WHISPERS
 
 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
 
 WHISPERS 
 
 By 
 
 LOUIS DODGE 
 
 CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 
 
 NEW YORK :::::: 1920
 
 T, 1080, ar 
 CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 
 
 Published April, 1920
 
 TO 
 
 JOSEPH HERGESHEIMER 
 
 2135884
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 / 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 I. WHAT THE MOON FOUND i 
 
 II. ONE OF OUR MASTERS 10 
 
 III. "THE MAN is HERE!" 16 
 
 IV. THE LOST TAVERN 24 
 
 V. THE TAVERN'S GUEST 31 
 
 VI. A HAND THAT TREMBLED 39 
 
 VII. THE CONFEDERATE 50 
 
 VIII. THE Two JOURNALS 57 
 
 IX. A NEW LODGER 64 
 
 X. CAPE COMES IN 72 
 
 XL ESTABROOK WONDERS 85 
 
 XII. IN THE PLACE OF MASKS 90 
 
 XIII. A TALK WITH CAMPBELL 103 
 
 XIV. "THE DRUMM-CASE ESTABROOK" .... 114 
 XV. THE SPIDER AND THE FLY 125 
 
 XVI. THE WEAVING OF THE WEB 138 
 
 XVII. THE FLY APPEARS 149 
 
 XVIII. THE FLY ENTERS 162 
 
 XIX. THE TERMS OF THE TREATY 172 
 
 XX. ESTABROOK SHOWS His HAND 182 
 
 XXL SETTING THE STAGE . . . 188 
 
 XXII. A COMPACT WITH THE CHIEF 193 
 
 XXIII. "PIECES OF EIGHT" . . . 201 
 
 XXIV. SOMEBODY BLUNDERS 209 
 
 XXV. A SUMMONS FOR ESTABROOK 220 
 
 XXVI. THE HOUSE OF THE MORGAN FORD ROAD . . 229 
 
 XXVII. INTRODUCING MR. CRADDOCK 238 
 
 XXVIII. WHAT THE MORNING BROUGHT 245 
 
 XXIX. CONCLUSION 257
 
 WHISPERS 
 
 Chapter I 
 What the Moon Found 
 
 THE 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
 
 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 huma'h 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
 
 Whispers 
 
 the room and the silence was unbroken, the spuri- 
 ous knight almost created the illusion of reality, 
 of severity, of guardianship. 
 
 The man in the room turned once "as he was 
 required to do to note the reassuring presence 
 of the armored knight, and then his mind became 
 at peace again. He had no cause for fear. On 
 the contrary, he had every reason for self-con- 
 gratulation. He was making handsome profits 
 day by day. The world was full of fools to whom 
 gaiety was a kind of disease. Nothing had power 
 to check their folly. Though the world might 
 be coming to an end they would dance and pos- 
 ture and romp and pay the fiddler. Nothing 
 checked his progress along the pleasant path of 
 prosperity. The fools would continue to bring 
 their contributions to him though the world were 
 coming to an end. 
 
 Though the world were coming to an end. . . . 
 
 The knight in armor at the foot of the stair- 
 way, just outside the closed door leading to the 
 upper storeroom, underwent a mysterious change. 
 He seemed to expand, to become alive. And yet 
 he did not move. And almost immediately he 
 resumed his former status: that of a lifeless and 
 rather absurd figure. 
 
 The momentary transformation was due to a 
 reflected light. The door behind him had opened 
 very slowly, very slightly; but in moving it had 
 caught the rays of light from the lamp in the 
 
 6
 
 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 
 
 HIGH 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. 
 
 10
 
 One of Our Masters 
 
 He knew that the great facades 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! How like it was to the cap- 
 sheaf and crown of all other men's activities! 
 
 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 a^n 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 lago 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 
 
 12
 
 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. 
 
 13
 
 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-
 
 One of Our Masters 
 
 seum, Cook. It's a newspaper. Just get at the 
 facts, so far as there are any facts, and put them 
 into plain English, and not in the jargon of the 
 police report. All right, now. So they found 
 old Drumm dead, all surrounded by false faces. 
 Oh, I say, Cook there's a touch for you, those 
 false faces. Be sure to work them into your 
 story. Not every assassin has the good taste to 
 pick a background of false faces. All right. Get 
 your stuff in as soon as you can. Get a picture 
 if possible. The police ought to unearth one. 
 Good-by." 
 
 Beakman turned away from the phone after 
 the instrument had clicked back into the receiver. 
 His eyes were gleaming. So the mill was 
 grinding, then! Old Drumm murdered the 
 mysterious old Pheneas Drumm, who was re- 
 puted to be a miser and a millionaire, and who had 
 lived mysteriously amid his painted masks. Old 
 Drumm murdered 
 
 But the eager light in Beakman's eyes gave 
 place to a startled stare. He was no longer alone 
 in the city room. During the moment his back 
 was turned an intruder had entered. 
 
 iy
 
 Chapter III 
 "The Man is Here!" 
 
 INTRUDER 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 
 
 16
 
 '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 facades of the great 
 office-buildings, and then down into the lighted 
 street.
 
 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- 
 
 18
 
 '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 
 
 19
 
 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." 
 
 20
 
 '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." 
 
 21
 
 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.
 
 Chapter IV 
 The Lost Tavern 
 
 THE 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!'*
 
 Chapter V 
 The Tavern's Guests 
 
 MADAