere as of suppressed excite-
ment permeated the place. Beakman seemed
slowly to expand, to become more consciously au-
tocratic. Occasionally he made his power felt
by interrupting one of the reporters with a word
of inquiry, of instruction. The office gradually
assumed a bustling air. Galley-boys from the me-
chanical department appeared with proofs. Desk
men with a nervous manner appeared and dis-
appeared. Heads of other departments became
occasionally visible: the telegraph editor, the
markets editor, the railroad editor. Some re-
quired information from the city editor; others
came in merely to chat a moment. The dramatic
critic for the paper, just returned from a play-
25


Whispers
house, came into the local room because his own
typewriter, in some other part of the building,
was out of order. His manner, as he sat at the
desk of a reporter who was absent, was an odd
compound of patronage and disdain and simple
dubiousness arising from his inability to think of
certain words he wanted to use. He had not yet
decided whether he should write with withering
scorn of the play he had witnessed, or whether he
might not display his own cleverness to better ad-
vantage if he pointed out that the new piece was
delightfully novel.
Suddenly a faint yet ominous rumbling sound
could be heard. The walls and furniture of the
office began to vibrate slightly. The presses
down in the basement had been started. The
early mail edition of the News was being printed.
The little sea of activities flowed and then it
ebbed. One reporter after another turned in his
“story.” The battle had moved on, chiefly, to
the mechanical departments. Here and there a
reporter sprawled in his seat, yawning and occa-
sionally glancing at the clock. The city editor
seemed slowly to contract, to take down the pen-
nons of battle, to put up his shutters for the night.
He no longer seemed conscious of enviable posi-
tion and power. For the moment he was simply
an elderly man, weary and indifferent. Then,
rousing himself for one final act of impressive-
ness, he arose and drew the top of his desk down
26


The Lost Tavern
with a loud noise. He went to a locker against
the wall and removed his hat. He looked at the
clock, which recorded the hour of 12:30. And
then, to the room in general he said: “All right,
boys!”
He liked to demonstrate that among his vari-
ous talents he could even be human—after the
night's work was done. He had put a certain
warmth into those words, “All right, boys!”
Then he went out into the hall and stood with a
certain Napoleonic air, waiting for the elevator.
An air of loftiness began to return to him. He
knew that the small group of men who would re-
main about the office for some three or four hours,
in the event of some strange or important hap-
pening occurring after the regular edition went
to press, were men upon whom he could rely fully.
And he was satisfied that the News, on the mor-
row, would be a very good newspaper. The
Drumm murder story would loom large on the
first page, and the photograph of old Drumm,
which Cook had obtained from the police, would
probably be exclusive. The story had been well
written, too—with a rare and effective touch given
to the false faces amidst which old Drumm had
been found.
The elevator descended to the first floor with-
out stopping and with no passenger other than
Beakman. The elevator boy opened the gate
and the city editor passed out without saying good-
27


Whispers
night. He passed through the lobby of the build-
ing and stepped out upon the pavement.
The street was now empty save for the few
homeless mendicants who came and went a greater
part of the night—or until the vigilance of the
police was relaxed, and they could lie down on a
doorstep or in an areaway and go to sleep. Beak-
man noted one or two of these human derelicts
in a wholly detached manner. He was not in-
terested in them. They were worthless even con-
sidered from the standpoint of news. When their
time came to die their deaths were worth only a
routine item.
For a moment he paused where he had emerged
from the office lobby—paused undecidedly, as if
he were vaguely conscious that in going out upon
the highways he was leaving behind him his status
as a despot, and entering realms where he should
be required to conduct himself decently toward
his fellow-creatures. And then he bethought him
of Madam Joan's.
A few minutes later he had entered a dark
thoroughfare and was making his way leisurely
toward the city's Chinese colony. At a corner
he encountered two police officers whom he ac-
costed with spurious geniality—and they looked
after him curiously as he continued on his way
amid the shadows. It was not his intention to
go quite into the Chinese colony—though already
he was passing certain typical shops which pro-
28


The Lost Tavern
claimed their Orientalism to more than one of
the senses. They were wrapped in peculiar
odors, somnolent and sinister, and there were
strange exhibits in their windows: dried sea
urchins and other exotic marine specimens, and
strange herbs, and outlandish vessels and imple-
ments, and parcels in papers which suggested fire-
crackers—all constituting an exhibit savoring of
foreign ships and far-away ports. -
Beyond the first three or four of these shops
Beakman came upon a large building of obviously
Occidental aspects. The ground floor was occu-
pied by plumbers' and steam-fitters' shops, all now
dark and deserted. But in the midst of these
shops there was an open doorway which admitted
to a flight of stairs, and to the upper regions of
the building, which was some four or five stories
in height.
Beakman stopped and looked up the dark stair-
way. Something—the murmur of voices, it may
be, or a gleam of light under the door at the top
of the stairs—enabled him to come to a decision.
After a casual glance up and down the street he
began to climb the dark stairs.
It was evident that he was on no errand of
espionage, for when the stairs creaked beneath
his tread he paid no heed. Indeed, he hummed
an air from one of the musical comedies of a re-
cent year, and his eyes began to look upward ex-
pectantly, and his whole being to become more
29


Whispers
alive, as he drew closer to the door before him.
And at last he thrust the door open with a kind
of theatrical gesture, and stood revealed on the
threshold, looking about the pleasantly lighted in-
terior. For a moment he stood so, and then he
closed the door behind him.
He was in a dining-room, with a dozen small
tables ranged before him. And there were per-
haps a dozen persons within his range of vision,
some still waiting to be served, while others had
finished their supper and were remaining to talk
and smoke.
The aspects of the room were all familiar to
Beakman—or so he supposed them to be. Yet
now he realized that an unfamiliar figure had
taken its place in the picture. At one of the
tables nearest to him a solitary diner sat in such
a position that he was now gazing directly into
the city editor's eyes.
Beakman's mind stumbled and groped for an
instant. He stared at the unfamiliar diner,
whom he had never seen in the dining-room of
Madam Joan before during all the years in which
he had patronized the place. And then his mind
caught hold of certain clues. The stranger was
the mysterious youth who had behaved so ex-
traordinarily in the office of the News only an
hour or so ago.
“Ah!” mused Beakman, “it’s—it's Whispers!”
30


Chapter V
The Tavern's Guests
ADAM JOAN'S establishment was not
- quite beneath the admiration of persons in
society, nor wholly above the suspicions of the po-
lice. On the second floor it was a restaurant
catering to the needs of all classes of persons who
had occasion to dine late at night. But on the
third and fourth floors it was a place of mystery,
catering to the pleasures of a class of individuals
who, in the general and vague characterization of
the police, were without visible means of support.
The rank and file of diners who patronized
Madam Joan's entered the place by way of that
flight of stairs which we have seen Beakman
mount. That is to say, they entered by what was
known as a side entrance. There was, however,
another entrance on another street: an entrance
duly lighted and ornamented, and boasting an
elevator and a smart little office, and a discreet
clerk.
From this second entrance one was lifted to
the third floor, where there were many small din-
ing rooms, or to the fourth floor, where one might
3I


Whispers
engage a room for the night. When it is added
that a flight of stairs connected the dining room
on the second floor, where the voice of the people
was to be heard betimes, with the dining rooms
on the third floor, where the Olympians fore-
gathered, the architectural scheme of the estab-
lishment has been, perhaps, sufficiently outlined.
When Beakman had closed the door behind
him and had recognized the youth who had ap-
peared in the local room of the News that night,
he took the first place he came to and sat down.
His movements were deliberate and—at least to
his own way of thinking—impressive. A group
of reporters from the Vidette—the opposition
morning journal—were seated at a round table at
the other end of the room, and it was Beakman's
instinct to be Napoleonic whenever he was in
the presence of a reporter. Having seated him-
self, he permitted himself to indulge in a mood
of pleasant fancy touching the character of
Madam Joan's.
He thought it a good place to be in, after the
stress of the day. On many a night, in the years
which lay behind him, he had sat here—either in
the public dining room or in one of the smaller
private rooms overhead—and had talked the
night out and the new day in, in an atmosphere
which seemed to him wholly ideal. Many men
from the morning journals met here after their
papers had gone to press. There were two spe-
32 *


The Tavern's Guests
cial tables always in reserve for them at the far
end of the dining room. And just a sufficient
number of strangers, from semi-mendicants with
barely the price of pie and coffee, to politicians
entertaining friends from out of town, came into
the place to stimulate curiosity and provide diver-
sion and variety.
But Beakman liked best to permit his mind to
dwell upon the private rooms on the floor above
him. They were more exclusively Bohemian, less
obviously matter-of-fact. Men and women from
the theaters, the actors and actresses, were spe-
cially welcomed there. Chorus girls belonging
to second-rate musical comedies found Madam
Joan's accommodations within their means; and
there they often found themselves in company
with the faded stars of the stage: women of van-
ished youth and lost popularity who had dropped
out of the theater's major affairs and found lodg-
ment and a precarious living in nondescript travel-
ing companies, and men who could don and doff
a courtly dignity with surprising ease—men who
had “appeared in support of Booth” in happier
years, but who were now bringing their careers
to a dreary close by obtaining minor parts in the
most artificial type of melodramas and rural plays.
When these were brought to the city for a week's
stay they came to Madam Joan's—came with a
childishly eager air, because it seemed to them
almost like a restoration of the old glories.
33 .


Whispers
Madam's rooms above boasted painted panels
with heavy gilt lines framing them, and rather
substantial mirrors, and hangings—which always
seemed a trifle dusty—of a somberly rich ma-
terial. There were larger tables for guests who
came in groups; and smaller tables—you came
upon them in all manner of unexpected nooks and
corners—where couples could dine vis-à-vis: the
man usually speaking in covered tones and smil-
ing darkly and holding his eyes steadily upon the
lady opposite him, while she looked timidly or
forebodingly at her plate, according to an ancient
tradition, though in truth it might be she who was
the predatory one, and the man a creature of
great timidity, ready to run at the first approach
of danger.
Beakman had known these rooms since the days
of his youth; and if they no longer seemed to him
so genuinely romantic and splendid as they had
formerly done, he was still susceptible to their in-
fluence. His boyhood had been spent in ignorance
and poverty, and in the years of his maturity he
was without the power to discriminate. Madam
Joan's establishment still seemed to him a place
of many elegancies. That the red wine which she
served with her dinners was held in contempt
by most of her patrons mattered not at all to
him. He regarded the serving of the wine as
a kind of ritual. He did not care that it was not
fit to drink. And he knew no other place where
34


The Tavern's Guests
coffee was served in very little cups—black coffee
—and where nearly all the dishes were mysteri-
ously seasoned, possessing for him a special glam-
our which was bestowed upon them by their
French names.
Now he sat just inside the door by which he had
entered, his predilection for eavesdropping slowly
mastering him. Through an open doorway near
him he could hear a murmur of voices, spilling
over from the floor above. He liked to fancy that
he recognized this voice and that, and from time
to time he smiled faintly. Undoubtedly he recog-
nized the voice of Madam as she moved among
her guests. It was her custom to descend to the
public dining room occasionally and he counted
upon the pleasure of seeing her before long. He
imagined himself a great person in Madam's eyes.
She graciously called him monsieur. She enunci-
ated her words with a delicacy quite out of keep-
ing with the coarseness of her features. She
called him monsieur and smiled at him confiden-
tially, as if she and he recognized the fact that
the world was a place of manifold follies. It was
in this way that she smiled at everyone, excepting
those who came to ask favors or to collect bills.
Toward such persons she had a very severe and
coarse manner, which was unmistakably genuine.
However, it was evident that Madam was de-
tained above stairs just at present, and Beakman
withdrew his thoughts from her for the moment.
35


Whispers
He took more definite note of his immediate sur-
roundings. There were a good many diners
within the radius of his glance. At practically
all the tables one or more patrons sat. But they
were all uninteresting. They were in Madam
Joan's dining room not because of the traditions
of the place, but for the purpose of gratifying
their appetites cheaply and getting on their way.
Indeed, Beakman was inclined to become pessi-
mistic, and to lament that the old days were gone,
and that the new order of things was painfully
materialistic and hurried and mean.
He permitted his gaze to rest contemptuously
upon the round table at the far end of the room,
where a group of men from the Widette were
seated. It was a tacit law that no man from the
News should intrude within that circle—that he
should not take a place at that table, unless by
special invitation. There was another table for
the News men, similarly reserved. And in any
case, Beakman would not have cared to join the
group of men from the Vidette. In a number of
cases they were men who had formerly taken or-
ders from him—and who had quit his service
with bitterness in their hearts toward him. It
was his belief that he despised them all—though
perhaps his strong disinclination to come within
the circle of their conviviality was based upon the
secret fact that they made him despise himself.
They were a cheerful and gentlemanly lot. They
36


The Tavern's Guests
were intensely in earnest in trying to make the
Pidette a financially successful newspaper, which
it had not been for many years. They were bet-
ter paid than men working in similar capacities
for the News—though Beakman considered them
pitiful fools because they chose to work on the
Widette, a newspaper of minor rank, rather than
on the News, a journal for which the public en-
tertained a wholesome fear and respect.
But Beakman's reflections were broken in upon
in a manner which was by no means displeasing
to him. There was a step on the stairs connect-
ing the public dining room with the more exclusive
regions above.
Was it Madam Joan, coming to smile upon him
precisely as if she had directed that the choicest
morsel in her establishment should be reserved for
him? He listened closely. No, not Madam
Joan, evidently. The step fell lightly and all but
purposefully. It announced itself by its quality
to be a man's step. And then the man appeared.
He stood in the doorway an instant in painful
doubt; and then his glance was flashed almost
fearfully across from him to the door opening
from the stairway which ascended from the street
—the door by which Beakman had entered. For
this door had opened also and a second—or a
simultaneous—new arrival had made his appear-
ance. And for the briefest space of time the two
37


Whispers
men, gazing across the intervening tables and
diners, observed each other.
The first—or the man who had descended from
the floor above—was a shy-appearing youth, bear-
ing, despite his neat attire, the indelible stamp of
a rustic. The second—or the man who had as-
cended from the street—was a typical specimen
of the youth who has never known any but the
city's ways, and the city's ways at their worst.
The first was a man of physical delicacy, with
soft, clear eyes. The second was a man of a
naturally robust build, though he was now obvi-
ously the victim of a wasting and fatal malady,
and his eyes were neither soft nor clear. They
gleamed with a sinister light, and their glance
shot here and there with an expression which sug-
gested a declaration of war.
Beakman noted the two men, one after the
other. And then he turned to the waitress who
had at last made her services available. He was
glancing at a menu-card, and then banteringly
at the waitress—as men of a certain type seem to
feel they are expected to do when in the presence
of a woman who is required to serve them—when
the two new arrivals took their places among the
other diners.
38


Chapter VI
A Hand that Trembled
HE two new-comers who had appeared in
the dining room moved forward among the
tables, each with the evident wish to find a place
to his liking. There were no tables unoccupied,
so that neither could find a place where he might
sit alone. And each rejected one table after an-
other as if he hoped to find a more inviting spot
a little further on. It came about by this process
that both were presently near the middle of the
room. Their eyes met; and each man turned
about as if he felt a sort of discomfort in the
proximity of the other. It appeared that both de-
cided to take a seat anywhere, rather than to
continue to be conspicuous by standing. Each
man hung his hat on the rack nearest him; each
turned away from this performance and laid a
hand on the nearest available chair.
Oddly enough they had chosen the same table—
the table occupied by the man whom Beakman
had called Whispers. And so the three sat, an
oddly assorted trio: the two new-comers busying
themselves immediately with the bill of fare, while
39


Whispers
the newspaper man, as he had represented himself
to Beakman, regarded his new companions with
a casual yet alert curiosity.
He came to a ready conclusion touching the
pair. Both were uncomfortable—so much could
be seen at a glance. One—the youth of a rustic
type—was probably uneasy for no better reason
than that he was among strangers. The other
presented a more complex ground for speculation.
He was a physical wreck, to begin with; and added
to a malady which had rendered him emaciated
and haggard, there was the result of what might
have been an accident. His head, near the crown,
had been freshly wounded. The scalp had been
broken and it had been bleeding. The blood had
been carefully washed away. So much was at-
tested by the fact that the hair was still wet.
But in addition to the man's physical condition
there was present a mental condition which was
even more deeply disquieting. All his movements
suggested rebellion, a savage hatred of the world,
of life itself. His manner was that of a wolf
which has come to its lair to defend itself against
a too-numerous foe and to die snarling and
maiming.
The waitress paused at their table and took
their orders. The wolf-like stranger hurled his
order at her viciously. Coffee and rolls. The
other new-comer falteringly gave his order. He
spoke with an effect of regretting his words—as
4O


A Hand that Trembled
if he thought perhaps he might have found some-
thing cheaper or more appetizing on the bill of
fare. The newspaper man, without seeming to
take too pointed note of what transpired, con-
tinued to eat his food, which he was just finishing.
Then, in a casually pleasant way, he glanced
directly at the stranger of the stricken body and
the savage voice. “A bad bump,” he said gently,
indicating the fresh scalp wound.
He was disconcerted by the man's response:
“What's it to you?”—snarled rather than spoken,
and uttered to the accompaniment of a fierce ges-
ture of an unshaven chin.
“Why, nothing special,” was the soft rejoin-
der, “only I'm always sorry for another man's
bad luck.” He seemed to withdraw his attention
and his interest then. He was really pondering
upon the man's extraordinarily fierce manner.
He was wondering what could have reduced any
human being to such a condition of indiscriminate
animosity. He appeared to direct his thoughts
toward the third occupant of the table. He
passed the water decanter, which had been beyond
the man's reach. He finished his coffee and sat
waiting for the waitress to bring his check. It
would have seemed that he was no longer in-
terested in anything that might transpire at the
table at which he sat—yet he did not fail to note
that when the timid stranger poured water from
the decanter his hand trembled.
4 I


Whispers
The waitress reappeared with coffee and rolls
for the man of the extraordinary manner; then
she hurried away to fill the remaining order, and
as yet she had not given the newspaper man his
check.
There was nothing for him to do but to wait
as patiently as he might; and almost unconsciously
his eyes wandered in the direction of the savage
fellow who had repulsed him so vigorously. The
man was eating his rolls with a famished air:
thrusting them, piece by piece, into his coffee, and
gulping them down as a famished dog might have
done. He had eaten them in an incredibly short
time; and then his eyes rested covetously upon a
plate of bread which had been placed on the table
for the newspaper man, and which he had not
eaten.
The inference was not to be mistaken; and the
newspaper man, with a kind of spontaneous good-
will, leaned toward the other man. “Please help
yourself to the bread,” he said cordially. It
seemed to him that the man was near the point of
starvation. He moved the bread-plate to a new
position. And then he observed a dish of rice
pudding which had been meant for him, but which
he had not cared for. He added, with a note of
apology in his voice, “And if I might ask you to
have the rice pudding—or better still, if you'll
let me order for you some of the roast beef-"
42


A Hand that Trembled
The other man jerked his chin forward, his eyes
glared fiercely. “What for?” he demanded.
“Why—I'm sure you'll not take offense, but I
think you need it.”
“That's no reason.”
“Why, yes, I think it is. Isn't it?”
“If it was, there'd be no hungry men on the
streets—and no ragged men, and no men to go
cold.”
“It's a reason just the same. What you mean
is that some men don't recognize it.”
The other man, with an air of letting a thin
veil down over his belligerency, stopped to weigh
the words; and then he put forth his hand as
if experimentally and took bread from the plate
which had been placed within his reach. The
movement was cautious, even suspicious—as if
he feared a trap had been laid for him. But
when he found that he was really free to eat the
bread which had been meant for another, he ate
eagerly. He ate until the last crumb had disap-
peared. He ate the dish of rice pudding, too—
drawing this toward him with an upward glance
of an almost sullen rapacity.
“Come, what do you say to a good order of
roast beef?”
“No.”
“Well—I only wanted you to be sure you were
welcome.”
The strange creature made a noise with his
43


Whispers
spoon against the saucer as he scraped together
the last grains of rice. His actions, his manner,
must have been painful to any sensitive man; but
if the newspaper man felt any discomfort, he
did not betray the fact. He came nearest to feel-
ing discomfort when the other man, pushing the
empty saucer away, looked up at him with a cer-
tain almost malicious curiosity.
“Funny guy!” he said. He still uttered his
words rapidly, with an almost inhuman uncouth-
ness.
“Do you think so?”
“Not comical, y'understand. I mean—wheels.
Strangers in the attic.”
The newspaper man considered this smilingly.
“No,” he said at length. “It's the other fellows,
some of them, who have strangers in their at-
tic. Mischievous strangers, sometimes. Coun-
terfeiters. That sort of strangers.”
He was amazed at the effect of his words. The
man suddenly laughed: not heartily—the word
would never have been suggested; but loudly,
raucously, with a kind of malicious joy. And
when he had had his laugh out he said with an
air of deeply stirred interest, “You might be
crazy, but you're no fool.”
“I don't believe I'm crazy. But there—there
was something I wanted to say to you. You'll
not take offense? You ought to go around to the
dispensary—the free city dispensary, I mean—and
44


A Hand that Trembled
have that bump of yours looked after. It looks
rather ugly, you know. And it'll be no trouble
to them to dress it: a little antiseptic, and a bit of
absorbent cotton and tape—nothing more. It
might save you a good deal of trouble.”
Again the response was so unexpected as to be
disconcerting: “You wouldn't tell a guy what your
name is, would you?”
“Yes, I would. It's Estabrook—Robert Esta-
brook. Here it is.” He produced a much-worn
card-case and drew out a card which he passed
across the table.
The derelict took it up and read slowly, “Rob-
ert Estabrook. Boston Trans—what's that?”
“Transcript. Boston Transcript.”
“What's that mean?”
“That's the name of a paper I used to work
on.”
“Oh—you write stuff for the papers?”
“Sometimes.”
The man grinned as if he had opened the door
into a magic world. He uttered an oath, but he
was still grinning. He was trying to express his
wonder. His eyes, fixed upon vacancy, lighted
strangely. -
The waitress appeared now to serve the third
member of the group, and the newspaper man—
Estabrook, as his card had announced him—de-
tained her with a quiet word. “Another order
45


Whispers
of roast beef,” she repeated automatically; and
again she was gone.
The derelict shaped another thought. “The
papers print a lot of guff—don't they !”
Estabrook was noting the changing aspect of
the dining room. Nearly all the diners were leav-
ing. He supposed that they might be employed
in some sort of plant which operated by night.
And when they were gone a changed atmosphere
made itself felt. The place was now a place of
leisure, of pleasant idling. A group of men seated
at a round table at one end of the room seemed
somehow to take possession of the whole room—
though they had not stirred. They seemed to feel
that antagonistic—or at least that alien—influ-
ences had been withdrawn. They began to chat
more unreservedly, in a more intimate manner.
“Sometimes they do,” replied Estabrook, bring-
ing his eyes back to those of the derelict.
“What I mean is, it's a kind of skin game, like
everything else—running a paper.”
“Everything isn't a skin game,” said Estabrook
quietly. “Publishing a newspaper is sometimes a
big job, a fine job. Almost the finest in the
world.”
The other man shook his head decisively. “Of
course you wouldn't knock your own game,” he
said. “But the papers don't try for anything
so hard as to please the rich and use the poor—
46


A Hand that Trembled
ing up bits of glass and placing them in a heap on
the table cloth.
“It's nothing,” said Estabrook soothingly—
prompted to speak thus by the expression of dis-
may on the youth's face.
The famished man continued to eat as if noth-
ing had happened. The men at the round table
paid no heed to the crash of glass, beyond the
most casual glances. But Beakman, with lowered
brows, was staring at the man he had called
Whispers, and noting an expression as of un-
holy triumph in his eyes.
49


Chapter VII
The Confederate
ADAM JOAN appeared in the doorway
at that instant—like a stellar performer
in a drama for whose entrance a situation of a
certain psychological stress has been created.
Some sort of mechanical musical instrument in the
private rooms above had been set in motion and
the sound of it had served to cover her footfall
on the stairs.
She paused on the threshold an instant to insure
a measure of impressiveness to her entrance, and
then she advanced into the room.
Madam Joan's quality, her studiously affected
pose, was along the line of homely comfort. She
knew her limitations. She was too large for
pretty coquetries—too large and by no means
sufficiently good-looking. She was too robust for
an effect of stateliness. A pensive aloofness on
the one hand, and a comic familiarity on the
other, she had rejected as a business policy of
questionable value. There remained the note of
wholesome comfort, and this she had learned to
strike with unequivocal success.
50


The Confederate
She now paused at Estabrook's table. Her
shrewd eye detected the fact that he was a stran-
ger; it perceived something of his quality. “Mon-
sieur has been properly served?” she inquired.
As she spoke her glance rested in passing upon
the derelict. It touched him like an acid and left
him instantaneously when it became plain that he
was not what Madam would have designated as
gold. It took in the timid youth in a manner so
casual that Estabrook knew that youth must be
in some degree a regular patron of the place.
“Yes, thank you,” he said.
She was not unmindful of the fact that he only
whispered the words. She created subtly an effect
of sympathy without seeming to note his vocal
inadequacy. She frowned delicately at sight of
the broken glass on the table. Then she moved
on to where Beakman sat alone. “Ah, mon-
sieur !” she said, as if her happiness had been
completed by finding him there.
At that moment the timid youth at Estabrook's
table arose and went to the cashier's desk, and
then he left the room, going by way of the stair-
way which ascended to the floors above.
When Estabrook turned his attention to Madam
Joan again she was standing over by the round
table, distributing cheerful remarks among the
half-dozen men who sat there. And finally she
moved over to the cashier's desk with a manner
5 I


The Confederate
“Still it's very nice here. Those gentlemen at
the round table 17
“From the Vidette,” she rather eagerly in-
formed him.
“Ah, newspaper men.”
“Yes. The one who is smiling—he is just light-
ing his cigarette—that is their chief, Monsieur
Campbell. Many newspaper men are to be found
here. The gentleman who sits alone—he seems
to be dreaming—he is of the News: Monsieur
Beakman. There are always a few.”
“And the man who sat at my table—who has
just gone up-stairs—is he a newspaper man also?”
Madam pondered. Her eyes were clouded,
and then they beamed. “Oh, now I understand,”
she said. “He—poor gentleman—is without a
post of any kind, it seems. He has been with me
one month. He leaves to-morrow. He has found
nothing to do. In so large a city—it seems sad.”
He was on the point of asking her if her rooms
were all engaged. Just at that moment he had
decided that there might be a special advantage in
his stopping for a week or so at least at Madam
Joan's. But a waitress with a somewhat worried
air approached before he could speak; and
Madam, after a confidential word or two with
the girl, hurried away to the regions above.
“That can be attended to later,” mused Esta-
brook; and then he turned and leaned against the
cashier's desk in a position which enabled him to
53


Whispers
make a deliberate survey of the group of men
from the Vidette. In a moment he had arrived
at a decision. He sauntered across the room in
a manner so casual as to suggest loitering; yet
already he had fixed his eyes upon Campbell's
face with a certain purposefulness. He paused at
the table where the Widette men sat; and when
Campbell glanced at him inquiringly he said:
“Mr. Campbell, I think?”
“Yes, sir.”
“If my action isn't ill-timed . . . I think per-
haps you'd be interested in learning who it was
that slew old Pheneas Drumm?”
A polite laugh went round the table, led by
Campbell. “I'd be very much interested indeed,”
said the Vidette's city editor.
“I'd like to undertake to locate the man for
you—say within the next forty-eight hours or so."
Campbell's air of amusement was succeeded by
one of frank amazement. He could not help be-
ing impressed by the whispering voice and by
other forces and qualities which for the moment
he could not at all define. “You're a newspaper
man, perhaps?” he asked. And then noting that
Beakman, at his distant table, was watching the
little drama at the Vidette table with curious in-
tensity, he added, “You might call at the Vidette
office to-morrow, if you're applying for a place.”
“Thank you,” said Estabrook. “Good-night.”
He turned away promptly, while the men at the
54


The Confederate
table followed him with their glances, in which
amusement was mingled with serious questioning.
He would have passed Beakman on his way out
without accosting him. But Beakman willed it
otherwise. He arose with an air of sarcastic pat-
ronage. “It seems to me,” he said, “that you
have found Madam Joan's pretty early in the
game, considering that you are in the city to-night
for the first time.” He paused a moment and
then added, as if explaining, “This dining room
here is a sort of headquarters for newspaper
men.” He thought his words shrewdly discon-
certing.
“I’d heard of Madam Joan's in Detroit, where
I ran into a chap who had formerly worked on
the News here,” he replied.
Beakman flushed. Time and again he had
thought to confuse this youth by the unexpected-
ness of his questions—and always he had been
answered fully, yet with perfect simplicity. He
began anew: “You were rather in a hurry to get
away from me to-night,” he said. “If you'd
waited a minute or two I might have thought of
something for you to do.”
“I thank you,” said Estabrook; “but I'm think-
ing of doing a little work for the Widette. I've
been speaking to Mr. Campbell; and it seems
likely that I'll become his—what was the word
you used to-night?—his confederate. Good-
night.”
55.


Whispers
He was destined to be halted once again. The
derelict for whom he had paid for a meal was
just leaving the dining room. As Estabrook
passed the man stood in his way. “This card
you gave me,” he said. “It's a back number
now, no? You don't work for the Boston Tran-
script no more?”
Estabrook took the card from his hand and
considered it. “Yes, it's a back number now,”
he said.
“But if a guy wanted to see you—not to bum
you for nothin', y'understand, but maybe 3 *
The newspaper man paused in indecision for
just an instant; and then he produced a pencil.
He crossed out the name of the Boston Tran-
script and wrote instead The Missouri City Wi-
dette. He handed back the card. “I think that's
going to be my address for a while,” he said.
He felt that he could do no less for this poor
devil. He had used the man. He had bought
food for him so that he might remain longer at
table, watching the timid youth whose hand trem-
bled in a tell-tale manner. It is true that he had
been genuinely moved by the spectacle of a man
staring covetously at dry bread. He had been
glad to lend him a hand. He knew what hunger
was. Still, the man had served his purpose.
He left the dining-room now. Leisurely he
climbed the stairs to Madam Joan's private din-
ing-rooms.
56


Chapter VIII
The Two Journals
EAKMAN also left Madam Joan's public
dining-room a few minutes later. There
was no one there for him to talk to. He had re-
mained longer than was quite agreeable to him
in the hope that some of the News men would
drop in. But they had not done so. In truth,
the men on the News preferred to gather at
Madam Joan's when it was reasonably certain
that the city editor would not be there. There
was scarcely one of them who liked him person-
ally. They all agreed that he was a very superior
city editor, but they could not take kindly to his
manner: to his moments of condescension, to his
untimely assumption of authority, to his heavily
gay spirit of banter. They manifested toward
him a spirit of spurious cordiality when they
ran into him, but if they saw him first they turned
and went away.
He should have liked to ascend the stairs and
mingle with Madam Joan's more romantic guests.
But for once he felt impelled to act otherwise.
The disconcerting youth with the whispering
57 -


Whispers
voice had gone that way; and Beakman rather
preferred not to encounter him again that night.
And so he decided to assume the pose of one who
has looked the world over and has found that
there is nothing in it. He would go home and
to bed.
When he had gone there was a sudden putting
aside of certain restraints among the men at the
Widette table. Campbell, with a soberness almost
amounting to gravity, spoke:
“It would seem like a coincidence, their being
here together: Beakman and that mysterious chap
looking for work.”
One of the reporters, Ellison by name, replied:
“It may be the beginning of one of Beakman's
elephantine strategies.”
“Elephantine?” echoed Bliss, another reporter.
“Yes,” declared Ellison, “elephantine. There's
nothing to Beakman, if that's what you mean.
You can't argue that a man gets anywhere these
days by being a crooked little bully. The News
is an organ. It's got back of it the party that
controls the town. When a News man goes out to
get a story the door opens and what he wants
is brought to him on a silver platter. A Widette
man, on the same mission, finds the door barred.
When he's battered the door down he's got to go
in and search among the secret places for what he
wants. That's the difference.”
Campbell seemed not to be paying heed to this.
58


The Two Journals
He was pondering. “I don't think it was one of
Beakman's strategies,” he said. “I couldn't hear
what the young fellow said to him—what a voice
the poor chap's got, anyway! What could be the
cause of it?”
No one had a reply to this; and after a mo-
ment's silence Bliss said, “I couldn't hear, either;
but it was easy to be seen that Beakman hated the
man.”
Campbell spoke again, more eagerly: “You
noticed that, did you? I thought the same. And
yet he showed a sort of conciliatory manner—”
“Beakman—yes, he did,” said Bliss. “I was
just thinking he must have known the man before.
Though he's never worked in Missouri City—
the whispering chap, I mean—in the past fifteen
years, to my positive knowledge. That is, if he's
really a newspaper man.”
Ellison, lighting a fresh cigarette, asked be-
tween puffs, “But wouldn't you have suspected
him of being some sort of bug, rather than a
newspaper man? Imagine any one of us saying
we'd like to run down this Drumm case within
twenty-four hours!”
There was an exchange of persiflage among the
reporters in the group to which Campbell listened
with good-humor before he said, “I think he's a
newspaper man. I grant there was something a
little extraordinary in the way he appeared here.
But I'm rather hoping he'll be engaged to work
59


The Two Journals
pretense and bombast and assurance seemed to
carry men further on the News than genuine merit
carried other men on the Vidette. A good story
seemed almost to lose virtue when it was printed
in the Vidette; a poor story acquired merits which
were not at all inherent, when it was printed in the
News. The one paper had the crowd with it, the
other had not.
And being for the most part rather young men,
they hated the News for its undeserved success,
and hated the men who owned it, who were greedy
for profits for themselves, and coldly indifferent
to the wellbeing of the men who served them.
It was Ellison who ended the almost clamor-
ous silence and introduced again the quieter ele-
ment of spoken words. Said he: “What they need
is a bunch of good, old-fashioned Nihilists over
on the News: a nice collection of chaps who would
begin by dropping Beakman out of a thirteenth-
story window. He's not a city editor. He's a
czar.”
The other men laughed at the absurdity of this.
And then Campbell said, “You can't put too much
blame on Beakman. He's the right man in the
right place for the owners of the News. The
reason the News is an evil force in the town is—
well, the whole thing is a case of malignant second
generation. The people who own the plant never
had to earn a dollar in their lives. They had only
to grow up and inherit: to inherit control of
61


Whispers
a money-making newspaper. There's not a single
first-class mind among the owners of the News
to-day. But they've all learned to dance when
the powers fiddle. They accept places on com-
mittees, their thumbs are up or down, according
as the thumbs of the powers are up or down.
They're eligible for places on all sorts of boards
of management, when lay figures are needed.
They have enough flesh on their bones to wear
evening clothes well. They have mastered the
game of propriety. But there—the tide will turn.
We're getting out a better newspaper than the
News. Everybody who knows admits it. You
see, we've got to create the Vidette habit among
the people. What I mean is that nine persons out
of ten take a newspaper beause they have become
accustomed to it by one process or another. They
may disagree with it, they may hate it—but
they've had it so long they can't be happy with-
out it. It's like having a scolding wife. Well,
we've got to peg along until we get a sufficient
number of persons to acquire the Vidette habit.
Only, we want to be sure that it's a good habit.
What we have to do is to have patience—and
work like all out of doors. I'm sure of one
thing: that merit tells in the end. If that isn't
true, I want to keep on believing it, anyway. But
it is true.”
He arose with a whimsical light in his eyes.
“In the meanwhile,” he added, “I think a little
62


The Two Journals
sleep will do me more good than knocking my
neighbors. Good-night.”
He went away from Madam Joan's in a mood
which was a little closer to despondency than any
he had experienced for many months. He went
away without knowing that the tide was beginning
to turn in his favor—in favor of the Widette—
that very night. But already, for the moment,
he had forgotten all about the man whose speech
was a soft succession of whispers.


A New Lodger
men, too. And he knew that he had no use for
Beakman or for Beakman's kind. The stage
was properly set for lively competition, for
spirited rivalry—and they were the wine which
made newspaper work fascinating. The almost
endless hours and the inadequate compensation—
as it nearly always was—might be given a second
place in his thoughts because of the stimulant
which the work itself would provide. He needed
to earn money too, of course. He had a special
incentive to earn and save money. But he had
learned from one drifting reporter or another, in
his journeys about the country, that the Vidette
paid better salaries than the News. And so he
felt that fortune had favored him in that he had
taken a liking to Campbell rather than to Beak-
Inan.
He meant to write the story of the Drumm
murder for the Widette. He had no doubt at all
of his ability to discover all the facts. The key
to the crime had already been placed in his hand.
The youth with the trembling hands who had sat
at his table—who had almost collapsed at the
name of Pheneas Drumm—he was the key. Was
he the actual slayer of the old man? It seemed
improbable. But if not, he knew something about
the crime. Almost certainly he knew a good deal
about it. At least he was acquainted with facts,
with circumstances, which would lead to the un-
covering of other facts. His haunted eyes had
65


Whispers
told a tale of guilt, of nothing less, when the men
at the Vidette table had spoken casually of the
crime. It was by no means impossible that the
young fellow was himself the actual slayer. Esta-
brook knew that there is no rule governing deeds
of violence. By their very nature they must trans-
pire without reference to rules. Even the studi-
ously planned crime has back of it those obscuri-
ties in human nature which set most rules at
naught. Thus he concluded that even a timid-
appearing rustic, with a gentle manner and a
mild eye and a pleasing voice, might also be a
member of the great army of Cains. An unwit-
ting or an unpremeditating Cain, perhaps—
though possibly a Cain from choice, capable of a
weird ecstasy at the sight of his own hands drip-
ping with red.
At the top of the stairway he hesitated with
slightly quickened pulse. He seemed really to
have intruded upon the privacy of a considerable
number of persons. And though Estabrook had
trained himself to go blithely enough among all
classes and kinds of men—financiers, prelates,
statesmen, criminals and mobs—he had never
overcome his reluctance to intrude upon men and
women at their meals.
He found himself in a small dining-room
which boasted—not quite convincingly to his mind
—of elegance. The air was heavy with Turkish
tobacco smoke, through which he caught a waver-
66


A New Lodger
ing impression of mirrors and gilded panels and
gaudy hangings. Through two doorways he per-
ceived other similar rooms; and beyond these
there were still others—all presenting to his eye
their tranquilly drifting wreaths of blue and
brown smoke.
Without quite seeming to regard the persons
occupying these rooms, he yet received an instan-
taneous impression of lustful eyes, of hair cyni-
cally untidy, of complexions too candidly brilliant;
of dissipated, ogre-like men, and of women who
had gone stale from running breathlessly down
the streets of the world in their quest for joy.
No one heeded him, save that here and there
a side-long glance, with an affectation of absent-
mindedness, took him in as he passed. He went
through one room after another with an air which
might have seemed to convey a modest apology;
and finally he came upon a sort of office. Also
he came upon Madam Joan.
For the moment she was behind a desk, with
the effect of being enthroned. She wore a
priestess-like air, authoritative yet languid. Es-
tabrook noted now how she was dressed; and it
struck him that she possessed the genius of her
race in being able to wear more than a little finery
without seeming to be pretentiously dressed. It
was as if she wore a gown which had evolved itself
from her own characteristics, rather than a uni-
form of fashion. She smiled brightly, even bril-
67


Whispers
liantly, when he approached her desk. “Ah,
monsieur !” she exclaimed. She seemed to be sim-
ply amiable, though Estabrook knew that she was
appraising him with practised shrewdness.
“I should have spoken to you before, when I
had the chance,” he said, “but you got away from
me. I wanted to ask if you could let me have a
room.”
For an instant she seemed to look at nothing—
as if this room and that were passing before her
in review. Her eyes rested upon his again. “We
might see,” she said. She produced a bunch of
keys and joined him on the outer side of the desk.
“This way,” she added.
She seemed to be inviting him to reveal himself
a little more fully as they ascended yet another
flight of stairs. They came within a region of
restful shadows and a comparative silence—with
a tangle of cheerful echoes for a background.
When she glanced at him with a certain air of
inquiry he said—
“I expect to go to work on the Vidette to-mor-
row—that is, to-day. It's not quite settled, but I
hope it will be. And I should wish to be located
near my work. Besides, you've a very cheerful
place, Madam. I felt quite at home in your public
dining-room. I met the Vidette men after you
had gone. I had a word with Beakman, of the
News, too. The atmosphere seemed entirely con-
genial.”
68


A New Lodger
“Ah!” she said cheerfully, as if she needed no
further explanation. She singled out a key. “I
think I have a room which would suit you very
well. A trifle small, perhaps, but charmingly
quiet.” -
She stopped and unlocked a door. She stepped
inside the door; and in an instant a bright light
flooded the room.
His vague fear of fustian and dust vanished.
He had caught a glimpse of fresh white linen, of
rounded pillows. There was furniture which
struck him as being distinctly a man's furniture.
And neither on walls nor table was there a trace
of that ten-cent-store bric-a-brac which forever
renders a room an alien place to men or women
who must at times be birds of passage.
“Just the thing,” he said emphatically. “I'd
like to have it this week, at least—and perhaps
permanently.”
Madam Joan construed this as a gentlemanly
way of arriving at the question of price. She con-
sidered an instant. She always had rooms to
spare; and it was wise to have a few quite legiti-
mate guests in her house. She named a price, by
the week, which really surprised Estabrook.
“It's mine,” he said emphatically. He flung his
hat upon the nearest chair as if in token that he
had taken possession. He added with a smile,
“My trunk will not be here until I buy one—and
so perhaps I’d better pay in advance.”
69


Chapter X
Cape Comes in
E sat down in one of the two chairs the
room contained and listened to Madam's
retreating footsteps until they could be heard no
In OTC.
Almost unconsciously he had been taking in his
surroundings detail by detail. The room in which
he sat had an atmosphere of remoteness—as if
it were a retreat, or a sort of pocket, rather than
a stopping-place on a highway. That was his first
impression. It might prove a very suitable room
for confidences. It might tend to inspire them.
There was a tall, old-fashioned wardrobe over
against the wall. He noted that it had two com-
partments, an upper and a lower one. The lower
compartment, equipped with doors which were in-
dependent of the compartment above, was meant
to hang clothes in. A very useful cabinet, he de-
cided—for one who had clothes to hang in it.
He smiled grimly as he thought how nearly his
own store of clothing was represented by what
he had on his back. The upper compartment,
some two feet high and with a door of its own,
72


Cape Comes In
was meant to contain hats, perhaps, or undercloth-
ing. It was quite small. -
His room looked out upon an elevator shaft.
That was one of the details he noted. The build-
ing was equipped with elevator service, then.
He had not suspected this when he had climbed
the two stairways which ascended from the side
entrance to the building. He drew the conclusion
that there might be a more or less pretentious
front entrance to Madam Joan's—a fact which he
should have been able to guess without the hint
of that elevator shaft. And he made a note of
the fact that if occasion arose he might descend
to the street without touching Madam's dining
rooms, without seeing or being seen by Madam's
guests—without being seen even by Madam her-
self.
He slowly relaxed more completely in his chair,
as an invitation to slumber. But the need of slum-
ber seemed still far from him. Instead of slumber,
a period of wakeful dreaming came to him. He
pictured the work which lay ahead of him, the
probable aspects of the city in which he had come
to labor. And presently his mind was dwelling
curiously on the character and fate of poor old
Pheneas Drumm. The old man would have taken
his very informal ride to the morgue by this time.
The body was lying in the morgue now, no doubt:
lying in the most absolute of all democratic condi-
tions, in company with the bodies of nameless
73


Whispers
mendicants, and suicides drawn from the river,
and worn-out creatures hauled to their marble
slabs from cheap lodging houses, from vacant lots,
from dark alleys and area-ways. The old dealer
in masks would be keeping company with strange
men to-night, but with all masks and masking he
was done forever.
He shook off the dark mood which was creep-
ing upon him. He thought of the newspapers
which he hoped to become more deeply interested
in—the one as the courier of his own ideas and
craftsmanship, the other as a rival. The hour
for their appearance on the street was approach-
ing; and he wondered which of the two would
tell the neater, completer tale of old Drumm's life
and death. Whether for good or ill it was true
that the greater part of the public always turned
with a certain fascination to a murder tale and
read it through though in adjacent columns there
might be told the tale of kingdoms falling.
He pictured how the grisly chronicle would
read. First there would be the naked announce-
ment of the fact, falling like a bolt. Then would
follow the details as to time and place and a kind
of pen-portrait of the victim. Something would
be said of his place in the community; and then,
more than likely, there would be a little room
given to theories—to the theories advanced by the
police. These would be tediously stereotyped.
“It was not known that he had any enemies"—
74


Cape Comes In
that was one of the sentences one might be sure
to look for.
Estabrook forsook his picture of the morning
newspapers for one which took its place in his
mind with greater authenticity—the picture of the
slayer. There lay the fact which alone possessed
significance now—that the slayer was still un-
known and at large. He had no doubt that the
world's fiercest unrest must rage in the conscience
of a man who has done an irrevocable, evil deed,
who has placed upon himself the brand of Cain
to wear until doomsday, who has placed a bar-
rier between himself and all contented men until
the end of time.
This thought had taken shape in his mind with
amazing clarity when something caused him to
start alertly. He had heard a faltering footstep
somewhere on the carpeted corridor outside his
room.
As if he had guessed whom the stealthy passer-
by might be he banished from his face the somber
expression which he knew must repose there. He
donned an almost languid air: an air suggesting
the hope that a visitor might call. He was glad
he had not closed his door.
A young man passed within his range of vision;
but before he passed he faltered almost imper-
ceptibly, and then he went on. And then he re-
turned and stood looking apologetically and
rather appealingly into the cheerful room.
75


Cape Comes In
Estabrook, he gave up the attempt. He seemed
on the point of rising and going away.
But Estabrook had no intention of parting com-
pany with him so soon. He began to speak in a
slowly reassuring manner. “Well, it's different
with me,” he said. “I've just about decided to
stay awhile—though I arrived only a few hours
ago. I'm thinking of going to work. After all,
one town is pretty much like another. It depends
mostly on yourself, you know.” He produced a
pack of cigarettes and lighted one with a lightly
luxurious air. He passed the package to Cape.
“Smoke?” he asked; and he perceived that the
other man's fingers fumbled as they drew a ciga-
rette from the pack.
“I know it depends upon yourself,” agreed
Cape, “but that means you must know how to do
something. You've got to be able to fit into a place
somewhere.” He spoke falteringly, yet with a
faintly dawning interest.
“Still, there's another way,” declared Esta-
brook. “That's to make a place to suit yourself.
After all, you'll never get very far by just fitting
into places made by others.” He gazed at the
smoke curling from his cigarette and a whimsical
smile lighted his face. “Do you know,” he re-
sumed, “one of my favorite dreams, when I'm in
an idle mood, has to do with an entirely new kind
of profession I'd like to invent—and I believe
there'd be a fortune in it.”
77.


Whispers
The other's interest was betrayed by a slight
deepening of the color in his face, by a faint beam
in his eyes.
“What should you think,” resumed Estabrook,
“of a shingle—like a doctor's or a lawyer's—bear-
ing the words: ‘Public Adviser'?”
“Why—what would it mean?”
“The meaning would be simple. You know there
are medical advisers and legal advisers and spirit-
ual advisers. Those fields are pretty full, and be-
sides, they leave another field unoccupied. But
you know everybody has occasional problems
which are not legal or spiritual or physiological.
You take the average man or woman—though
perhaps you're not interested?”
“Yes—yes, I am.”
“Very well. The average run of men or women
may have good judgment most of the time about
other people's affairs. But when they've got a
problem of their own to solve they experience a
strange mistrust of themselves. They have an
idea that for the time being they're perhaps not
seeing straight. They want to ask somebody's
advice. It seems natural. Everything begins to
seem obscure to them. You know what I mean?
They lose the sense of relative values. They seem
to get off their own base entirely. Well, then.
What they need in such a situation is some un-
ruffled person—some disinterested person, let us
say—to see things for them—to point out the
78


Cape Comes In
simplest path for them to take. I'm not sure I'm
making it plain, but haven't you been in a predica-
ment before now when your faculties seemed to
desert you and you felt all at sea?”
“It's perfectly plain,” said Cape. He seemed
afraid to lift his eyes for the moment lest they be-
tray how deeply interested he was in the other
man's suggestion.
“And so I would create the office of Public
Adviser. Think how interesting it would be—
and how helpful, too. Suppose we imagine a case.
For the sake of illustration we will suppose that
I am a Public Adviser. An old lady knocks at
my door. She hopes that perhaps I may be able
to help her. She tells me her story the best she
knows how—though you understand I must read
between the lines a good bit. It seems that her
husband is dead and her children are all married.
She is living alone. Her married daughter—Abi-
gail, the younger one—wants her to give up her
home and come to live with her. She doesn't
know what to do. The daughter draws very allur-
ing pictures. The mother shall have the best of
everything if she will only give up her home. She
is getting old and she ought not to live alone any
longer. That's the way Abigail puts it. Now
what's the other side? I obtain this by asking
a few questions, and just by listening and encour-
aging the old lady to talk. It seems the married
daughter—I'm still speaking of Abigail, under-
79


Whispers
stand—has a child who's pretty badly spoiled. A
little girl who slams doors and cries when she can't
have her own way, and generally refuses to mind.
And the husband—well, there's nothing really
wrong with Arthur, though he is quite extrava-
gant and doesn't provide Abigail with sufficient
funds to run the house just as it should be run.
Not really vicious, but a bit improvident. On
the whole the home atmosphere is not quite har-
monious. The old lady is a little afraid (she
only whispers this) that perhaps Abigail and Ar-
thur expect to ask her for a little money now and
then, if she goes to live with them. The problem
is: What shall the old lady do?”
Cape was staring at the newspaper man almost
incredulously. It had seemed to him a species of
wizardry, the verisimilitude of it all despite the
readiness of invention. He asked, “What did she
do?”
Estabrook smiled delightedly. “You mean to
ask, What does she do? Well, if she accepts my
advice she remains right where she is. You must
look down into the depths of human nature.
Here's the situation: She's lived in her own home
forty—fifty—years. She's had all her pleasures
and griefs there. She's part of it and it's part of
her. Suppose she gives it up. She burns her
bridges behind her. She gives the “sofy'—you
must pardon her for calling it the 'sofy'—away to
the faithful old soul who's been coming in all
8O


Cape Comes In
these years to help with the cleaning. She dis-
tributes the chairs among the neighbors, even giv-
ing one to Mrs. Carpenter, who was never known
to give so much as a pleasant look to anybody. ...
But there, she goes to live with daughter Abigail.
There's a joyous hubbub at first. Grandmother
has come to live at our house ! But ah, what is
this we see in a few days? Little Clarice mustn't
slam the door because it makes Grandma jump.
So—little Clarice becomes enemy No. 1. She de-
vises a phrase, to wit, Old Thing. A day or so
later Grandmother ventures to expostulate with
Arthur because he has invested in six silk shirts,
forgetting that this was the week the landlord
came. Arthur restricts himself to a single word:
Indeed!—but he becomes enemy No. 2. And as
for Abigail—well, Abigail has found that if she
remains downtown shopping a little late, Grand-
mother will have dinner ready. It's great! And
the same thing happens—dinner on the table—if
she is tempted to drop in for the matinée. And
Grandmother? You have guessed it. Grand-
mother gets to dreaming about the old nook in the
baywindow, where the geranium was, and the
tidies; and she remembers the old long silences
which used to seem like a cross, and she wishes
—ohl how she wishes!—that she might know
them again. She becomes depressed. She isn't ill
—oh, no; she just isn't feeling well. And then she
catches cold, and somehow she hasn't the power to
81


Whispers
resist she used to have; and—well, let's not put
the old lady—really a good old lady, you know—
under the daisies. But you see what I'm getting
at.”
Cape was smiling a little dreamily. “You’re a
queer chap!” he ventured.
Estabrook changed his position. “But now
let's get back to the Public Adviser—to me, you
know. When Grandmother comes to me before
she has taken the fatal step I draw the picture for
her somewhat as I've drawn it for you. Result:
When daughter Abigail comes to hear her decision
the old lady declares that it's lovely of Abigail
and Arthur to want her, and that she should love
to be close to little Clarice all the time, but that
—well, she just couldn't bring herself to make the
change. And now what picture does the future
show? Once or twice a year mother has daugh-
ter and son-in-law home for a big dinner. She
bakes a little cake for Clarice, and Clarice thinks
she is a brick. Daughter and Arthur realize that
the old lady will have a tidy sum to leave some
day, and besides, they are truly fond of her, so
long as they don't see too much of her. And so
they try to be more thoughtful of her happiness
than Sister Elinor—that's the elder sister. All
very fine for mother. And she doesn't become
depressed, but lives to a ripe old age. Rather
sketchily done, but it will serve. What do you
think of it?”
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Cape Comes In
Cape only shook his head incredulously.
“You just don't see the possibilities,” declared
Estabrook. “The entire human race imagines it-
self in trouble half the time. There would be a
thousand difficulties for a Public Adviser to
straighten out—just by keeping his head when
others had lost theirs. Just by exercising plain
common sense. If a Public Adviser became more
celebrated than the other Public Advisers in his
town he'd have his hands filled with work all the
time. Boys would come to him to learn whether
they ought to learn to play the violin or take up
brick-laying. How easy to supply the answer in
that case ! Girls would want to know whether
nature meant them to be artists or wives. Could
any right-minded individual fail to know precisely
what to say? Men would come to know whether
they should buy town-site lots in Florida. Would
you know how to answer them? You know you
would l And finally”—here he paused impres-
sively—“men and women would seek the Public
Adviser to confide in him their secret deeds, per-
haps their evil deeds. There his great opportuni-
ties would lie! There would be his chance for
something like mind-reading.”
The other took him up sharply, almost resent-
fully: “I don't believe in mind-reading,” he de-
clared.
“Oh, then you've never studied the subject!” ex-
claimed Estabrook with assurance. “I don't mean
83


Whispers
that you can read everything that's in a mind,
word for word. But you can read enough to give
you a clue. Let me prove it to you. You sat
at the table with me at supper to-night. And you
were deeply interested in a group of men who had
been speaking about—what was it they men-
tioned? Oh, yes! They were saying something
about the death of old Pheneas Drumm. Of
course I couldn't say just what was in your mind.
But I could tell that you were interested deeply
in what they said.”
“That would be reading the features,” said
Cape. “My face would have told you I was in-
terested in what they said. I was simply wonder-
ing how they could get hold of information of
that sort so soon.”
“But reading the features and reading the mind
are pretty much the same thing,” declared Esta-
brook evenly. “Putting aside our argument for a
moment, and answering your question—I suppose
those chaps might have known members of the
man Drumm's family. Or why shouldn't they
have learned of his death from the police?”
“Oh—perhaps they did!” murmured Cape.
But Estabrook, leaning languidly forward to
deposit the ashes from his cigarette on a tray, did
not resume his upright posture for an instant.
For the fraction of a second a keen light burned
in his eyes. His visitor knew at what hour old
Drumm had met his death.
84


Chapter XI
Estabrook Wonders
DISTANT time-piece—the clock on the
municipal building—struck the hour of
two, and Cape arose almost guiltily. “I'm keep-
ing you up,” he said. “I'm afraid I'd forgotten
myself.”
“You needn't apologize,” said Estabrook cor-
dially. “I’m used to late hours. After all, it's a
relative term—late hours. I shall not be going to
work until after noon, and I’m used to sitting
around at this hour, talking—when I can find a
congenial victim.”
Cape had moved toward the door; but it was
evident that he still wished to say something, and
after sorting over the words at his command, or
the forms of speech, he ventured upon this:
“Just the same, you haven't touched upon the
one difficult question—getting back to your Pub-
lic Adviser idea. There's one flaw in your plan,
and that's a fatal one.”
“I wonder what?” asked Estabrook.
“How would people know it would be safe to
confide in you? What would prevent your be-
85


Whispers
traying them—or at least, why shouldn't they fear
you might? You spoke of of evil deeds. You'd
be a stranger to most people. You don't suppose
they'd place themselves in your hands, do you?”
The reply came briskly, cheerfully: “Oh–
didn't I explain that? Why, you see, that would
be my stock in trade. My reliability, I mean. If
people didn't trust me I'd be a failure, of course.
I'd have to establish a reputation for discretion.
I'd get the public to believing that they would be
as safe in my office as they'd be in the confessional.
They would be. I'd never breathe a word of
what I was told. I'd not have to, you know.
The authorities couldn't prove that I knew any-
thing: I mean, if I became adviser in a really seri-
ous case. My business would be secret, absolutely
confidential. I should have made that plain to
you in the beginning. I supposed you'd take that
for granted.”
And still Cape lingered. His gaze rested on
the floor, his hand sought the door-casing. Again
he seemed to be sorting over the words at his com-
mand—but this time he was delving deeper and
his search involved a struggle. His color came
and went. And at last he inquired in a shame-
faced manner—
“And do you really believe you could give a
fellow good advice—that you could actually point
out the best thing for him to do—if he—if he'd
gotten his affairs in a-a hopeless tangle?” He
i 86


Estabrook Wonders
lifted his eyes as if they were great weights and
by a supreme effort held them upon Estabrook's.
The newspaper man leaned forward, intensely,
serious at last. “I’m sure I could !” he declared.
He had meant to speak on a lower, a more in-
tense, key; but the result was only a hoarser whis-
per—a whisper which transformed the moment
into an almost dramatic one. For an instant his
caller seemed almost hypnotized; and then with
an effort he regained self-control. “Well, good-
night,” he said. He was pondering darkly as
he turned away.
Estabrook went to the door to bid him good-
night. “And—you'll excuse me, won't you?—but
don't permit yourself to believe you're beaten.
Never do that! Say to yourself, every time you
go to bed, ‘To-morrow will be a new day. To-
morrow my life shall begin at a new beginning.’
And drop in to see me again—do! Perhaps I’ve
talked a lot of nonsense to-night, but this isn't
nonsense—it's true: If I can help you in any way
I'm here to do it. A fellow always can help a
little—any fellow, I mean—if he wants to. Good-
night.”
He stepped back into his room and closed the
door at last. There was slight likelihood of his
seeing anyone else that night. It was getting late,
even from the standpoint of Madam Joan's pa-
trons. The elevator had moved but infrequently
during the past half-hour or so. The murmur of
87


Whispers
voices throughout the house had subsided to a
faint hum, and now it had died away entirely.
He stood in the middle of the floor for a mo-
ment, his hands thrust deep into his pockets, his
eyes gazing into vacancy. He was wondering
what actual headway he had made with Cape—
and he was wrestling also with a feeling which was
beginning to possess him more and more strongly,
yet which he had in no wise invited. It was the
feeling that Cape was guiltless of the death of old
Drumm. No matter how often he assured him-
self that the brand of Cain is infinite in its variety,
that there are no definite rules by which it may be
identified, he came back again and again to the
feeling that Cape could not have done the deed.
There was something about the youth—a kind of
delicacy of manner, a shyness, an apologetic ap-
peal for friendship in his glance—which placed
him outside the realm of suspicion. It was only
logic which testified against him. His manner and
appearance, his voice—everything—proclaimed
him innocent.
Estabrook's first aim had been to impress the
youth favorably—to win his liking if he could.
His second aim had been to suggest to him that
he, Estabrook, would be an ideal person in whom
to confide. And now he concluded that he had
made but poor use of the hour which had been
given him. For Cape—and here was the point
which impressed him most deeply—Cape was
88


Estabrook Wonders
clearly not the sort of person one might take pos-
session of by the affability and companionship of
an hour. There were hidden depths in his nature.
More plainly speaking, he possessed character.
He might yield, inch by inch, to the demands of
a friendly advance, but he would not lay bare his
heart and soul at any and every invitation.
As he took his watch out and wound it he was
still pondering. He had proposed to Campbell
that he be permitted to turn in the complete story
of the Drumm slaying within forty-eight hours.
At the moment it had seemed to him a simple
enough undertaking. Yet now he felt an un-
wonted dissatisfaction with himself, because of his
rashness, his seeming boastfulness. He wished
earnestly enough to go to work on the Vidette.
He had sounded himself within the past hour,
and he knew that he was in the right mood and
the right place for the work which he liked above
all other work to do. Yet there were obscure
difficulties in his way.
Those difficulties were perhaps less obscure a
few minutes later, when he lay in his bed in the
dark. Almost automatically a phrase was running
through his mind with the monotony of a coach's
wheels along a track:
“A boy like that capable of murder? A boy
like that capable of murder?” . . .
89


Chapter XII
In the Place of Masks
E had scarcely closed his eyes—at least that
was his impression—when he was awak-
ened by the cries of newsboys down in the streets.
A great flood of sunlight filled his room. He
looked at his watch, which he had placed under
his pillow. It was nearly ten o'clock.
He sprang from his bed with the eagerness of
a little boy—life seemed to him so wonderful a
thing, the world so full of delightful and unex-
plored places. He had said to Cape last night,
“Say to yourself, every time you go to bed, ‘To-
morrow will be a new day. To-morrow my life
shall begin at a new beginning.’” He had not
spoken the words idly. They were a part of his
own creed. And now he made haste to be ready
for whatever the new day might bring him.
Locating the bathroom and solving the minor
problems of its equipment; completing his toilet
with no aids save that of a toothbrush (and re-
minding himself that he must provide a brush and
comb and other things during the day)—these
were experiences through which he had passed
90


In the Place of Masks
many a time before; yet they retained a certain
novelty and he enjoyed them. He whistled al-
most unremittingly as he moved to and fro, stop-
ping only once to wonder if there might be other
guests in the adjacent rooms who were yet asleep.
He was still whistling when he emerged from
his room and made his way down two flights of
stairs to the public dining room. He encountered
no one, but the voids through which he passed
were not dreary to him. An enchanted wood
would scarcely have delighted him more. The
halls and stairways seemed to him rather delight-
fully haunted.
Morning nearly always brought to him bound-
less energy and perfect definiteness of purpose.
This morning was no exception to the rule. He
was going to work for the Vidette in two or three
hours, he assured himself. He was going to write
the full story of the Drumm murder, perhaps the
next day. And now he had no divided point of
view, no conflicting sympathies. It occurred to
him that he had gone to bed last night with a
weakening sense of pity for young Cape—a mud-
dlingly philosophic tendency to question, or even
to excuse.
Now he knew perfectly well that as a reporter
he was concerned with nothing whatever but pri-
mary facts. He must find out how a certain thing
happened. He must turn in his facts with a com-
pletely impersonal and detached attitude toward
9I


Whispers
them. It was for those in authority over him to
decide whether all the facts, or only a part of
them, or none at all, should be printed. And it
was for the courts to decide all questions touching
judgment and punishment. As for the man Cape,
if it proved that he was in fact the slayer of
Pheneas Drumm, he was neither his betrayer nor
his judge. He was simply a reporter. If it
chanced that he had taken a liking to the man
personally, he might seek to aid him in any way
within his power—but only after he had written
the whole truth about him, so far as he could as-
certain the whole truth, and turned it in to his
city editor. -
He found the dining room empty save for one
waitress who yawned when he asked for eggs and
bacon. Then he seized upon copies of the Widette
and the News which he found on different tables,
and sat down, his whole being eagerly alert.
The Drumm murder story had a first-page posi-
tion in both papers. He read the Widette's story
first. It set forth the known facts, and to these
there was added something more than a hint
touching the eccentricities of the victim: his re-
puted wealth, the isolation of his life. A police
officer had found him in his shop, dead, at about
11 o'clock. It was evident that he had been slain,
perhaps an hour earlier. So far as the police
could determine he had not been robbed. A gold
watch of foreign workmanship, probably cher-
92


In the Place of Masks
ished as a souvenir as well as a time-piece, had
not been taken, and a wallet containing a consider-
able amount of money was found in the inside
pocket of the woolen shop-jacket he wore. The
police had instituted a search, the newspaper said,
for relatives of the dead man, though so far as
was known he had never referred to any relative
and had never been visited by any.
That was all.
The account published in the News was entirely
different in manner, though not different essen-
tially in matter.' It began with an attack on the
police department—by inference at least—and
pointed out the indications of another crime wave.
It was a story in somewhat boisterous terms, sen-
sational and silly, with a certain editorial quality
mingling with the statement of facts. It hinted
that no one need expect the police department to
solve this latest mystery in the criminal annals of
the town, since too many similar crimes had been
committed of late, and in not a single instance
had the perpetrators been brought to justice. It
was suggested, however, that the department
justify its existence by placing its hands on the
murderer. And finally it hinted that a shake-up
in the force might restore public confidence, in a
measure, in the efficacy of the law.
He was glad to put aside the papers when the
waitress came in with his breakfast. She placed
his bacon and eggs and coffee before him with au-
93


In the Place of Masks
was inviting a thousand impressions, making him-
self at home. The sunlight of the early May fore-
noon was glorious, even in a city which used soft,
coal almost exclusively in making its wheels re-
volve. He glanced into the complex tangle of
faces which passed him with the almost expectant
expression of one who says, “These are my
fellows.”
He seemed to move aimlessly; yet when he
glanced up to read the name of the thoroughfare
presently, and read the enameled letters, Fourth
street, he realized that he had been subconsciously
seeking this street since the moment he had
emerged from Madam Joan's. He stood for an
instant taking in the street. It was very far from
being deserted now. An endless line of stake-
wagons rumbled in either direction. There was
a brisk procession of pedestrians on the sidewalk.
There was also that indefinable city odor which
was to him as the scent of heather is to a High-
lander: a subtle olfactory murmur of great indus-
tries far and near.
He could scarcely have said that he was seek-
ing the shop of the late Pheneas Drumm; yet
when he stood presently before a locked door,
with a man in the uniform of the city police dis-
creetly keeping watch over it nearby, he knew that
he had arrived at a destination which he had more
or less definitely sought.
He lighted a cigarette and appraised the police
95


Whispers
officer through the first puffs of smoke. It was
wholly by chance, he decided, that the man in uni-
form seemed to be a creature of more than a lit-
tle character and intelligence. Estabrook had
had many sad experiences with police officers,
whose ranks seemed to him to number, every-
where, far too large a proportion of low-minded
hangers-on—men without a trace of civic decency
or morality or pride, brutish fellows with only
cunning enough to serve their superiors, or to de-
ceive them.
But this man seemed to be an exception—and
after all, there were always a good many excep-
tions—and Estabrook approached him casually,
yet not without candor in his bearing. He noted
that the officer was bestowing cynically indifferent
glances upon an occasional morbid individual who
lingered in passing before Drumm's shop and
looked into the place where Death had walked
only a little while before.
“Officer,” he asked, “is there anything in the
theory that a murderer can't help coming back,
sooner or later, to view the scene of his crime?”
He stood rather close to the man in uniform, so
that his voice might be heard.
The officer had inclined his ear. The expres-
sion on his face was good-natured. Now he
laughed pleasantly. “It wouldn't help much if
he did,” he declared, “because he'd be only one of
a crowd as likely as not.”
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In the Place of Masks
Estabrook was further reassured by the man's
voice. “I'd like to look the shop over, if I
might,” he said. “I'm a reporter. I expect to
follow up the Drumm story for the Vidette.”
The officer gave him a second glance; and then
—“We'd better go around by the back way,” he
said. “The whole street would soon be pouring
into the shop if we went in the front way.”
He searched in his pocket for a key, and Esta-
brook caught step with him. They went around
into the alley and a moment later the officer was
unlocking a low door. He pushed the door open
and indicated by a gesture that the newspaper
man was to precede him into the shop.
Before he realized it Estabrook was standing
in the room where the murder had occurred: was
standing in close proximity to cases filled with
mocking masks and festive costumes. Through
the grimy front windows the traffic of the street
could be seen moving almost noiselessly, with a
kind of phantom-like lifelessness.
He turned to the officer, who was regarding
him with the curious and respectful air of a man
who is intelligent enough to read a newspaper,
but who is not intelligent enough to know how
little authority the printed words in a newspaper
may sometimes carry. And Estabrook realized
that the room meant to this guardian of the peace
only a place containing a few pieces of furniture
and a somewhat absurd stock, though to himself
t
97


In the Place of Masks
He left the mailed knight as if the officer had
said the last word relative to the shining figure.
He paused for an examination of the table in the
center of the room, under the suspended lamp
with the green shade. There were two small
drawers beneath the worn wooden top. They
would have been invisible to one who did not
search for them—in a measure secret drawers,
though not really concealed, in the sense in which
an officer or a house-breaker would have under-
stood that word.
“They were empty,” said the officer, perceiv-
ing that Estabrook had located the drawers.
“And one of them was open.”
The newspaper man opened one of them. It
was a foot in width and perhaps twice that in
depth. “What could it have been used for?” he
asked.
“Perhaps to keep change in—or it may be rec-
ords of some sort.”
“Or a weapon?” suggested Estabrook. He
peered more closely. A fine sifting of dark dust
covered the bottom of the drawer.
“It was the other drawer that was found open,”
said the officer. *
Estabrook opened the other drawer. The same
impalpable coating was to be found on the bottom
of this drawer also; but here there was a dif-
ference. The dust did not lie uniformly. A cer-
tain irregular area had been protected. Until a
, 9 16095
99


Whispers
few days ago—perhaps only a few hours ago—
an object had been lying here on the bottom of
the drawer, so that the insidiously falling veil of
the city's smoke could not reach the wood. And
the outlines were unmistakable. They were those
of a short-barreled revolver.
Estabrook closed the drawer slowly. He
straightened up. “There was a chair near the
table where the old man was found dead?", he
asked.
“It was overturned 3 *
“And it lay here?” Estabrook pointed.
“Yes. And the body was lying there. It lay
with the back toward the table and the overturned
chair.” The officer seemed to collect himself.
“But how did you know there was a chair near
the table?” he asked.
“I merely inquired. And no weapon was
found in the room?”
“I think not—no, I'm sure of it.”
Estabrook pondered. The dead shop-keeper
had been sitting near the drawer in which a
weapon lay. He had sprung from his chair—
alarmed by the sound of intrusion, no doubt—
and he had taken his weapon from the drawer.
But clearly he had not had time to use it. So
much seemed well within the range of probabil-
ity. But what had become of the weapon?
He had no time to consider further when there
was an interruption. The door by which he and
IOO


In the Place of Masks
the officer had entered the shop—and which the
officer had closed behind him—was opened with-
out warning or apology and a man in civilian cloth-
ing entered the shop with an air of pushing him-
self forward. And in a voice which seemed, in
that quiet place, offensively strident, he asked,
“Locking the stable door, now that the steed's
gone?”
The officer's only reply was a word of explana-
tion to Estabrook. “A News man,” he said.
The man from the News began a rather pom-
pous examination of the place. He disappeared
almost immediately behind a group of cabinets,
and the officer took advantage of his momentary
absence to make a wry face at Estabrook—which
was explained by a contemptuous jerk of his head
toward the other reporter.
But Estabrook's examination had been com-
pleted. He stood inactive, waiting for the offi-
cer, who in turn was waiting for the News man.
He glanced casually at the fantastic articles about
him: the costumes of gay colors, the grotesque
masks. But the thought in his mind was—“My
friend Cape either has in his possession a pistol
which he has acquired within the past twenty-four
hours, or he has thrown it away. And in some
degree at least he was acting in self-defense when
he provided the old costumer with a new and per-
manent address.”
Still he was waiting for the officer to leave the
IOI


Whispers
shop and lock the door when he heard a cry of
triumph from the invisible News man. He and
the officer both moved around behind the row of
cabinets.
The News man was standing before them with
an air of exaggerated importance. “They are all
locked,” he said, “but one—and that one is
empty.” He flung a door open wide.
“It is certainly empty,” assented Estabrook.
“And suppose it is?” inquired the officer.
“Nothing—except that it might afford a very
satisfactory hiding-place for any man who had de-
signs on old Drumm's life.”
The suggestion seemed of slight interest to Es-
tabrook; and after concluding that the man from
the News might intend to remain in the shop for
a considerable time, he moved toward the door.
He turned long enough to say, “Much obliged,
Officer,” and then he was gone.
IO2


Chapter XIII
A Talk with Campbell
* A. he had left the shop of the late Phe-
neas Drumm he spent the greater part of
an hour in a sort of curiosity shop, which he en-
tered quite idly, but in which he remained because
the proprietor, with much time on his hands, had
many things to say to him which he was glad to
hear: gossipy details about leading personages of
the city. The proprietor talked skilfully and
without petty malice; and Estabrook knew very
well that a newspaper man cannot know too much
about the relative standing, the faults and foibles
and fortes of the men and women whom, in a
manner, he must learn how to serve.
And while the proprietor talked, needing only
the encouragement of an occasional pointed ques-
tion, Estabrook gazed more or less musingly at
the stock in the shop. He remembered afterward
that among the articles prominently displayed
were a number of phonographs of an obsolete
pattern—ancient machines with waxen cylinders.
But why he should have noted these, or why he
should have remembered them afterward, he
could not have told.
IO3


Whispers
As a matter of fact, he was giving only half his
attention to the shop or to its proprietor or to
what the latter was saying. His main interests
were centered upon two points: the manner in
which he might succeed in tracing the murder of
old Drumm to his shy acquaintance at Madam
Joan's, and his coming interview with Campbell
of the Widette.
It occurred to him that he had not outlined
anything resembling a definite plan of action in
relation to Cape; and also that it was by no means
certain that Campbell would decide to employ
him. But he soon set his mind at rest by assur-
ing himself that he should be able to persuade
Campbell to give him a trial, and that he should
then have a real incentive to begin a systematic
examination of Cape and his affairs.
He regretted that he had not thought of some
means of persuading Cape not to leave town, as,
it seemed, he was planning to do almost immedi-
ately. If it were possible, he must attend to that
at dinner time. As yet it had not occurred to him
that he need go beyond Cape himself to obtain
proof of Cape's guilt. He need only win the
young fellow's confidence. He realized quite
fully that the hypothesis upon which he had based
a conclusion would seem entirely absurd to most
persons. Cape had seemed horrified when he had
heard men who were strangers to him speak
lightly of Drumm's death. He had seemed hor-
- IO4


A Talk with Campbell
rified, and profoundly shaken. And later he had
betrayed the fact that he knew at about what
hour the old man had died, though at that moment
none but the police and a few newspaper men
knew of the old man's murder.
Nevertheless, it would have seemed absurd to
most persons that in a city of half a million men
and women, chance should have brought together
the one man who had committed the crime, and
the other man who aspired to solve the mystery
of the crime before any others should be able to
do so.
“It's only impressions I've got so far,” mused
Estabrook. “At least, it's mostly impressions.
I've still got to get at the facts. But if all the
facts are placed in my hands—and inside of a
day or so, too—it won't be the most remarkable
thing that's ever happened to me by any means.”
He came upon a jeweler's clock, posted at a
corner, and saw that the hour lacked but a few
minutes to one o'clock. Whereupon he asked a
passer-by where the Widette building was to be
found; and in another moment he was hurrying
to keep his appointment with Campbell.
He felt, the instant he had entered the Widette's
local room, that he had found a place where he
should be able to work with a will. The evidences
of miserliness which he had noted over at the
News office were absent here; and he sensed at
once a spirit of cordiality and simplicity which
IOS


A Talk with Campbell
ing at first, it was gone now. There was a cer-
tain veiled intensity in Estabrook's manner which
the Vidette man could not help being impressed
by. “It means a good deal to me,” he said.
“Still,” added Estabrook with a faint, apolo-
getic flush, “a newspaper mustn't be too proud to
be successful, you'll admit—I mean successful in
a financial way.”
Campbell's glance shifted to a paper weight on
his desk. He rested his hand on the weight, turn-
ing it slowly round and round. “Not too proud
to be financially successful by right methods,” he
amended.
“Yes, that—certainly.”
“You're right, of course. That's what every
newspaper should strive for.”
“And yet,” said Estabrook, “in that sense, the
Widette isn't a success.”
The words were uttered in a manner which was
unmistakably delicate and reticent; yet they caused
Campbell to frown slightly and to regard his vis-
itor with a certain resentment. -
Estabrook hastened to add, “Relatively, I
mean. You know facts get about among news-
paper men. It's generally understood among the
profession that the News here has to have adding
machines to count its money, while the Vidette—
doesn't need adding machines. What I mean is,
you haven't got the crowd with you.”
107


Whispers
“The crowd?” echoed Campbell with a hint of
disdain.
Estabrook's whispered words acquired a new
intensity. “No man or organization is success-
ful unless he or it can win the crowd. That's
the thing that decides in a democratic country—
the crowd. What we've got to believe is not that
the crowd is contemptible, but that in the end its
judgment is sound.”
Campbell's tone was wholly tentative when he
asked, “And what's your idea of the right way of
attracting the crowd?”
The caller's eyes became brilliant with audacity
as he replied, “The right way for the Vidette to
attract the crowd is to publish good stuff that the
News doesn't get—stuff that will interest even
‘butchers and barbers and men named Muller,'
as the German saying has it. Exclusive stories.
Genuine human interest stories. I'd have one
every day. At least two or three a week. I'd
have the crowd talking on street-cars and on the
streets—everywhere—about something they saw
in the Vidette. That's all.”
“Perfectly, simple—yet extremely difficult, I
fear.”
“Not so very. I got on the trail of two stories
last night that would set the town to buzzing, if
they were printed.” -
Campbell stirred impatiently in his chair. It
seemed to him that his visitor had thundered in
Io8


A Talk with Campbell
the index long enough. “Would you mind telling
me what one of them is?” he asked.
“I want to tell you both of them. I walked
down ten flights of stairs in the News building
last night. I wanted to have a look at the build-
ing. All the offices were deserted. I didn't en-
counter a soul in hall or on stairway. There
were just a few lights burning up and down the
elevator shaft. The tenants of the building had
gone home. On the fourth floor Iran into story
No. 1. The-the plot, let me say, was outlined
in attractive letters on a ground-glass door: The
Pensett County, Arkansas, Drainage Syndicate.
There were some other words painted in smaller
letters. It's a stock concern. It offers for sale
certain Arkansas lands which are to make poor
purchasers rich when they are drained. The
lands, I mean.”
“Well?” inquired Campbell.
“An attractive scheme on the face of it. There
are several hundreds of thousands of acres of the
richest land in the world in Pensett county, Ar-
kansas. Richer than the Nile valley in its palmi-
est day. But. Pensett county, Arkansas, was sur-
veyed years ago by government experts. And
they found that it lies many feet lower than its
one logical drainage outlet, the Mississippi river
and its tributaries. And it lies over a hundred
miles from the river. Any system of drainage
worth putting in would involve the construction
Io9


Whispers
of immense elevated aqueducts and pumping sta-
tions costing millions. The experts reported that
it would cost something over a thousand dollars
per acre to drain the land. What I'm getting at
is this: The Pensett County, Ark., Drainage Syn-
dicate is a shameless fraud, working within the
law. The fellows back of it will sell a good
many thousands of dollars’ worth of stock in their
company to persons who will never get a cent
from their investment. And when the syndicate
has got its pockets stuffed it will disappear, leav-
ing only a handsomely lettered ground-glass
door.”
“And yet,” said Campbell, “we couldn't very
well say that the company is engaged in a fraudu-
lent enterprise.”
“Right enough. But you could ascertain to
your own satisfaction that the thing is a fraud.
Get your correspondents down in the vicinity of
Pensett county—if they are not all in bed with
malaria—to look up the local records and supply
you with the decision of the government survey-
ors. Then your story would assume this form:
a description of the persons who are visiting the
rooms of the concern in the News building. A
picture of the lively scenes in the corridors. And
a statement showing that the concern's land—
if they've really gotten an option on any land—
will cost $1000 per acre to drain, according to
the records of the government. You needn't
I IO


A Talk with Campbell
state in your story that the prospective victims
are probably expecting—have probably been led
to expect—that the land will cost them only a few
dollars per acre, after it's been drained. The
conclusions you'd leave for the public to see for
itself, though you wouldn't leave any room for
your readers to remain in the dark, unless they
preferred to do so.”
Campbell closed his eyes for a brief moment,
pondering deeply.
“It wouldn't be yellow journalism, to quote the
old expression,” said Estabrook, as if the other's
silence implied a doubt as to the propriety of the
course suggested. “It would be a simple case of
serving the public—of giving it information of
the sort which it has a right to expect you to give
it. You'd be serving—and you'd be winning
friends.”
After a moment Campbell aroused himself from
his pondering mood and assumed a brisk air.
“You spoke of another story,” he said.
“So I did. A better one than the first, I be-
lieve. Here are the facts: On the third floor
of the News building—just a couple of yards be-
neath the land sharks—there is a particularly
handsome office with this legend on the ground-
glass door—The Golden Era Free Transportation
Company. Here there is being conducted a fraud
even more patent than that of the drainage outfit
—and yet perhaps a little further within the law.
III


A Talk with Campbell
The next step brings one hundred and twenty-
five persons in. You see, you multiply by five
each time. When you've multiplied only a few
times more you've reached a number which is up
in the millions. And then the scheme explodes
because everybody is trying to sell and there is
left nobody to buy. But before the outer rami-
fications are reached, the Golden Era people have
several barrels full of funds, made up of two-bit
pieces virtually stolen from women and children
and simpletons. And between sundown and
sunup the Golden Era organization has folded its
tent and is preparing to begin operations in new
and distant fields.”
Campbell smiled faintly. “How did you
gather all this amazing information,” he asked,
“just by seeing a legend on a door?”
“Because,” replied Estabrook, “the same
legend was just being scraped from a door in
Detroit when I worked there not long ago, after
the scheme had run its course, and a nameless
throng of individuals had been duped.”
“Very well,” said Campbell briskly, “that's ex-
clusive story No. 2. But you know you were
speaking last night **
“I was speaking of the running down of the
Drumm mystery.”
“Yes.”
“Let us go into that, then. We'll call it ex-
clusive story No. 3.”
II3


Chapter XIV
“The Drumm Case–Estabrook”
STABROOK assumed a certain precise air
to which both body and mind contributed.
He sat just so—drawn together as if for a spe-
cial effort and leaning forward as if for a spring.
His mental powers had been placed in order as
documents are placed in order in pigeon-holes,
each ready for immediate use in its own turn.
Such was the impression he produced upon Camp-
bell.
“My idea,” he began, “is to turn in the Drumm
story complete—the name of the slayer, the mo-
tive, etc.—within forty-eight hours after my first
meeting with you last night. I may have some
sort of preliminary story in time for the next is-
sue of the Vidette, to-morrow morning. But my
own idea is that it will be better to announce, to-
morrow morning, that there are no new develop-
ments beyond the usual statements from the office
of the chief of police. That would give greater
force to the publication, the morning after, of
the complete story—including the statement that
the man who had committed the crime had been
placed under arrest.”
II.4.


“The Drumm Case—Estabrook”
Campbell's expression was an odd combination
of impatience and amazement. Presently he said,
almost sharply—“Come, come! You must admit
that that sounds scarcely—scarcely rational!”
Estabrook's manner was amiably deprecatory.
“Maybe it does,” he conceded. “Still, I'm pro-
posing only what I honestly expect to do.”
“Do you mean me to infer that you have knowl-
edge at present of the slayer's name and where-
abouts?”
“I think I may say that I have.”
Campbell frowned. “Then I should say that it
sounds very much like an instance of being acces-
sory before the fact—”
Estabrook's eyes fairly danced. “I’d never
seen the man until some two or three hours after
the crime was committed. I had never known of
his existence.”
“I can only conclude, then, that he came upon
you by chance, and confessed to you because you
were the only person he could find who'd listen to
him.”
“N—o, that's scarcely the case.”
“Yet he must have confessed to you?”
Estabrook pondered. “It's so difficult to reply
to a question sometimes by a plain Yes or No-
isnt it?” he said. And then, as if he were trying
to escape from certain superficial handicaps, he
broke out with—“If I shouldn't be taking too
II 5


Whispers
much of your time I'd like to explain one or two
of my theories to you.”
Campbell leaned back and clasped his hands
behind his head. “I’ve nothing to do for hours,”
he said, “except to remain here within reach of
the telephone.”
“Good! I'm glad of that! Well, then, to ex-
plain one of my theories: For a long time I've
considered language—words—the cause of near-
ly all human ills. To illustrate: When A makes
a statement to B the chances are that B takes it
to mean something that A never had in mind at
all. That's true, even if A and B are both fairly
intelligent persons. The whole world goes about
with its brain filled with misconceptions, misun-
derstandings. Wars and marriages and other
fateful events come about as often as not because
two individuals or two groups of individuals put
different interpretations upon the same words.
When I ask a man to lend me five dollars I don't
listen to what he has to say. I watch the expres-
sion of his face. And I know immediately that
I'm not going to get the five, though he's only just
begun on a long exposition touching the ways of
landlords, or doctors, or butchers and grocers.
When I ask a boy if he's been stealing apples I
go even further. I don't even look at the boy. I
look at his mother. Her face declares, in a uni-
versal language, ‘Ah—so the little thief's been at
it again!’—though she may turn on me with the
II6


Whispers
at Madam Joan's is the easiest thing of all to
explain. What I can't understand **
His expression became pensive and regretful
for an instant as he thought of Cape's timidity and
youth and his helpless, appealing manner.
“You were going to say ” prompted Camp-
bell.
“Perhaps I ought not to go into that just now.
After all, my chief purpose this afternoon was to
convince you that I can find your man for you,
if you care to try me.”
“I’m going to,” said Campbell. He added, as
if in self-justification, “I need a good man. Quite
apart from the Drumm mystery
When he paused Estabrook exclaimed with
enthusiasm, “Ah, but we'll want to solve the
Drumm mystery. We'll want to beat the News
to it, too. It's our chance.” He settled down in
his chair, and his eyes, though they seemed to rest
upon nothing, acquired the light of one who sees
visions. Suddenly he pulled himself together. “I
wish,” he said, “you cared to know about my at-
titude toward a newspaper! I love to talk about
it!”
Campbell smiled patiently. “I'd rather like to
know about your attitude,” he said; “that is,” he
added, “if you can spare the time **
Estabrook flushed slightly, because the other
man's final words had been uttered a little mock-
ingly. “I’ve an engagement with my man for din-
I 18


“The Drumm Case—Estabrook”
ner this evening,” he explained. “I can scarcely do
anything with him before then.” The flush slowly
faded from his face, the light deepened in his eyes.
“My attitude toward a newspaper,” he continued,
“is that it ought to be a champion, a crusader, a
hero, a gladiator. That's the way it wins a fol-
lowing. That's the way it deserves one. But it
must be genuine, you know. It mustn't espouse
only the causes which are profitable. It must
espouse every cause that is right. And in the
long run the crowd will be with it. And mind you,
I don't mean that it must always take sides arbi-
trarily with the people who are poor, with the
people who do the manual tasks. When such
persons are in the wrong it must show them where
they are wrong. That's the only real way to take
sides with them. But it must show the people who
are simple and unlearned that it's out to slay drag-
ons every time they lift their heads.”
Campbell smiled patiently.
“That sounds extravagant, I know. Let me
simplify it. I spoke to you of the Golden Era
Free Transportation Company, and of that fake
drainage scheme. That's the sort of dragons I
mean—the cunning creatures who try to rob the
unsophisticated of their pennies and dollars.
They're the real, every-day dragons. But here we
have St. George in the offing! The real news-
paper cries out, ‘You shall not rob these people!'
Don't you see how surely the crowd would come
I 19


“The Drumm Case–Estabrook”
and stories. And of the very few universal themes
for stories, one of the most thrilling is the theme
of bloodshed.”
In response to Campbell's dubious frown he
continued, “I’m not going into the question of
ethics. I'm speaking only of conditions. Warfare
always provides the most absorbing story that can
go into a newspaper, and all the other chronicles
of bloodshed, down to a simple case of fisticuffs
on the public streets, are proportionately interest-
ing. And by the way, you'll notice that the news-
papers which disdain to handle stories of blood-
shed in which only two are involved will fall
into line readily enough when there's a war—
though the two things are on precisely the same
plane in point of ethics. People want to know
about deeds of violence. You'll note that the
wise heads that planned the Bible didn't wait
long to introduce Cain and Abel—they put them
in long before they mentioned Solomon or Job
or Jesus. And the Bible, you know, has been a
pretty successful book, commercially as well as
otherwise.”
At this point Campbell leaned back and laughed
so heartily and unrestrainedly that his caller was
startled.
“And yet it's true?” remonstrated Estabrook.
The amusement died slowly from Campbell's
eyes. An expression almost of bewilderment fol-
lowed. He could not understand why he should
I 2 I


Whispers
have been so strangely impressed by this man who
spoke in exaggerations, if not actually in sophis-
tries. It was the voice, perhaps, which never
shook off the huskiness which clung to it—which
went on whispering as if it were conveying wholly
strange and unknown yet greatly important mat-
ters. Yes, it must be the whispering voice; and
perhaps, to a lesser degree, the keen eyes and
the seeming intensity of conviction.
“It is true,” continued Estabrook. “Take the
case of our friend Drumm. If he had contributed
half a million to the cause of maintaining univer-
sal peace you'd have given him ten lines on an in-
side page of the Vidette. But because he shed his
blood involuntarily you gave him this.” And he
put forth his hand and laid it palm downward on
a full column story on the first page of the Wi-
dette's Sunrise Edition.
“Let's get at the psychology of it,” he added,
“if you don't mind my using an overworked word.
A deed of violence usually implies a man-hunt.
And when you go on a man-hunt you touch every
man in your community in two sensitive spots.
First, you touch his sense of justice, of fairness.
The murderer—if it be the case of a murder—
must be taken because of the evil deed he has
done. But mixed with this sentiment, so subtly
that you can't tell where one begins and the other
ends, is the love of the chase. Here's a human
being in hiding. He is matching his wits against
I22


Chapter XV
The Spider and the Fly
STABROOK entered Madam Joan's public
dining-room a little after six o'clock. The
sun had been shining in his eyes when he left the
street; but now he found himself in a region of
restful shadows, and a second glance sufficed to
inform him that for the moment he was the only
patron in the room. He chose a seat deliberately
and unfolded the evening paper which he had been
carrying in his coat pocket; and when a waitress
appeared presently he explained that he would not
give his order until he had been joined by a friend
whom he was expecting.
For ten minutes or more he remained alone;
and then he found his eyes being drawn away
from his newspaper by an uncomfortable feeling
of being observed. He glanced sharply toward
the street entrance. Just inside the door stood
Beakman and another man, both regarding him
as if with a certain derisive amusement.
He had scarcely time to focus his glance upon
them when they disappeared by way of the door-
way which led to the private dining-rooms above.
I25


*- Whispers
But during that fleeting moment he recognized
Beakman's companion as the reporter whom he
had encountered earlier in the day in the shop of
the late Pheneas Drumm.
He resumed the reading of his newspaper, con-
scious of a slight irritation because of the furtive
and contemptuous manner in which the two News
men had regarded him. He felt vaguely menaced
because of the necessity of carrying forward his
plans in relation to Cape here in a stronghold of
reporters, including the man who was, presumably,
looking after the Drumm case for the News. Well,
he should have to be doubly wary—that was all.
Then there was another interruption; and this
time it was Cape.
He was thrilled by the expression on Cape's
face: an expression at first forlorn—before the
eyes had sought out the solitary occupant of the
room—and then beamingly glad, like the face of
a child. He put aside his paper with an air of
relief. “Ah!” he exclaimed cordially.
Cape approached and took the seat opposite
him, his face flushed slightly with pleasure, his
eyes appealingly bright. “You did remember!”
he said.
“My engagement with you? Oh, yes! I
shouldn't have forgotten that.”
“I was thinking—it doesn't mean much to you,
you know; that is, compared with what it means
to me. You're the first soul I've met in this big
126


The Spider and the Fly
town who seemed to know whether I was a living
human being, or just a-a mechanical figure of
some kind.” He adjusted his chair nervously, and
Estabrook noted that the expression of forlorn-
ness crept back into his eyes slowly, as an indeli-
ble stain will come back.
“Any progress to report?” inquired the news-
paper man as he took up the bill of fare. He
spoke casually yet kindly.
“You mean, have I run across anything? No
—no, I scarcely expect to do that.” He paused
broodingly an instant and then continued with an
effort, “You’ll scarcely realize how helpless I
feel. I can't seem even to look for work, or ask
for it, except in such a backward way that nobody
would be willing to listen to me. And yet I feel
that if I once had a chance—at anything, really—
I'd wish to work feverishly, so that I ceuld forget
—forget what it seems like not to have a place
anywhere.”
Estabrook spoke decisively. “I’m going to help
you to get over that. You've been bluffed, that's
all. I've seen young fellows like that lots of times.
My idea is that we must put you on your feet
squarely—until you get to traveling right. That's
all you need.”
Cape swallowed with difficulty. He could not
speak immediately; but presently he said, “Yes,
that's what I need—to get started right.”
“And you're going to fight it out right here,”
127


Whispers
continued Estabrook. “You had an idea of going
away, I think. But it doesn't do to run away from
an enemy of any sort. You must always face him.
And enemies . . . they're a strange lot. Some-
times it's the little ones who ruin us, while the big
ones are the making of us.”
He gave his attention to the waitress for a
moment; and when she had gone away he sat
thoughtfully regarding his companion, ready to
smile whenever he caught his eye.
“I—don't want to go away, now,” said Cape.
“You see, there doesn't seem anywhere to go. I've
never lived anywhere but in one little town, and I
—I couldn't go back there. I can't explain **
“You needn't. Even if there are special rea-
sons, I know enough about the general reasons.
To go back to a little town, unsuccessful; that
would seem like permanent defeat. You'd be
fatally handicapped. No, you ought to stay right
here. And you know—I'm sure you'll not mind
my speaking of it—in the matter of a little finan-
cial help, like the squaring of Madam Joan, you're
to look to me for the time being. There—it's
nothing. It's settled. And it'll not be for long.”
Just the suspicion of a quiver ran across Cape's
face. “I’m not saying I'll accept,” he said when
he could command his voice; “but I do say that
if I should accept it will be a debt that will be
repaid.”
“Of course it will!” declared Estabrook, and
I28


The Spider and the Fly
then another silence fell between them. It re-
mained unbroken when the waitress returned with
the food they had ordered; and then Estabrook
said cheerfully, “Now, let's enjoy our bite, and if
there are any dark closets to open we'll open them
afterward.”
He spoke lightly, of pleasant things only, dur-
ing the meal; and even when they had come to
their coffee he did not seem disposed to sound
out any hidden ground. It was Cape who said at
last, with a diffidence which was not to be over-
come at first, “You spoke a little while ago about
getting a right start. But you know that's an
awful hard matter sometimes. It was my getting
a wrong start—at the very beginning, al-
In OSt ->
When he paused, groping for words, Estabrook
put in easily, “Suppose you tell me about that.”
He permitted his mind to wander a moment while
he glanced casually about the room. He hoped
there might be no interruption. He hoped above
everything else that Beakman and his companion
might not return by way of the public dining-
room. He thought it improbable that they would
do so; and as for other interruptions, he concluded
that he had little to fear on that score for perhaps
an hour or so. Madam Joan's patrons as a class
were late-comers. He brought his glance invit-
ingly back to Cape's eyes.
“I had a mind to do it last night,” said Cape.
129


Whispers
“I mean, when you were talking about—what did
you call it?—about a Public Adviser.”
Estabrook laughed. “I'm afraid I talked
rather whimsically about that,” he said.
But Cape became grave. “It sounded so rea-
sonable,” he declared; “and the way you pictured
the old lady who really didn't exist * >
“Ah, but she does exist! There are thousands
of her!”
“Yes, in that way. But I had a mind to ask
to be your first client—just in a confidential way,
you know.”
“Well ” said Estabrook.
“You see, I've gotten myself into a rather
peculiar predicament. There doesn't seem any
place for me to go to. No place at all.”
He paused so long after that statement that
Estabrook prompted him gently. “You mustn't
let that upset you, you know. You're at an age
when that sort of predicament is common. You've
come to a point where you must make a place for
yourself. That's the whole truth.”
“But, you see, my case is a little different from
the ordinary. I don't know how to do anything.
I mean, I've no special skill. I've got no relatives
or friends to turn to. I'm almost more alone than
anyone else I ever heard of.”
“Then you must make connections of some sort:
business and social. It's easy, at your age.”
But Cape only frowned in perplexity, as if im-
130


The Spider and the Fly
passable barriers arose between him and a frank
understanding with his companion. Presently he
tried again: “You see, I didn't get the right start
as a boy. It was this way: I lived in a little town,
and I grew up with the belief that I'd have money
some day. A great deal of it. My father died
before I knew him. But my mother was supposed
to have a really large estate. I never knew what it
consisted of—her estate. For a long time I never
gave a thought to it. I only knew that we lived
very well and that there never seemed any cause
for worry. There was an uncle—my mother's
brother. And he had full control of my mother's
affairs after my father's death. She was that kind
of a woman. Yielding and impractical. You see,
her estate and my uncle's were all one. I always
understood vaguely that there were reasons why
it couldn't be divided. Not for a long time, at any
rate. And then my uncle became interested in
some project which required him to locate some-
where at a distance. And he went away.”
He paused in perplexity, and Estabrook got
the impression that he was trying to decide how
much he ought to hold back, and how much he
might discreetly disclose.
“I remember,” continued Cape, “that papers
for my mother to sign came once or twice, with
very explicit directions as to where she was to
sign; and she signed them and sent them away.
And it seemed that her income continued just as
I3 I


Whispers
usual for a while after that. And then something
happened. My first knowledge that something
had gone wrong was that my uncle couldn't be
located. My mother's letters to him were re-
turned. And I gathered that she was trying to
locate him and that she was tremendously wor-
ried. She sought advice—from a lawyer, finally
—and they were all trying to find out what had
become of my uncle. And then it developed that
my mother's income had been cut off. We hadn't
anything at all.
“She thought it was simply a bad period which
we'd have to tide over somehow. She kept ex-
pecting to hear from her brother. It was a long
time before she could be made to accept the truth.
She borrowed money here and there, and ran bills.
And I remember how indignant she was—and I,
too—when she found that it had become very dif-
ficult to borrow money, or to have her credit ex-
tended at the stores. Her pride was wounded,
and she got so that she wouldn't ask favors of any-
one. She raised money on our home, and paid
off all the debts. She had a small balance left, and
she took a good deal of pride in paying for every-
thing she needed—and perhaps for a good many
things we didn't really need. She used to tell
me how she would make certain individuals feel
ashamed of themselves when our affairs were
straightened out again, and the debt on the house
K32


The Spider and the Fly
was paid off, and her income was again at her dis-
posal.
“I think she was the very last person in town
to realize that old—that my uncle was a thief and
that he had ruined her. I've no doubt that a good
many persons had always known him better than
she did, really. But she seemed to realize the
truth at last—though I never knew exactly when
or how this came about. You see, she wouldn't
allow me to change my way of living or thinking
for a long time. There was a private academy in
the town and I kept attending this long after our
means justified my doing so. I was learning orna-
mental things, chiefly. My mother couldn't think
in any terms other than those of class distinctions.
I was to be a gentleman and I was never to engage
in any but gentlemanly occupations. That was my
own idea, too, though I didn't really understand
what was meant by it. I doubt if she did either.
But for a long time we went on living in the old
atmosphere—our house open to everyone, with
someone always at our table, without any cere-
mony at all, and a certain air of leisure and ele-
gance about the place—as if we only had to rub
a lamp to get more money. Have I made it
plain?”
“Very,” said Estabrook.
“Then at last, as I said, she realized the truth.
And it had the most distressing effect upon her.
Of course she wasn't a woman of practical sense
I33


Whispers
—though I don't mean she wasn't a dear and
lovely lady. She was all of that. But you couldn't
have expected her to readjust herself any more
than you could expect a wisteria vine to become
a grape, or a fruit-bearing tree. She began to
muse in a dark sort of way, so that you'd have to
speak to her twice before she'd hear you—and
then she would seem startled. She'd have unshed
tears in her eyes at the most unexpected moments
—for example, when I tried to appear resolute
and cheerful. You see, I'd begun to try to think of
ways of supporting her and protecting her. And
the thing that hurt me worst of all was her seem-
ing certainty that she mustn't depend on me. She
seemed to have decided that she mustn't depend
upon anything—that she mustn't hope for any-
thing. And for a long time—for perhaps two
years—she became more listless and frail and
strange.
“I had left the academy before this time and
found a position. I was made assistant to a book-
keeper. A gentleman who had always been a
friend of my mother's gave me this chance. The
theory was that I should learn book-keeping, so
that I might make a real salary after a while. But
my academy training had been ridiculously super-
ficial. I didn't even know the multiplication
tables. I'm sure I didn't earn the five dollars a
week that was paid me, even by helping the clerks
when I had nothing else to do. Yet I had fearful
I34


The Spider and the Fly
struggles with my pride when I thought of the
mean sum I was earning, and the impossibility of
making it do. Neither my mother nor I had ever
learned to economize, and my office-boy income
wouldn't have gone very far in any case.
“And then I did the only thing which I can
remember now with any satisfaction at all. I gave
up my position as assistant book-keeper and ap-
plied for work at another place as a common la-
borer. My mother had become really ill by this
time and I couldn't plan for the future. The book-
keeping post might have been all right in years
to come, but we needed more money immediately.
I was then eighteen and fairly large for my age.
And so I went to work for a dollar and seventy-
five cents a day, lifting boxes and bales and par-
cels from a freight platform to the wagons which
backed up to be loaded. And you know the
thing about that job which hurt worst was not
the strained muscles and the blistered hands, but
the fact that the foreman had to spare me the
heavier loads, putting them on others, and that
the teamsters had to come to my aid now and
again—though they weren't required to do so.
They were generous toward me and I had to ac-
cept their generosity without any chance at all
of repaying them.” |
He hung his head moodily for a moment and a
frown of deep humiliation darkened his brow.
Estabrook leaned across the table and said in
I35


Whispers
his intense whisper: “But don't you see that there
was a real man at work—doing his level best?”
But Cape shook his head slowly. “It was just
a flicker—it wasn't the real thing. If I'd won out,
that would have been fine. But I—I failed. I
was too soft. I had too many wrong ideas to get
rid of. I began to suffer from despondency, and
I couldn't throw it off. At first it was only now
and again that I felt so horribly dejected; but
after a time it got to be a permanent condition.
It got so that I couldn't even try to be resigned
or hopeful. I began to harbor hatred: toward my
work, toward my employers, toward the whole
world. I couldn't cast aside my dark mood even
when I went home. The time came when my
mother and I rarely spoke to each other. We
didn't lose our affection for each other. I don't
mean that. But—well, we were just out of place
in the new world in which we were forced to live.
“And then my mother took to her bed, seriously
ill. I should have seen that coming, but I'd gotten
so that I didn't notice closely. It was a surprise
to me, a new burden, a new grievance. For weeks
she seemed rarely to move. That was what I had
to come home to when my day's work was done
and I was ready to drop with weariness and de-
spair. And here again the cause of my worst suf-
fering didn't lie on the surface; it was because
I couldn't think only of her and her suffering. I
couldn't get my own wrongs out of my mind. I
136


The Spider and the Fly
had to do a good deal of the housework when I
came home. The neighbors came in often, but
not in any systematic way. There were times
when I had to cook her supper and my own, going
to her room a score of times to ask how to do
things. . You see what a mean sort of story it
comes down to at last? And then it all ended.”
He paused and passed his hand across his
haggard face, as if words couldn't be made to
reach. Then with new resolution he concluded:
“One morning I left her room grumbling, chid-
ing her, because she had complained hopelessly
after I had done all that I could for her. I left
her with a harsh word. . . . And that night
when I came home she was dead. She had died
alone. She had been dead for hours. She lay
there in the dark room, silent in a new, terrible
-way. Her eyes were open when I made a light.
And I could only sink to my knees beside her and
reach for her hand and cry out—again and again
—'I didn't mean it this morning, mother—I didn't
mean it!' And then little by little I realized that
I must go out and summon the women in the neigh-
borhood.”
a
137


Chapter XVI
The Weaving of the web
HE cashier at her desk aroused herself—
she had been lost in a public-library book—
long enough to turn on the lights.
The change afforded a not unwelcome break in
the stressful moment which had gripped both Es-
tabrook and Cape at their table. Both men glanced
up and seemed for the moment to forget the tale
that Cape had told. Then Estabrook, without
venturing to look at his companion, whose closing
words had been uttered with difficulty, remarked
evenly—
“The first big burden that was ever put upon
you was too heavy—that was what was wrong.
You'd have come through well enough if you
hadn't been overtaxed. You've no cause to be
really discouraged because of such a defeat—if
you care to think of it as a defeat.”
But Cape obviously took no relief from the
friendly words. When Estabrook glanced at him
presently he was resting his elbows on the table,
and his face, supported by his hands, expressed
only a dull despair.
138


Whispers
house. And I kept at work until I had paid off
my debts. The doctor, you understand, and—and
all the rest. There were a lot of them: the drug-
gist and the grocer; and there was a little stone to
be paid for. And when the spring came I planted
flowers where the stone was, and I got to think-
ing of her—of my mother, I mean—as being at
rest and happy. And then—then I came here.”
“You came here because your uncle was here?”
Cape frowned. “That must have been the
reason,” he said. “I hadn't any other reason for
coming here, more than to any other city.”
“That was reason enough. And—did you see
your uncle?”
Again Cape frowned, and for a time he seemed
unable or unwilling to continue.
Estabrook broke in upon him with seeming im-
petuosity. “But there,” he said, “I know I seem
to be prying. You mustn't tell me anything more
than you like to tell. If I seem unduly interested
I hope you'll not forget that I'm really anxious
to be of help to you.”
“I did see him,” said Cape. “I saw him sev-
eral times. I went to his—to where he worked.
But he didn't know me. He really didn't. And
I tried to form a plan of some sort . . .”
“You could make him give you what was your
mother's, if he's got it yet,” said Estabrook.
But Cape only murmured absently: “He’s got
nothing now.”
I40


The Weaving of the Web
A beam came and went in Estabrook's eyes.
If old Drumm were the monster of Cape's story
—and to this theory he held unflinchingly—how
apt were the words, “He’s got nothing now”!
And then Cape looked at his companion with
sudden purposefulness. “There's more to the
story,” he said in a voice which had become firm.
“But I'll not tell it. At least not now.” He added
cautiously, “There are some rather unpleasant
details. Perhaps another time, when we're sure
of not being interrupted—”
“I’m sure you're right,” said Estabrook. “I
shouldn't want you to tell me unless you thought
perhaps it might help in some way; and as you
suggest, there might be interruptions here.” His
manner was that of one who pulls down the lid of
a desk upon unfinished business, shutting it wholly
within. “The important thing,” he added, “is for
you to take a hopeful view of the future. You
must just grasp the fact that what's ended is ended
and that your chief concern is with what lies
ahead.”
He was glad of the pause which ensued; for
presently there were steps on the stairway and
Beakman and his companion appeared from the
rooms above. Again they took in the two solitary
diners as if with a certain mild amusement, and
then they approached the cashier's desk and mani-
fested an unmistakable intention of idling.
It seemed to Estabrook, too, that nothing more
I4 I


Whispers
my room. That'll be ever so much more com-
fortable than here—don't you think?”
On the street a few minutes later he experi-
enced much the same sensations which a lawyer
feels when he has been defending a client whom he
knows to be guilty, or prosecuting a prisoner
whom he believes to be innocent. There were
certain phases of his profession which were al-
ways disagreeable at best; it was the sum of his
work which he liked and believed in, not all its
details. And just now he felt that depressing
sense of social isolation which is known to all
newspaper men who are working far from home,
when they have leisure hours at their disposal.
His judgment as to Cape was that the young
fellow was no more vicious than a lamb. He had
been ill-trained; he had been fearfully wronged.
And at some time, somehow, he had been beside
himself—and in that moment the shameless old
creature, Drumm, had come to his death.
Estabrook's purpose was to bring fully to light
Cape's part in the affair. He had other purposes,
too, touching the young man; but these, for the
time being, he would have admitted to no one.
He would have denied, however, that he was deal-
ing treacherously with Cape. His intention, he
would have maintained, was quite the contrary.
And as he sauntered through the lighted streets
146


The Weaving of the Web
his mind was a strange compound of the alert
newspaper man and the Good Samaritan.
He came presently before a shop which pre-
sented certain familiar aspects, and here he paused.
It was the second-hand shop which had previously
attracted his attention, when he had turned away
from his inspection of the scene where Pheneas
Drumm had died. And now a nebulous fancy took
definite form in his mind, and he turned into the
shop. For a time he engaged the proprietor in
conversation; and finally it was with a kind of
shame-faced air that he made a purchase, emerg-
ing upon the street a little later with an awkwardly
shaped parcel in his hands.
With his newly-acquired possession, securely
wrapped, he returned to his room at Madam
Joan's—going in by the front entrance on this oc-
casion, and taking the elevator. And when he
had closed his door behind him he quietly turned
the key.
For the next half-hour a series of weird and
mysterious sounds arose in his room—sounds so
extraordinary, in fact, that an occupant of the
next room listened for a time with palpitating
heart, and then descended to the floor beneath to
report to Madam Joan that he feared he had
been given a maniac for a next-door neighbor.
Yet when Madam Joan, smiling indulgently,
mounted the stairs and tapped softly at Esta-
brook's door, she found nothing at all to justify
I47


Whispers
suspicion or complaint. Estabrook was seated at
a table, writing a letter. There were no other
persons in the room with him. And Madam
turned to the complaining roomer with the sug-
gestion that Monsieur must have had a bad
dream.
148


Whispers
an essence of the house's long years of furtive-
ness and intrigue and shallow solitude seemed to
permeate the air. His surroundings seemed to
him eloquent of tragedy in a way: of fading
youth, burnt by a too ardent flame; of pathetic
age, struggling against discovery or betrayal, of
false quests, of wastage.
The noises of the city seemed very far away—
like sounds heard during the hours of slumber.
They seemed, too, meaningless and futile. In-
deed, it was only by a vigorous effort that he re-
minded himself that he was in a wrong place in
which to form a true estimate of life's values and
tendencies, and that his two partnerships, both of
which were hopefully rosy, were calling him, and
that real work lay ahead of him—when Cape
came to keep his appointment.
And then, rather shyly yet eagerly, Cape kept
that appointment. There was a tap on the door
and Cape stood on the threshold.
Estabrook gave only an instant to the reflection
that the other man's manner was like that of one
who comes from a region of storm and darkness
into a warm place. And then he said, cordially,
yet without too much eagerness—“Ah, I'm glad
to see you! I've been here by myself just long
enough to realize that I don't like Madame Joan's
very well. Sit down!”
“What have you been finding wrong with
Madam Joan's?” asked Cape. He sat down,
I 50


The Fly Appears
obviously ill at ease; yet his relief at finding com-
panionship was evident enough.
“Well, it has seemed for the past hour or so
like a place of hiding. That's been my idea.
And I like to think of life—everything that goes
to make up our life, almost—as a thing to be re-
vealed. I have an idea that when we yield to
the tendency to do things furtively—to hide our
actions or our thoughts—we're harking back to
our cave-man instincts: when the basis of life was
thought to be enmity rather than the wish to
help.”
Cape frowned in perplexity. “But isn't enmity
a basis of life still?” he asked.
“Of course not! It's a disease. It's like mea-
sles and such things with some of us—a thing
which we pass through without much difficulty. It
becomes a chronic ailment with a few. But that's
because they haven't had the right attention—
or because they are constitutionally weak. No,
fear of one another—and that's all that enmity
is—is one of the delusions which we must all
conquer sooner or later if we're to get anywhere.”
Cape's glance was bent upon the floor. The
frown of perplexity on his face gave place to a
wan smile. Presently he lifted his eyes to Esta-
brook's. “You're an odd chap!” he said nerv-
ously; and then—“I wonder if the things you say
are just a theory—if you believe in them only in
I5 I


The Fly Appears
Cape, in a tone which implied that his statement
constituted an irrefutable argument. “And I sup-
pose a man's own case is the most important thing
in the world—to him?”
“Yes, if he can look at it in the right way.”
“Oh!” exclaimed Cape hopelessly, “I’m think-
ing of something I have done. Something that
can't be undone. Something that has utterly
ruined all my prospects. You see, fine theories
become nothing but—but fine theories, when you
confront them with actual conditions.”
“No; actual conditions become wholly differ-
ent matters when you confront them with really
fine theories 1”
Cape was lifting his hand almost rhythmically
and letting it fall upon the arm of his chair. His
glance, like that of a starving man, rested upon
vacancy. And suddenly he exclaimed helplessly:
“My uncle—I’m thinking of that story I told you,
of my mother and the rest, you know.”
“Yes, I know.”
“The last time I encountered my uncle here I
—I harmed him.”
“Well?” inquired Estabrook calmly.
“I tell you I harmed him—irreparably.”
Estabrook reflected. “For the moment,” he
said, “I’ll put aside the point that there might be
various ways of interpreting that expression.
Sometimes when we harm persons, in a popular
conception of that word, we are really conferring
I 53


Whispers
a blessing upon them—perhaps a blessing in dis-
guise. But let us concede that you harmed your
uncle. You must consider: he had greatly harmed
you and your mother. You were greatly pro-
voked. If you really harmed him you erred; but
under all the circumstances, does it seem impos-
sible to you that you should be forgiven? That
you should forgive yourself? That others should
forgive you?”
The rhythmic beat of Cape's hand on his chair-
arm ended. “I might forgive myself,” he said, “but
—there is the question of the law. The law isn't
a system of ethics, you know. It's a set of rules.
And the law—if it's what it purports to be—
couldn't be expected to concern itself with for-
giveness. It can only say in an entirely detached
way, ‘You are innocent,' or ‘You are guilty.' And
in my case—from the standpoint of the law—I am
guilty.”
But even this seemingly formidable conclusion
did not seem to perturb Estabrook. “Very well,
then,” he said, “let us concede that you are
guilty. That's nothing at all unusual. You must
just set about putting yourself right!”
There were traces of exasperation in Cape's
manner when he spoke again. “Suppose I had
burned my uncle's house down,” he said. “Sup-
pose everything he possessed had gone up in the
flames. Can you imagine my ‘putting myself right'
on top of that?”
I54


The Fly Appears
*
Estabrook arose deliberately and walked to
the other end of the room, where he took a pack
of cigarettes from a table. He was lighting a
cigarette when he returned to his chair. He blew
a cloud of smoke toward the ceiling before he-
said, “I believe we began our talk, when you came
in, along wholly impersonal lines. We seem to
have brought it around to something like a per-
sonal basis.” He smiled whimsically. “You know
I really haven't put out that shingle with the words
Public Adviser on it.”
“I know,” returned Cape, suddenly forlorn and
adrift again. “But—well, I can't help seeing
that what you said about advising people was
true; about the disinterested person keeping his
head clear and being able to see things in the
right way. I hoped perhaps—yet no, I didn't
really hope you could help me. Yet it did seem
a relief to talk things over with you.”
“Very well,” said Estabrook briskly. “Let's
talk things over. But why not be quite frank?
If I'm to aid you at all you ought not to fear to
trust me. Please take my word for that. You
know—you really didn't burn your uncle's house
down!” He was smiling almost tauntingly.
“But I can't tell you what it was that I did.”
“Very well. Though I can't help feeling sorry.
To get back to generalities again, I repeat what
I said before: I like to think of life as a thing to
be revealed. I have an idea that when we yield
I 55


The Fly Appears
“What is it?” asked Cape; and he was whisper-
ing now.
“I don't know,” said Estabrook. He produced
his pack of cigarettes. There was only one ciga-
rette left. This he took out. He also felt in his
pocket for a box of Swedish matches. As he was
about to open the box a little accident occurred.
The box slipped from his fingers and fell at his
guest's feet. The matches lay scattered on the
carpet.
Cape stooped quickly and began to replace the
matches in the box; and as he did so Estabrook
turned warily and opened the upper compartment
of the wardrobe near him. He touched something
within the compartment and then closed the door
again so that it remained barely an inch ajar.
Then he stooped beside his guest and helped in
picking up the matches which still remained on
the carpet.
“Thank you,” he said, as he received the box
from the other's hands. He noticed that Cape's
fingers were trembling slightly. Then as if sud-
denly recollecting, he said, “I ought to step down
and get another pack of cigarettes before I for-
get. I may want them later. If you'll excuse
me—?” And immediately he was gone.
To Cape, remaining alone, the tumult of the
silence seemed to become intensified. In the still-
ness in which there was no distinct sound, all the
sounds of the world seemed to crowd in upon him.
I 57


Whispers
And presently he realized that one of the name-
less sounds he heard was not really nameless,
though he felt it, rather than heard it. His heart
was pounding like a little drum under a sure, firm
touch. He regretted that Estabrook had closed
the door of the room when he went out. And then
he realized anew that for him, until the end of
time, the one most sinister horror of all would
be to be alone anywhere, and that the roaring
sound which would not depart from him was the
voice of conscience.
He clasped his trembling hands. “If I could
only tell him!” was his thought. “If I could
only tell anyone! wn
He could not have explained why the crying
need of his nature at that moment was to confide
to some broad and sympathetic mind the full story
of his disaster. Yet the words repeated them-
selves in his brain—“If I could only tell him!”
And then a definite sound assaulted his ears
and he sprang from his chair, his body shrinking
as from the hand of the hangman. He felt his
scalp move. A voice, husky and low, yet intense
and penetrating, had whispered to him. It was
the voice of the man who had just gone out and
closed the door; and the words it uttered were:
“Tell him everything!”
He cowered for an instant and then he tried to
combat his terrors. He was the victim of a trick
of some sort—that must be it. Estabrook must
158


Whispers
watched him, or to guess that he had been alarmed.
Then he closed the door softly and returned to
his chair.
But he was no sooner seated than he started
up again. His hands came together in an an-
guish of alarm. Again that whispering voice spoke
to him. Again it enunciated the three words, in-
tensely, yet with an odd effect of detachment.
“Tell him everything!”
He hurried toward the door, looking back
appalled toward the interior of the room. His
reason was trying to gain the ascendancy over his
emotions, over those weaknesses which have noth-
ing to do with reason. And at length, greatly to
his relief, he heard the rumble of the elevator on
its upward journey. He heard it stop and its
gates swing open. And then Estabrook re-entered
the room.
“Strangel” breathed Cape, when the door was
carefully closed. “I thought I heard you speak-
ing, after you had gone away.”
“Perhaps you did!” said the other, smiling
faintly. “You see, I was thinking about you in-
tently while I was gone.”
“But you didn't speak?”
‘No, I didn't speak.”
He sat down leisurely and continued to smile,
faintly yet reassuringly. And he evinced no sur-
prise at all when Cape, facing him with something
very akin to new strength, said: “I came to a de-
16o


The Fly Appears
cision while you were gone. I ” He chose
his words and then added, as if the form of his
utterance were wholly his own. “I’m going to
tell you everything!”
And Estabrook, nodding thoughtfully, replied:
“That's good. That's what I thought perhaps
you'd decide to do.”
161.


The Fly Enters
“Yes,” said Estabrook soothingly, again study-
ing the little spiral of smoke from his cigarette.
‘Yes, I know.”
The other gulped audibly; a sad expression as
of betrayal darkened his eyes. “You knewl" he
exclaimed incredulously.
“Perhaps I should have said I inferred as
much. I knew what the provocation was. I knew
that your conscience was troubling you. I had
concluded that it couldn't be anything else.” He
paused an instant and then added as if with a
friendly impulse: “Yet that isn't quite true, either.
I think I ought to let the first statement stand. I
knew.”
“But you couldn't have known l’”
“Yes, I could. Let me prove it. Suppose I
tell you your uncle's name?”
His companion's glance was shrinking with
fear. The power of speech deserted him for the
moment; and as he stared in terror and amaze-
ment, Estabrook continued easily:
“His name was Drumm. Pheneas Drumm.”
He did not look at his companion now. He went
on in a tranquil tone. “You went to his shop
several times and he did not recognize you. It
was you who told me this, you remember. But
you didn't tell me that on one of those visits to
the shop you observed that the door in his private
office—where the armored knight stood, you
know—opened upon a stairway and to a room or
163


Whispers
rooms above; probably a storeroom. And you
guessed that the storeroom might be entered by
way of an adjacent building, or perhaps a fire-
escape. And so you chose your night and entered
the alley back of the shop; and sure enough, you
found a fire-escape. And you climbed up by way
of the fire-escape. It was not easy; but you
succeeded.”
He studied his cigarette minutely a little while.
He meant to give his companion an opportunity
to speak—to verify or to contradict. But Cape
remained silent, an expression of mingled incredu-
lity and intense interest in his eyes.
“You did not mean to kill him,” resumed Esta-
brook. “Such a desperate measure had not even
occurred to you. You were not prepared for any
deed of violence. You meant to confront him
alone. Your intention was not altogether clear
even to yourself. But you had the thought of
charging him with his crime. You meant to
threaten, perhaps. You had brooded so long over
your injuries that you scarcely knew what you
meant to do. You were practically without funds
and it was becoming more and more apparent to
you every day that there were no methods by
which you could earn money. At least that was
your conviction. And you felt, perhaps subcon-
sciously to a great extent, that your uncle might
restore to you a part of the money which had been
I64


The Fly Enters
your mother's, if you faced him alone in the night
and demanded restitution.”
He heard a great sigh of relief—a tremulous
sigh. He suspected that his companion might
weep if he looked into his eyes now. He con-
tinued placidly:
“Your plan worked perfectly. You got into
the storeroom; you descended the stairway. You
found the door into the office unlocked. And you
slipped out into the private office and stood behind
your uncle before he knew anyone had entered.
“It was then that the tragedy unexpectedly de-
veloped. Your uncle heard you. He could not
know, of course, that it was you. He supposed
you were a robber. He sprang from his chair.
He lifted his hand quickly and extinguished the
one light in the room. And at the same time he
reached for a revolver which he had concealed in
a drawer of the table at which he sat.”
He was startled by an eager, a piteous cry of
relief—a voice as of a lost soul coming within
reach of a distant light. It was Cape's voice de-
manding—“Did he? Did he reach for a re-
volver?” -
Estabrook paused, perplexed, with something
of the manner of a hunting dog which has been
thrown off the scent. Surely Cape knew of the
revolver! How else could one account for the
fact that it was missing? Had the officer taken
it and failed to mention it in his report? He
165


Whispers
could not believe so. Nor yet could he believe
that Cape was dissembling. He decided to leave
the subject of the revolver, at least for the mo-
ment.
“He did,” he continued in response to Cape's
question. “Though in the darkness you could not
be sure of that. You feared that he might do
so—or at least you feared that he might injure
you. You became quite as greatly terrified as
your uncle was. You shrank back and your hand
came upon a weapon of defense. You had not
given a thought to it. You had forgotten that it
was there. But there in the darkness, while your
uncle groped, invisible, before you, your hand
touched the hilt of the knight's sword.”
He lifted his glance slowly now. In drawing
the picture he had ventured to put in certain de-
tails at which he had merely guessed. But he was
relieved to read in his companion's glance full
verification of what he had said.
He continued: “You drew forth the sword in-
stinctively. But you knew nothing of its use, sup-
posing it to be a real sword, and not an imitation
of pewter. You had never learned how to handle
a sword. But you realized in a flash that it had
formidable weight. And you seized it by the blade
and used it as if it were a bludgeon. You struck
a blow in the dark. You could see nothing at all
of what occurred. But you knew that your blow
had not gone astray. You heard your uncle fall.
166


The Fly Enters
There had been the sound of a skull being crushed.
And the words were flashed upon your brain in
scarlet letters—'I have killed him l’ And then,
stealthily, yet in a panic of fear, you left the place,
afraid even to look behind you. And then—then
you came here to Madam Joan's. I believe you
did not come directly. A man who has committed
a desperate deed always seeks his hiding-place
by a roundabout course. But in a short time you
were here in your room.
“That's all. I needn't tell you how you couldn't
sleep, and how you went into the dining-room
more for the purpose of catching a glimpse of
human faces than from the need of food. And
later you saw the light in my room and entered.”
He paused and smiled candidly into the other's
eyes. His expression told no tale of horror or
hatred. He might have been outlining nothing
more than a harmless boyish escapade.
But Cape was not returning his glance. He was
gazing at nothing, his eyes expressing bewilder-
ment, yet a measure of relief too.
“I ought to add,” resumed Estabrook, “that no
one saw the things I have described. Your secret
is still safe—from everyone save me. I can't
explain fully how I know just what took place. I
wasn't there, of course. Not until afterward.
And it seems that the things I saw when I visited
the shop later were not seen by others, not even
by the police. You are not to feel that you are
167


Whispers
helpless. I repeat, nobody knows but you and
me.”
“And you ” said Cape, the bewildered ex-
pression in his eyes deepening until he seemed
quite childishly helpless.
“And I couldn't prove the story I’ve told—not
without your testimony.”
But Cape was vaguely shaking his head. “That
I struck him with the sword,” he said, “ . . .
how could you know, if you didn't see it? I put
the sword back, you know. Something warned
me that I ought to put it back; and I had the good
luck to find the scabbard in the dark, and to put
the sword back into it.”
“I examined the hilt by daylight,” said Esta-
brook. “Certain things had clung to it, where it
had fallen heavily on a man's head.”
Cape swallowed with difficulty. “And that he
reached for a revolver—how could you know
that?”
Estabrook met the question frankly. “I told you
I couldn't fully explain how I know all that took
place. But there was a pistol in the drawer of
his table. It was taken out. What more cer-
tain than that he'd have seized upon it in such
an extremity?”
“If I could only be sure about the pistol,” fal-
tered Cape. And then, with the air of a man who
comes slowly from under the influence of an
anesthetic, he looked at Estabrook. “You’re
I68


The Fly Enters
“Not at all!” declared Estabrook. “My dear
fellow, you're making the mistake of your life in
condemning youself as a hopelessly bad lot and in
feeling that you've lost everything. Let me assure
you: the thing isn't half as bad as you think it is 1”
Cape seemed on the verge of rejecting this point
of view; but there was something in Estabrook's
manner—his calmness, the conviction in his tone—
which stayed him. “Are you really in earnest?”
he asked. And then, as if seeking a short cut to
a solider foundation—“But what am I to do?
That's the one question I can't answer. What am
I to do?” And then, quite unexpectedly, he arose
and began to pace the floor almost as if he no
longer saw Estabrook or thought of him. A
beam of life and hope was beginning to come back
into his eyes. “But if he really drew a weapon
... it makes it out a simple case of self-defense,
after all.”
He returned to his chair. In the last moment
he had become rejuvenated, he held his shoulders
erect, a faint color burned in his cheeks, his eyes
had become keen. And then, looking down upon
Estabrook, the flow of his happier emotions was
checked. It was as if a cloud had obscured the
sun. He gazed at the other man with something
like stupefaction: for it seemed to him that in
spite of all that Estabrook had said, he was read-
ing his doom in the eyes which gazed up at him.
171


Chapter XIX
The Terms of the Treaty
OU asked me,” said Estabrook, “what you
were to do. If you think my advice is
worth having I'll be glad to offer it. I'll give you
the sort of advice I should wish to have if I
were in your place.”
“I thought,” began Cape falteringly, “you had
made it rather plain that I ought not to do any-
thing—just now.” He had been made uneasy
by Estabrook's steadfast, almost solemn manner.
“And yet—of course I should like to know your
views. I don't suppose I can let the matter stand
just where it is.”
“No, you could scarcely do that,” said Esta-
brook. “Sit down, won't you? I think we ought
not to be in a hurry. No, I think it wouldn't do
at all for you to let the matter stand just where
it is.”
There was silence for a moment—a silence
more oppressively murmurous than ever, since the
noises along the distant streets had almost wholly
subsided, and but few of Madame Joan's patrons
were now stirring.
“And so ?” prompted Cape uneasily.
172


The Terms of the Treaty
“It's very simple. There is only one thing for
you to do, as I see it. You ought to go to police
headquarters and say, ‘I am the man you are look-
ing for.’ You ought to tell the whole truth.”
But Cape cried out in sharp protest—“No, no!
I couldn't do that l Not that!” He had become
the despairing, helpless creature of an hour ago.
It was as if Estabrook had constructed a bridge
of hope for him, and then had destroyed the struc-
ture wantonly. “Anyone could have thought of
that,” he added in hot protest. “The disgrace,
the danger, the—the punishment; what worse
thing could happen to me than all that?”
“Won't you calm yourself?” urged Estabrook.
He pondered a moment. “A much worse thing
could happen to you,” he continued. “A perpetual
sense of guilt and fear—that's the greatest evil
of all. That's what I'd like to have you escape.
That's what you can escape, if you will. Just to
let the matter stand as it is: a whole life-time
wouldn't set you right, or give you back real free-
dom. The truth would come out in time, and it
might come out when it would be far more fatal
to you than it could be now. There's a thorn in
your flesh. You must have it taken out before
you can hope to have the wound healed.”
But Cape shook his head. “Anything but
that!' he cried.” “I couldn't tell!”
“But my dear fellow, there isn't anything but
that!”
173


The Terms of the Treaty
He waited until his companion had regained a
measure of calm and then he resumed: “They
would lock you up—yes. And what then? At
first it would seem pretty bad. There would be
a lot of noise. There would be sensational stories
in the newspapers. And then—well, then the re-
action would begin. Our old friend Time would
take a hand. A wonderful friend, Time. It
would work out like this: The public would begin
to forget. Something else would occur to divert
the public's attention. The machinery by which
you would be brought to trial would work slowly.
It nearly always does. Before long everybody
would forget all about the old dealer in masks.
They would almost completely forget you. When
your case was mentioned in the newspapers it
would be in brief routine items under simple
headlines. And when at last the time came for
you to be tried, nobody save the judges and the
other people constituting the machine would care
about you one way or another.
“And now here's a cheerful thought I want to
impress upon your mind: Another good friend
would come to your aid, following our old friend
Time. The new friend would be Facts. Sensa-
tionalism, with its power to annoy you, would
have died. Judgment without knowledge, con-
demnation without a hearing—all the weapons of
ignorance—would have disappeared. Facts
would begin to assume the upper hand. The other
175


The Terms of the Treaty
pose. Presently he said—“You've probably heard
a lot of lectures in your time. Lectures and ser-
mons—such things. But I doubt if you ever heard
one that applied to you and you alone as com-
pletely as the one I'm going to deliver right now.”
He paused and smiled; and then, noting that
his companion's mind was wandering—that he
was probably making his mind up for himself—he
put an additional note of crispness into his voice.
“I’m going to take a text,” he resumed, “for
the sake of a suitable atmosphere. The text is
The Truth Shall Make You Free. And, by the
way, it's a text that's got a lot in it for every last
man and woman in the world, no matter what
they've done.” Then, with a sudden change of
manner—with a warmth and impetuosity which
almost startled the other man, he said—“Look
here, Cape, did you ever hear it said that life is
an adventure? . Of course you havel But did
you ever stop to think what that meant? You
know, it's a good adventure—if you don't cheat.
It can't help being a sorry adventure if you think
you can get along without being on the level. If
you make up your mind not to cheat there's noth-
ing that can happen to you that you need really
to fear. Just now you're thinking of going to the
penitentiary as if it meant good-bye to everything.
But think of the value of knowing just what life
in the penitentiary is if you could study it in the
right way! Some mighty big people have gone
177


Whispers
to a lot of pains to find out. If some wise man
could find out exactly and tell the world he'd be
doing a far greater service than the fellows who
reach the poles. Mind you, I wouldn't go to the
penitentiary voluntarily—without real cause, I
mean—because I believe there are plenty of other
things to find out. But I'll assure you of this: if
it were up to me either to go to the penitentiary
or to cheat, I'd proudly go to prison, and I'd make
every minute of my prison term count.
“You see, a man's got a right to dance almost
any measure that happens to appeal to him—if
he'll only remember to pay the fiddler after he
has danced. You've got a right to flagons and
apples, if only you'll settle with the man who runs
the wineshop and with the chap who owns the or-
chard. There's only one rule. You must pay.
And while you're paying you're learning what
things are worth the price that's asked for them.
That means progress. That means future wis-
dom. But you'll never get a right idea of values
unless you pay as you go; pay for every single
thing, and count it a privilege to pay.”
He paused and looked into Cape's eyes, which
were like the eyes of a child when it observes a
fascinating yet obscure object.
“We'll suppose that you are required to go to
prison,” resumed Estabrook. “It will be hard, of
course. The experience may not do you a bit of
good in itself. But think how you'll feel when
178


Whispers
seemed to behold was still fascinating—but it was
now becoming less obscure.
“Now, a last word,” added Estabrook. “I’ve
been placing the darker aspects of your case in
the foreground. As a matter of fact, I don't be-
lieve you'd be required to go to prison. I believe
you'd be acquitted. I mean to say, I believe an
intelligent court would write across your bill—
‘Paid in full.' I don't believe you're guilty of the
crime of murder, not in any degree. I'd want to
appear as a witness for you. I'd relate how I
found a smear of oily blood and hair on the handle
of the knight's sword: proving that you laid hold
upon a weapon after you entered the shop. I'd
testify that a pistol had been removed from a
drawer in your uncle's table only a short time,
apparently, before his death. Such testimony
would point unmistakably to self-defense. And
my testimony would strengthen your own.
“Just the same, you must remember that you've
a price to pay. You must stand, out in the open.
You mustn't be afraid. You must do your part
toward establishing the real truth. But can't you
see how it would be worth while a thousand times
over? To know that you had played your part
like a man, and that for the folly and wrong of
entering your uncle's shop by stealth you had made
full restitution ->
His argument came to an abrupt end. His com-
panion had sprung to his feet. “You're right!”
18O


Estabrook Shows His Hand
do. I can't help being what I am; and I'm afraid
when daylight comes and the same old picture of
the world comes back to me—its trivial, common-
place ways—I’d lose the—the sort of vision I've
got to-night. It would be easy to go to-night, be-
cause to-night going seems the easiest, simplest
way.”
“Still—won't you sit down? You see, I
shouldn't feel at all satisfied if I didn't add a few
things to what I've said to you. It's not that I
shrink from the responsibility I've taken. I
haven't a doubt in the world that I've pointed out
the right course to you. But I shouldn't want you
to think afterward that I'd had a base motive.
I'm hoping you'll say, ten years from now, perhaps
a year from now, “Estabrook was a real friend.
He was square.'”
“I shall,” said Cape, with conviction.
“Well, let's see. In the first place I went to tell
you something about the sort of work I'm doing.
You know I told you it was gathering information.
But there was something else I might have added
to that. I'm with one of the newspapers here—
a reporter. And the first thing I shall do, when
you've given yourself up to justice, will be to write
a full account of all you've done. It will be
printed, every word, in the Vidette.”
Cape's face became a curious study in emotions,
in an expression of bitter grief, crystallizing
through the mingled expressions of bewilderment
183


Whispers
and doubt. He searched his companion's eyes
with a shocked, incredulous stare; and when he
knew he had comprehended aright his glance fell
with the shame with which one contemplates a
betrayer. He could not speak for a long moment;
but at last he managed to say in a low, faltering
voice—
“And you meant to—to write it all for the
paper, from the beginning?”
“Yes. Though my attitude has changed con-
siderably since the beginning. At first you were
to me just one of an unknown army of a million
blundering men. I meant to tell the truth about
you—not maliciously, you know, nor with any
personal feeling. I meant simply to assemble the
facts and make them public. But almost from
the beginning I saw that I ought to help you, too—
that I could help you. The picture of your boy-
hood you drew—those days of aimless studying
at the academy, and your blind faith in the future,
and then the fine struggle you made for your
mother's sake—it all made your case different. I
wanted my story to work out right—yes. But I
wanted your story to work out right, too. I made
up my mind that it should work out right. Can
you understand that, and do you believe me?”
“I believe you,” said Cape in a low voice. But
an expression of misery still darkened his eyes.
“Well—there the matter stands. There wasn't
a word I said to you that I shouldn't have said
184


Estabrook Shows His Hand
to my own brother. I believed—I still believe—
that every word I uttered was true.”
“But to be the first to make my shame public!”
“To be the first to tell how you resolved to do
what was right!”
“Well—all right!” said Cape, again preparing
to go.
“Again—I'd be glad if you'd decide not to go
to-night,” said Estabrook. -
Cape faced him with a dark flush. “You mean
it will serve your interests if I wait until to-
morrow?”
“I mean it will serve your interests if you wait
until to-morrow—though I confess it will serve
my interests too.”
“Perhaps I shouldn't be so unreasonable as to
suppose that my interests matter,” said Cape with
a bitterness which he could not suppress. “Of
course, if it's to your interest ” He paused;
and after a moment's silence he added impulsively:
“No, I'm not willing to adopt that tone with you.
I know you've been my friend. I'll not doubt it.
Please explain how it can be to my interest—”
“Thank you, Cape,” said Estabrook simply.
“I’ll explain. You see, I know your story—your
real story: not just the story of your visit to
Pheneas Drumm's shop. There's not another
newspaper man in town who does. If I'm given
the chance to write your story for the Vidette it
shall be written in full. If it's written for any
185


Whispers
other newspaper it will be incomplete. If the
Widette's story appears first it will give its color to
the stories in the other papers. It will do a good
deal toward setting you right with the public from
the beginning.”
“I think I see that.”
“I'm sure you do. Well, do you know what
will be the result if you go to police headquar-
ters to-night, now, and make a statement? Every
newspaper in town has a reporter at the Four
Courts. At this moment they're sitting in the
press room waiting like vultures for word of some
man's distress or affliction to come in by way of
a patrol wagon or over the telephone. When it
comes in they all get busy, each writing according
to the style of the newspaper he serves. Their aim,
in the main, is to write something sensational.
They're good enough fellows, no doubt, but
they're working in an atmosphere which kills every
instinct except that of the news-monger, the sensa-
tion-monger. Their attitude is almost invariably
against the poor devil who's run afoul of the law.
Their chief idea is to write something for their
papers that will make their papers sell. To a cer-
tain extent they are unscrupulous, in that they are
ready to assume, so far as they dare, that the vic-
tim who has come within the meshes of the police
is a guilty and vicious creature. And after they've
written their story they forget the man who's been
stored away in a cell somewhere, and they get
I86


Estabrook Shows His Hand
their feet up on their table and exchange cynical
views and wait for the next victim to come in.”
“And that's what I've got to face?” demanded
Cape.
“That's what I mean you shall not have to
face,” amended Estabrook with decision. “If
you'll still be guided by me—for your own inter-
ests as well as mine—you'll not take any action
to-night. You'll go to bed and get a good night's
rest; and I'll venture to say you'll rest much bet-
ter than you did last night.”
“And then 7"
“Then to-morrow I'll take certain steps to in-
sure the friendly offices of the chief of police. If
he's at all the sort of man he ought to be I'll win
him over to your side. And then to-morrow night,
at an hour which we'll agree upon later, you'll
take the big step—which I'm sure will prove
largely a formality—of giving yourself over to
justice.”
An element of confusion remained in Cape's
eyes. He pondered a moment and then asked,
“And your story? * >
“My story,” said Estabrook, “will appear the
next morning—exclusively in the Vidette.”
187


Chapter XXI
Setting the Stage
Televen o'clock the next morning Estabrook
was ready for breakfast—yet not quite
ready. He had not located Cape; and while he
was reasonably confident that his plans would not
miscarry, he felt it very much safer to leave no
precaution untaken; and one of the precautions
which seemed to him most important of all was
to keep as closely as possible to the man without
whose co-operation all his plans would fail.
Cape had slumbered heavily and long and it was
with difficulty that he was routed out and con-
ducted to the dining-room. Yet once wide awake
he proved to be also surprisingly cheerful. He
had not entertained the thought of drawing back.
On the contrary, in the clear light of morning the
task ahead of him seemed even simpler and more
imperative than it had seemed the night before.
He even comprehended Estabrook's situation
more thoroughly—and approved it more unre-
servedly.
The two men had breakfast together, and Cape
I88


Setting the Stage
manifested a highly gratifying readiness to play
his part fully and with discretion.
“You might spend the afternoon reading, or in
any other quiet way,” said Estabrook. “The less
you're seen the better—though of course you
mustn't seem to be hiding. We'll meet again in
the dining-room between six and seven, and per-
haps later in my room; and then we'll talk over
final plans.”
Later—between one and two—he called on
Campbell. And when the city editor looked up at
him—at first mildly inquiring, as if he had forgot-
ten him, and then with an amused smile which had
in it the element of mockery—he remarked: “I
just wanted to report progress, and to get your
help in one or two little matters.”
Campbell's smile broadened. “And I'm to un-
derstand, then, that you haven't any red-handed
slayers concealed about your person as yet?”
Estabrook briefly brushed aside the bantering
mood. “The hour hasn't quite arrived,” he re-
plied. “We'll have our man where we want him
to-night. Our story will appear on schedule time,
to-morrow morning.”
He spoke so simply and with so much assurance
that Campbell's manner underwent a complete
change. “You don't mean it!” he exclaimed.
“Yes, but I do. There are only a few minor
points to be attended to. I'll need a letter of in-
troduction to the chief of police, and after that—
189


Chapter XXII
A Compact with the Chief
T police headquarters Estabrook encoun-
tered, first, a youngish man who might have
been a bank clerk, judging by his quiet manner
and neat dress. His appearance suggested the
seamy side of life as little as the well-appointed
office in which he sat—as little, indeed, as the
squat yet not inelegant building of which the office
formed a part. This was the chief's secretary, a
man who had been a newspaper man in years
past, and who greeted Estabrook with informal
goodwill.
“The Chief?” repeated the secretary, in re-
sponse to Estabrook's inquiry. “Yes, he's in.”
He pointed to a massive inner door which was
now closed and beyond which not even a whisper
could be heard. “He’s engaged now. Sit down.
He ought to be at liberty pretty soon.” And he
returned to the examination of certain reports of
a uniform appearance which were piled system-
atically on his desk.
Estabrook thought it well not to interfere with
his work by idle questioning. He took the chair
I93


Whispers
toward which the secretary had nodded and pre-
pared to wait. Yet he had scarcely shaped the
first question which he meant to put to the chief
when the inner door opened. There was now the
sound of voices in that inner room: gay voices,
and perfunctory laughter, such as mark an amia-
ble exit. Two men in civilian clothing emerged
from the room, charging the secretary's office with
the odor of cigar smoke, and passed on their way.
The secretary promptly pushed his chair back
and arose. “What did you say your name was?”
he asked Estabrook; and when he had listened to
the reply—“Estabrook of the Vidette”—he dis-
appeared for a moment in the chief's office, to
emerge with the simple assurance, “All right.”
Estabrook's first impression of the chief's office
was that it was unexpectedly shadowy and cool and
quiet. The simple yet massive furniture included
a flat-topped desk on the far side of the room, and
behind this sat a very heavy man whose appear-
ance suggested at once sharp watchfulness and a
thoroughly-mastered repose.
The caller went close to the official's desk be-
fore he spoke; as always, he was mindful of his
defective voice and of the fact that it was a source
of irritation to those whom he addressed at a dis-
tance. And then he said, “I’ve a letter to you,
Chief, from Mr. Campbell of the Widette.”
The chief's rather expressionless face softened
perceptibly at the sound of Campbell's name. He
I94


A Compact with the Chief
took the letter of introduction from Estabrook's
hand. “Sit down,” he said; and he opened the
letter in a leisurely manner as if he anticipated a
pleasure in reading it. Once he glanced up with
an inquiring expression when Estabrook moved
his chair unusually close to the desk before he sat
down; and then, as if he understood, he again
gave his attention to Campbell's letter.
And presently he was asking pleasantly, “Well,
Mr. Estabrook?”
“I’m assuming,” said Estabrook, “that you'd
like to put your hand on the man who slew old
Pheneas Drumm.” -
The chief seemed nonplussed. “Why—yes!”
he said. “Yes, certainly.”
“And—may I ask?—your men haven't any
clew to his whereabouts as yet?”
“A man from the News—Cook—was asking
me that an hour ago. I believe they haven't. The
fact is, you men labor under a good many delu-
sions as to criminals and clews. They're often
pretty hard to locate. A first-class crook is even
harder to find than a first-class police officer—
and if you believe the News, that's pretty hard.”
Estabrook interposed diplomatically: “It hap-
pens that I don't believe the News.”
“All right. You see, the crooks we have to
deal with, or try to deal with, are so disobliging
that they don't take their cues from the crooks on
the stage and in romances. They don't haunt the
I95


Whispers
scenes of their crimes, so far as we can learn;
they don't jump when they see their shadows;
they don't tremble when they're spoken to. My
own theory is that they're so callous they don't
mind much of anything—generally speaking. In
a crowd of a thousand men I’d no more expect
to pick out a man who'd commit murder than I’d
expect to pick out a man who'd beat his wife or
cheat his customers. Each man in these classes
thinks that what he does is his own business—and
it's pretty hard to convince him of the contrary.”
Estabrook nodded and smiled. “I’m sure that's
true,” he said. Then, after a thoughtful pause,
he added, “But it happens that the man who slew
Pheneas Drumm is rather in a class by himself.”
The chief looked at his caller with a certain
long-suffering patience. Plainly he regarded him
as a man who had been reading “Sherlock
Holmes” somewhat to his disadvantage. “Pos-
sibly,” he said.
“I’m quite sure of it,” said Estabrook.
“Are you, indeed?” inquired the chief in a tone
not free from irony. “And may I ask how you're
sure?”
“Because I know the man rather well.'
The chief simply stared.
“Not only that, but I know where he is, what
he's doing—in a general way—and what move-
ments he contemplates. More: I'm prepared to
take any officer you'll choose to where he can ar-
196


A Compact with the Chief
rest the man. I'd only like to make one condi-
tion, Chief—that is, if you thought it a fair one.”
The chief's countenance had become inscrutable.
“And what's the condition?” he asked.
“It's purely a newspaper man's condition—or
at least that's the way it will appear to you. I
needn't describe to you the rivalry which usually
exists between newspapers occupying the same
field. Between the Vidette and the News, for ex-
ample?”
“Go ahead.”
“As I'm working for the Vidette people—fine
people to work for, by the way—I'd like to man-
age so that the story of the capture and the con-
fession and the rest of it should appear exclu-
sively in the Vidette.”
If the chief considered this scheme feasible he
did not say so; yet Estabrook thought he read in
his eyes a dawning approval and acquiescence,
coupled with a lingering skepticism of all that
his visitor had said.
“My idea is this: I will take an officer or two
—one will be enough, since the man is as harmless
as a child—to my room at a certain hour to-night.
The man will be there. He will be arrested. But
he will be held quietly in my room until three or
four o'clock in the morning, without any report
having been made to you or to any of your subor-
dinates. The purpose of this you'll see at a
glance. The story will be in the office of the
I97


Whispers
Widette in time for to-morrow's issue. It will not
be in the office of the News until too late for to-
morrow's issue. We'll have the story exclusively.
That's all.”
The chief cast a meditative glance at his desk
and presently he lifted his eyes to Estabrook's.
“That will be all right,” he said shortly.
Estabrook pondered. “I don't like to suggest
that all your men are not trustworthy,” he said at
length; “but you know the ways of police reporters
are somewhat uncanny, at times—”
The chief interrupted. “I’ll take only two of
my men into my confidence. And those two
men . . . I won't say they're brighter than the
police reporters; but I will say they possess the
superior merit of knowing how to be silent. To
avoid mistakes of any sort you shall meet these
two men now.”
He pressed a button on his desk, and the form
of the secretary almost immediately appeared in
the doorway. -
“I'd like to speak to Meade and Hankins,”
said the chief. And then he explained to Esta-
brook: “Meade and Hankins are secret service
men. I brought them in only a week ago from
outlying precincts. I know them to be keen fel-
lows, and they will serve your purpose nicely,
since they and the police reporters don't know
each other at all. Their movements will attract
198


A Compact with the Chief
as little attention as if they were well-behaved
visitors from out of town.”
Estabrook's eyes were still beaming when the
two officers entered the office; and they did not
cease to beam their increasing approval when he
listened to what the chief had to say to them.
“Mr. Estabrook, here,” said the chief, “knows
of the whereabouts of a man we want to arrest.
He'll make an appointment with you—”
“At Madam Joan's Hotel, at twelve o'clock
to-night,” said Estabrook.
“And you are to arrest your man and hold him
in the room where you find him until three
o'clock—”
“May we say three-thirty?” interrupted Esta-
brook.
“—Until three-thirty in the morning. Then
you'll remove him quietly to the central station.
You'll act throughout with perfect secrecy.”
Estabrook arose and shook hands with the men.
“At Madam Joan's Hotel at twelve o'clock,” he
repeated, and he added; “and ask for Estabrook,
Room 361.”
After he had thanked the chief and had moved
toward the door, Estabrook turned for a final
glance at the heavy figure behind the flat-topped
desk. The chief's glance, following him, was an
odd combination of seriousness and a thinly veiled
irony.
He could not resist the temptation to pause and
I99


Whispers
say, “Chief, this man—the one we're going to
arrest, you know—is the oddest chap of his kind
you ever saw. He jumps when he sees his shadow
and he trembles when he's spoken to/”
And then he was gone.
2OO


Whispers
borhood—who had dwelt very aptly upon the late
Mr. Drumm's association with masks, and with
the soothing thought that life itself is a mask
which mankind puts aside only when the realities
which lie beyond the grave are to be entered upon.
At Madam Joan's he encountered Cape, where-
upon he drew a long sigh of relief. He had not
feared that Cape would fail him, but he was wil-
ling to confess to himself that as the moment for
the last act in the drama drew near he was becom-
ing a bit nervous. And now, glancing appraisingly
at Cape, he read the fact that his protégé—if he
might apply that term—was in no danger of wa-
vering in his decision.
“We'll have dinner right away,” said Estabrook
cheerfully. “though in passing I want to speak to
Madam Joan. There's just one more detail to
be attended to 3-
They encountered Madam Joan just at that
moment. They had met in Estabrook's room, and
they were passing through Madam's private of-
fice on their way to the public dining-room.
Madam had just turned aside from a conference
with two gentlemen, both of whom Estabrook re-
membered to have seen before, though he knew
the name of only one of them.
The first was Beakman of the News. The sec-
ond was the News reporter whom he had encoun-
tered in the shop of the late mask-dealer. The
two appeared to have something further to say
2O2


Whispers
was that of the police reporter on the News. He
had first heard it on the occasion of his visit to
the News office, when Beakman was holding a
conversation with Cook over the telephone. He
shifted his position a little so that the movement
of his lips should be unseen by Beakman and
Cook. “I wanted to advise Madam,” he re-
peated, “that a number of gentleman will hold a
sort of conference in my room late this evening.”
He smiled. “I wanted to be sure that Madam
wouldn't suspect there were conspirators in the
house.”
She laughed merrily. She touched her lips with
an effect of sprightliness with a finger which was
much too heavy for that purpose. The gesture
meant that she would be very discreet. Yet she
looked after Estabrook as he and his companion
made their way toward the public dining-room
with an expression of amused disdain in her eyes;
and to Beakman and Cook she said with an as-
tounding lack of reserve: “It was nothing. Mon-
sieur Estabrook merely wished to notify me that
he would have a number of friends dropping in
at his room to-night.”
And so it happened that while Estabrook and
Cape were about to enter upon an intimate ex-
change of words in the public dining-room below,
Madam Joan was finding herself confronted by
a truly extraordinary request by Monsieur Beak-
man. Beakman requested nothing less than that
2O4.


“Pieces of Eight”
Madam make room for Cook immediately in the
room adjacent to Estabrook's—adjacent to it and
separated from it only by a thin wooden partition.
And Madam Joan, gazing at Beakman with
round, amazed eyes, into which an expression of
mischievous humor gradually stole, agreed that
Monsieur Cook should have the desired room
without delay.
Over their dinner Estabrook questioned Cape
cheerfully as to how he had spent the afternoon.
He was amazed by what he heard:
“I went to my uncle's funeral,” said Cape.
“No!” exclaimed Estabrook, frowning and
thinking very hard.
“Yes, I did. I suppose that sort of sentimental
thing has gone out of date a good deal; but when
I remembered that I was the only living relative
he had I decided that I ought to go to his
funeral, whether I wanted to go or not.”
Estabrook continued to consider a moment
longer; then he said with a certain decisiveness—
“I’m sure you're right. If you felt you ought to
go, of course you did the right thing.” He added
presently, “and you don't think you were conspicu-
ous in any way?”
“Very far from it,” declared Cape. “You
wouldn't have dreamed so many people would be
there. It was curiosity, I suppose. If I hadn't
gone pretty early I’d never have gotten in at all.
There were scores of men and women there—
205


Whispers
rather ordinary appearing people, too. There's
no possibility that I was singled out in any way.
There was a regular service by a minister, who
made a wonderfully good address. On the whole
I'm glad I went.”
“But you didn't go to the cemetery?”
“No. There wasn't any provision made for
that, of course. I couldn't even follow in a street-
car, because I didn't know where the cemetery
was.” His statement had closed on a gloomy
note; and for a time he sat silent, yielding to a
despondent mood. But almost immediately he
pulled himself together. “It's all right, however,”
he said. “After all, it was only a formality.”
Estabrook was regarding him musingly. “And
you know there'll be another formality for you to
go through with before very long—I venture to
believe in a day or two.”
“You mean?—” asked Cape, a shrinking
expression showing on his countenance.
“Nothing unpleasant. Far from it. You'll
have to go forward and claim your uncle's estate.
I mean, after the legal machinery has been set
turning and the court says to you in effect, ‘Now,
Mr. Cape, step forward and let us hear what you
have to say.’”
The recurring thought of his uncle's estate
seemed almost to bewilder Cape for a moment.
He said musingly—“His estate—I wonder if it
will prove to amount to anything, after all.”
206


“Pieces of Eight”
“I’ll be able to let you know very soon,” said
Estabrook. “Our routine men call at the courts
every day to see what business has been transacted.
When they get around to the Drumm case the
facts will be brought into the office. That's al-
ways true of every big newspaper.” -
They were silent for a moment. They had had
the dining-room to themselves; but now a casual
diner had entered, and dropping a copy of one of
the evening newspapers on the table before him,
had taken a seat not far from Estabrook and his
companion. At the same time the voices of news-
boys, rising as if their springs of action had been
newly wound, drifted up from the street. A final
edition was being sold.
“You'd think the world had come to an end,
from the noise he makes,” commented Estabrook,
with an ear turned toward the noise from the
street. “Yet it's likely only the routine final edi-
tion.”
“And nothing in it,” remarked the diner who
had just entered. He rather unceremoniously
tossed his copy of the paper over to the table at
which Estabrook and Cape sat.
But there was something in it. There was the
public administrator's first report on the estate of
the late Pheneas Drumm.
Estabrook glanced at his companion warningly;
and then the two together read the item relating
to the dead man's estate. Figures in the head-
y
207


Whispers
line arrested their attention: $600,ooo. That
was the estimated value of the estate. Certain
safe deposit boxes had been opened and examined.
There was one of these in each of several finan-
cial institutions. The details followed briefly and
simply. Much of the estate was represented by
stocks which were of questionable value. Another
portion was represented by stocks which at one
time had been supposed to be all but worthless, but
which, as a result of certain developments, had
mounted sky high. And there were bonds and
titles and other assets, together with a consider-
able quantity of currency. Conservatively esti-
mated, the report declared in conclusion, the value
of the estate would amount to $600,000.
Cape gazed at his companion in amazement.
He leaned forward and whispered in a tone of
bewilderment—“Six hundred thousand dollars!”
And Estabrook, with a glance of caution toward
the other diner in the room, echoed back—but in
a tone of assurance—“Six hundred thousand dol-
lars!”
A light began to beam in Cape's eyes, and Esta-
brook mused “He must be a mercenary sort of
chap, after all.” But what Cape said was
“If it isn't all a dream—if it turns out to be
even one-tenth true, I know a fellow who's got a
couple of partnerships in his mind who isn't going
to wait any longer to have his ship come inl”
208


Whispers
friend, was in fact not paying the slightest heed
to the names which passed before his vision. The
young man was Cook, of the News, and he was
furtively waiting to obtain a view of the guests
whom Estabrook was expecting.
The clock had just finished striking the hour
when two very quiet gentlemen, emerging from
the elevator, approached Madam Joan's desk.
They were Meade and Hankins; quite unofficial-
looking officers who, according to the chief's as-
surance to Estabrook, would be unknown to news-
paper men—even to the police reporters.
It was Meade who addressed Madam Joan in
a voice which was low and civil, rather than well-
modulated. “Is Mr. Estabrook in 2" he asked.
Madam smiled. “Yes,” she said, “and he left
word that if there were callers they were to be
directed immediately to his room. If Messieurs
will take the elevator . . . the room is No. 361
on the floor above.”
They thanked Madam and withdrew; and
Cook, who had glanced up from his leisurely in-
spection of the register, commented, entirely with-
in his mind: “Oh-the chief's two new plain-
clothes men!” Which is proof that chiefs of po-
lice, like all other mortals, will fall into minor
errors from time to time.
When Meade and Hankins were gone, Cook
exchanged significant glances with Madam Joan,
and then he, too, was gone. He had betaken
2 IO


Somebody Blunders
himself, as Madam knew to a certainty, to the
room adjoining Estabrook's—the room which she
had caused to be vacated as some slight incon-
venience, because Monsieur Beakman had desired
her to do so.
“I am afraid,” said Estabrook to the two offi-
cers, after they had been introduced to Cape, “that
you gentlemen are in for a rather tedious wait.”
He had closed his door quietly, after taking a
glance up and down the hall. He had chanced to
address the remark to Hankins; but Meade, who
seemed to be by nature a sort of spokesman, was
the one who replied:
“We're used to that. If you can stand it, we
can.”
“There are cigars there, and cigarettes,” added
Estabrook; “and if there's anything else necessary
to your comfort I'll be glad to provide it.”
It seemed that Hankins did not care to smoke
just then; but he accepted a cigar and dropped it
into his pocket with a casual and experienced air.
Meade was in the mood to smoke, it appeared, and
in almost no time he had succeeded in making him-
self entirely at ease. He was the first of the two
officers to address an inquiry to his host. “You
don't mean to say that this young fellow here—
Mr. Cape, did you say?—is the man we're after?”
“Yes,” said Estabrook shortly. He could not
2 II


Whispers
understand clearly why it cost him a struggle to
reply to that question.
“You understand,” added Meade, “that our in-
structions from the chief were to make the arrest
right away—and then to hold the prisoner here
until you were ready to have him taken to the sta-
tion.”
“Very well,” said Estabrook; and he glanced
rather unhappily at Cape.
“It's all right,” declared Cape. “You needn't
mind.”
“Then,” said Meade, addressing Cape, “you'll
understand you're under arrest.”
“And that is all that will be necessary now, Of.
ficer,” interposed Estabrook. “I’ll answer for the
prisoner's behavior.”
“I understand,” assented Cape, speaking as if
the words were a lesson he had learned, “that I
am under arrest.”
Both officers were now regarding Cape with
frank curiosity. Yet neither of the two was re-
garding him with such utterly amazed curiosity
as Cook of the News was regarding him at pre-
cisely that moment, through an improvised peep-
hole in the thin partition which he had prepared
during the afternoon. Nor was Cape's face the
only object upon which Cook's eyes rested. His
experienced glance had been drawn to a neatly
folded manuscript, on the sort of copy-paper
which every newspaper man recognizes, on the
2 I 2


Somebody Blunders
reached for a weapon. I didn't know what he
was doing. It was dark. I'd like to believe that
I was fully justified—but I don't know.”
Estabrook became thoughtful. Here was the
case of a man who had become involved in a ter-
rible experience, and who wished honestly to set
himself right as far as it was within his power to
do so. Here was the beginning of a conscientious
course, of a deed of reparation, of hope for a new,
blameless beginning.
“You see,” added Cape, “it was your telling
me that made it plain—his having a revolver, I
mean, and his intention to use it. It was too dark
for me to see. And if I'm to tell anything at all
now, I want to tell nothing but the truth.”
Estabrook nodded. “I’m trying to obtain for
you the benefit of the actual conditions,” he said.
“I'm looking ahead to the time when a jury will
listen to the story of what occurred in Drumm's
shop. But if you are not fully satisfied—”
He took his folded story from the table and
slipped it thoughtfully into an envelope. “We'll
go over the confession again,” he said. “I can
turn it in separately.”
He dropped the sealed envelope on the table
and seemed for the moment to dismiss it com-
pletely from his mind. Again he turned to the
sheet which held the confession; and after a mo-
ment's meditation he said—
“Suppose you put it like this: “When he turned
2 I 5


Chapter XXV
A Summons for Estabrook
T half past one o'clock Estabrook decided
that he need not any longer bear the strain
of idly waiting. Neither of his companions had
spoken a word for nearly half an hour. Cape was
brooding heavily, his eyes fixed abstractedly upon
the carpet. The two officers were even less ac-
ceptable companions. They were seemingly as
alert as they had been when they entered the room,
but they had taken refuge behind that dead silence
which men of their profession are impelled to
cultivate. The house had become silent as death.
The city streets had become echoless.
He arose slowly. The signed confession which
Cape had at last worded to his liking he had placed
in his pocket. He took up the sealed envelope
from the table beside him. “I think I'll turn my
story in now,” he said, addressing Meade. Glanc-
ing at Cape he added, “I’ll try to be back in a
short time. You see, I mean to keep watch with
you to the end.” He smiled faintly. Then again
addressing Meade: “If I should be prevented
from returning, you'll remain here until 3.30 and
22O


A Summons for Estabrook
then Mr. Cape will accompany you to the sta-
tion.” Then he had a final word for Cape: “And
at the worst, I'll see you early to-morrow, and
we'll go into the matter of obtaining bond for
you, and engaging an attorney, and attending to
whatever else may need to be done.”
He was moving toward the door when he stop-
ped, startled, and everyone in the room stared
amazed at the door. Again there had been a
cautious rap.
He opened the door wonderingly, and again he
was looking into the eyes of Madam Joan.
“It is the telephone again, Monsieur,” she said.
“I am sorry you should be annoyed.”
It would be Campbell, he concluded. Camp-
bell, after the manner of city editors, would be be-
ginning to worry and fret. And he smiled faintly
over the thought that he had done his work so
well and so completely. He should be able to
place his finished story in Campbell's hands within
a few minutes now—as soon as he could walk from
Madam Joan's to the Vidette office.
But when he reached Madam's office a sur-
prise awaited him. For the voice which responded
to him over the wire was not Campbell's voice.
It was the voice of a stranger.
“Mr. Estabrook?” asked the strange voice.
And when Estabrook had replied the voice went
on apologetically yet with a certain urgency:
“You’ll pardon me for troubling you, Mr. Esta-
22 I


Whispers
brook. I called you up at the Vidette office, and
when I explained that my business with you was
very urgent, they suggested that I try you at
Madam Joan's.”
“It's all right,” said Estabrook. “What was
it?”
“I am Doctor Brinsmade, Mr. Estabrook. You
may perhaps know of me? Half an hour ago I
was returning to the city from one of the suburbs
where a patient lives. Out on the Morgan Ford
Road my chauffeur stopped the car and called my
attention to a man lying by the side of the road,
surrounded by a small group of persons. They
were about to carry the man into a large old house
nearby, and they were asking for a physician. To
be brief, the man is pretty low, and he seems very
greatly in earnest in wishing to see you—so much
so, in fact, that I felt I must try to locate you. He
won't give his name; he says it wouldn't mean any-
thing to you. He says: ‘Tell him it's the guy he
bought a meal for.' He's very eager about seeing
you, Mr. Estabrook. If I might tell him you will
come . . . he's an appealing sort of poor devil,
and it's not likely he'll ever ask another favor of
anyone.”
Estabrook's frown of perplexity suddenly lifted.
It was his derelict of Madam Joan's public din-
ing-room, of course. And then his brow dark-
ened again. He had no time to give to any
man now, however extreme his need. Yet, after
222


Whispers
into the Morgan Ford Road neighborhood to see
a chap I know.” He added by an afterthought—
“By the way, how far is it—the Morgan Ford
Road neighborhood?”
He flinched almost as if from a blow when he
was informed that he had a ride of perhaps half
an hour before him. Then a car's headlight be-
came visible around a curve in the deserted street,
and Ellison remarked, with another yawn, “There
she isl”
They hardly knew each other; and when they
had taken a seat together on the car and were
moving rumblingly on their way, Ellison re-
marked, as a wedge to further acquaintance—
“I’m glad you chose the Vidette when you came
here to work. How did it happen?”
Estabrook considered. “I like to work on a
morning newspaper better than an afternoon
sheet,” he said. “I went up to the News office,
but I didn't particularly like the look of things.”
“You probably didn't like the look of Beak-
man,” remarked the other, laughing as if there
had been a measure of humor in what he had said.
And then he added, in a tone which denoted that
he was now speaking of a matter in which he was
really interested—“By the way, they're not get-
ting ready to ring any wedding bells up at Madam
Joan's, are they?”
“Not that I know of,” said Estabrook. He
added drily, “I should think not. Why?”
224


A Summons for Estabrook
“Speaking of Beakman made me think of it.
We've all been wondering if those two coy souls
would ever get up nerve enough to call in the
preacher.”
“Two coy souls?” echoed Estabrook.
“Beakman and Madam Joan. They've been
impetuously drawing together for the past ten
years. Everybody's been wondering when they'd
be able to brave the world and declare them-
selves.”
Estabrook stared straight before him for a long
instant, and then he turned to his companion. “Is
that straight?” he asked.
Ellison appeared to consider the other's sud-
den seriousness amusing. “Yes,” he said, “so far
as their attitude toward each other is concerned.
So far as their ever getting married goes, that's
a mere surmise. It's rather an odd case.”
“Tell me about it.”
“They're both getting elderly, as you know.
The odd feature of the case is that either should
be tempted to behave foolishly. But each exerts
a certain fascination, where the other is con-
cerned.” -
“You're joking, of course,” said Estabrook.
“Not at all. There's nothing the least bit ro-
mantic about it, that's true. From bits I've
pieced together during all these years I'd inter-
pret the case like this: Madam Joan is a fascinat-
ing figure in Beakman's eyes, because there's a
225


Chapter XXVI
The House of the Morgan Ford Road
E had come to a region where he was aware
of earth and air and sky, as he had not
been aware of these things within the confines of
the city. The earth was forlorn and unlovely.
Men had done much to deface it here and but lit-
tle to adorn it. The air was cool. The sky was
ragged with clouds, amid which a full moon ap-
peared and reappeared, glowing and fading.
A road lay before him, descending into the
deeper darkness of a silent hollow. Obscure
buildings lay at a distance about him, their lights
all extinguished. He heard the croaking of frogs
down in the hollow. His first thought was to turn
aside in search of a walk along the road; but im-
mediately he abandoned this thought and took to
the dusty road itself. He descended to the low-
est level of the hollow, and then the road as-
cended again, and a dim horizon met his eye. On
distant slopes isolated street lamps burned faintly,
wavering in the wind.
He walked rapidly along the deserted road, re-
flecting anxiously upon the doctor and the doc-
tor's patient. It seemed to him ages since he had
229


Whispers
received the summons to respond to the call of
the dying man. It seemed to him improbable
that he should arrive in time; and yet he had done
his best.
At the top of another hill he came upon clus-
ters of buildings. A range factory, surrounded
by the homes of its employees—Polaks and Syri-
ans and Greeks and Hungarians—lay at his right.
There was a row of shops at his left: groceries,
a drug-store, dram-shops, a mission hall of some
sort, a pool-room—the flotsam and jetsam of civi-
lization. And presently he came upon a gaunt
old wooden structure of the cheap boarding-house
type: and here at last lights burned in the win-
dows, and a large touring car stood at the curb.
He could see obscure figures moving at the win-
dows.
He looked for a number above the door; and
while he looked, vainly, a man of a foreign ap-
pearance emerged from the house and stood be-
fore him.
He was at a loss for words in which to ask for
information; but it occurred to him to ask, “Is
that Dr. Brinsmade's car?” And he indicated
the touring car at the curb.
The man replied in the affirmative. “Are you
the man from the newspaper?” he added. And
without waiting for a reply—which perhaps he
deemed needless—he said, “He’s on the second
floor, the first room on your right. Go up.”
230


Whispers
hind a curtain at a se-ance?—when it seemed like
the air was full of hands? Well, that's the way
I felt. It seemed to me like a thousand people
were running back and forth like rats, with soft
pattering feet. I heard them on a stairway—
the soft feet. I heard them overhead. And I
didn't wait for nothing more. I opened a back
window and slipped out—and so you see, I didn't
get a damned cent after all. I might just as welf
have let him live!”
Estabrook opened the sheet in his hand.
“It's all there,” said the physician.
The newspaper man Tooked down upon the
harsh face on its pillow. “I’m glad you let me
know,” he said.
“I thought you'd be!”
“And I want to come back a little later and talk
to you . . . about Texas and Colorado, you
know.”
The dying man looked triumphantly at the
physician. “Didn't I say he was a funny guy?”
he demanded.
“And I want to find a friend who'll come and
sit with you—I mean, after the doctor's gone.”
“A friend?”
“Just someone to look after you, when I can't
be here.”
A dark suspicion crossed the haggard face.
“Not one of them ‘Come unto me' sharks?”
Estabrook winced. “No, not unless you want
236


House of the Morgan Ford Road
one of them—though I could find plenty of them
who would just want to be kind to you, who'd not
bother you at all.”
The physician was appealed to again: “Didn't
I say he was a funny guy?”
But Estabrook, tense with anxiety, turned to
go. “I’ve got to get my story in now,” he said;
“I mean, I got to put this in the paper. But I'll
see you later.” And then to the man who seemed
to be the proprietor of the house, “Please show
me where I'll find a telephone !”
237


Chapter XXVII
Introducing Mr. Craddock
MOMENT later he was in a battered tele-
phone booth on the floor below. A low-
power incandescent globe hung near his head, and
under it he smoothed out the confession in his
hand.
He removed the receiver from its hook and
immediately he was speaking: “Central, I've a
rather long message to deliver, if I can get my
connection. Will you see that there isn't any in-
terruption?”
He was amazed to note that his voice was re-
taining a perfect calm, despite the fact that every
fiber in his body seemed to be tingling with anxi-
ety and impatience. And then he gave the Wi-
dette's night number. While he waited he looked
at his watch. His heart bounded when he read
the hour—twenty-five minutes after two. He
leaned despairingly against the side of the booth.
He was too late now, almost certainly. And be-
sides, what would Campbell think of him—of the
fantastically fickle course he had seemed to pur-
sue?
His body straightened with a jerk. A voice
238


Introducing Mr. Craddock
presently there was the clicking sound of metal;
and then—“Hello!” came a clear voice into Esta-
brook's ear.
“Who is this?” demanded Estabrook.
“Craddock—one of the operators.”
Estabrook remained silent for a moment, for
he heard Craddock exchanging words with some
one who had evidently addressed him. And then
he began, “Craddock, this is a fair specimen of
my handwriting. Do you get me?”
A mellow laugh came back over the wire, and
Craddock's voice said, “Your handwriting is all
right, young fellow!”
“Well, Craddock—get one of the fellows to
hold the receiver to your ear, and get ready to
print.”
There was another parley in the distance, and
then Craddock's voice replied again: “Well, go
steady, so I'll have time to send my lines off. You
know it won't do to get balled up.”
“I’ll go steady,” said Estabrook.
And then he listened breathlessly to a confusion
of noises—like hail striking upon glass; and he
knew that Craddock was trying his keyboard and
releasing the familiar line of “pi"—
et a o in s h r d 1 u cm f w y p
Then a reassuring voice said deliberately,
“Now go ahead!”
He improvised an introduction for the story
in brief phrases, uttering his words with the ex-
24I


Whispers
actness of a metronome's beat. Presently he was
reading from the confession before him. Word
by word it went into the receiver—and always
he heard, coming back from the far away, the
reassuring tapping of the keys, as faint as sounds
in fairyland. There were seconds when he felt
he must explode, from fear that the machine
would halt, or that the telephone connection would
be broken, or that someone would come into the
telephone booth and drag him away from this
one critical task of a lifetime. But there were
no interruptions, and after a seemingly inter-
minable time he came to the end of the confes-
sion, and read off the name of the man who had
made it, and the names of the witnesses.
Then he added two final paragraphs:
The slayer lay dying in a house at Fillmore ave-
nue and Morgan Ford Road at three o'clock this
morning.
And then—
There was a rumor afloat last night that the
crime had been committed by a young man named
Cape, a nephew of the slain man. But this proved
to have no foundation in fact.
He waited for a long, breathless moment, and
then he heard Craddock's voice saying compla-
cently, “She's gone!”
He could have danced with joy. “Craddock
old man,” he said jubilantly, “if the Vidette
242


Whispers
hand on the door beside him. He looked at his
watch, tilting its face toward a nearby street light.
It was fifteen minutes past three. “Good night,”
he said, “and thank you.”
The doctor put forth his hand listlessly to help
close the door; and then the machine was gone.
Estabrook rushed into the lobby of Madam
Joan's, making an almost ludicrous effort to seem
composed. He reminded himself that he really
must not arouse the house. The elevator was no
longer running, and he rushed up three flights of
stairs, three steps at a time, yet on tip-toe. And
his heart sank when he reached his own door, for
beyond that door not a breath of sound was
audible.
Yet when he had opened the door his face be-
came radiant. They hadn't gone yet!
Cape was lying, fully dressed, on Estabrook's
bed, sound asleep; and Meade, who seemingly had
just arisen from his chair, was moving toward the
bed as if the time had come to awaken the sleeper.
He turned at the sound of Estabrook's entrance.
“We were just getting ready to start,” he said.
“Never mind,” said Estabrook. “I’ve certain
things to explain to you. Will you sit down?”
He glanced anxiously at the bed. It had occurred
to him that it would be a very fine thing if Cape
remained asleep for the time being. And then
he added, with a kind of inscrutable glance at both
officers, one after the other—“We’ve been play-
248


Whispers
his shoulder. But the sheet of paper still re-
mained in Estabrook's hands.
“Brinsmade l’’ exclaimed Meade at last. He
was impressed now. It seemed that Brinsmade
was a physician known to everyone.
And then Office Hankins exclaimed—“Old Pete
Moss!” And by way of explanation he informed
his fellow officer that he had walked a beat in the
Morgan Ford neighborhood a year ago, and that
he knew Pete Moss very well—old Moss, pro-
prietor of a rooming house. “And his name on
any document would make it genuine to me,” he
added.
Meade wavered slightly. “I might take that
along and show it to the chief,” he repeated.
“No,” said Estabrook, “I couldn't let you have
it to-night. I might have to produce that at the
office. Besides, this business is largely a matter
between the chief and me. I'll show it to him
to-morrow.”
But Meade's resolution became strengthened
again. He shook his head. “All right,” he
said, “you can do what you think best to-morrow.
But we're going to take our man along to-night.
We've made the arrest and there's nothing to do
but to take him to the station. If he's not the
man wanted, a little investigation will get his re-
lease to-morrow. But to-night he goes with us.”
Cape murmured where he lay on the bed, and
moved uneasily. Meade looked at his watch.
25o


What the Morning Brought
kins did not wish to smoke just then, it seemed.
He took the proffered cigar and dropped it into
his pocket with a practised air. And then Esta-
brook closed the door behind them.
Alone in the room, his first impulse was to rush
to the bed, to drag Cape from it, to dance about
him, to tell him the good news. And then an
invisible hand stayed him. Cape's face was
turned toward him now. And it seemed so amaz-
ingly smooth and young and wistful. Sadness
was the quality which had become his habitual
garb of late. Estabrook remained looking down
at the slumbering youth for a long moment. Then
he put his hand to his mouth and suppressed a
yawn. He took out his watch and began to wind
it. It seemed to be nearly run down. And then
he took a seat in the most comfortable chair in
the room. He moved the chair a time or two as
if it weren't quite placed to suit him. Presently
he had it over against the wall, where he could
rest his feet on the window sill.
For a long time he pondered; and then he
nodded; and then he slept.
He was awakened by Cape's eyes gazing at
him, startled, yet forlorn, and by Cape's voice
crying out in agonized tones—“Oh, what's hap-
pened?”
He got up sleepily and rubbed his eyes. A
shaft of sunlight fell across the floor—a very
253


Whispers
short shaft. He thought it must be very late—
perhaps nearly noon. He turned and gazed into
Cape's eyes. “Happened?” he repeated. How
could he tell Cape in a word what had happened?
“This is what has happened: the man who slew
your uncle Pheneas Drumm died in this city early
this morning. You're no more guilty of the crime
than I am. There isn't a shadow hangs over you.
You're innocent—and you're free.”
He went to the window, opening it wide. He
leaned out until a newsboy on the corner caught
sight of him. And then he made a signal. A
moment later he was reading his own story in
the Vidette—really cleverly displayed, after all.
And with a light almost of incredulity in his eyes
he was reading the monstrously erroneous story
in the News.
“Here,” he said, thrusting the Widette into
Cape's hands. “Go to your room and read it.
And take my word for it, no matter what you see
anywhere else. It's the real story. I know, for
I wrote it. Good-by.” He almost literally
thrust Cape out of the room.
He was tremendously eager to get to the of-
fice, to talk to Campbell, to explain things. But
Campbell wouldn't be down for a long time yet.
There wouldn't be a soul about the office.
He turned about, taking in the room in which
he stood. It would be his last night in that room.
He didn't like the place—and he didn't like
254


Whispers
want to talk about is—is a couple of of part-
nerships 1”
Madam Joan was just coming up the stairs as
they descended. She was coming to summon
Monsieur Estabrook. “A call on the telephone,”
she said.
Over the wire Estabrook heard a rasping voice
inquire—“Is that you, Whispers?”
He stiffened with indignation; and then he re-
laxed. It was the voice of Beakman. “It's Es-
tabrook,” he replied shortly.
“Estabrook, yes. I've just gotten up from my
virtuous couch, Estabrook,” he said.
“A quaint expression, that,” said Estabrook.
“Where did you get it?”
“That's a very excellent story you've got in the
News this morning. I'm much obligedl” contin-
ued the rasping voice.
“It's a much better one I've got in the Widette.
You're weſcome.”
He could feel that Beakman, startled, was lis-
tening for him to continue. And he added, “I
don't want to dump any scrap iron into that vir-
tuous couch of yours, Beakman, but I'm afraid
your people face an awful libel suit if you printed
that absurd rubbish you stole from me last night.
Good-by.” And he allowed the telephone re-
ceiver to slip back quietly into its place.
256


Chapter XXIX
Conclusion
MONTH later Campbell was seated at his
desk late at night, entertaining a friend—
not a newspaper man—who had dropped in after
the theater. The work of the day was done and
most of the reporters had left the office. The
rumbling of the presses could be heard down in
the basement. An early edition of the Vidette was
being run off.
Campbell, as he sat confronting his caller, fair-
ly radiated happiness and contentment.
“It's a great life you fellows lead,” remarked
his friend, regarding him with pleasantly musing
eyes, “a fascinating life.”
“It is,” agreed Campbell unaffectedly, smiling
back at him.
“Yet I don't know that I envy you,” continued
the other. “I’ve an idea you must get a wrong
point of view in a lot of ways. The rush and ex-
citement of it all, and the restſessness—it must
seem to you, little by little, that the world is noth-
ing but a brawling tavern.”
The smiling expression remained in Campbell's
eyes. “But doesn't that pretty nearly describe
life?” he asked; “–a ‘brawling tavern'?”
257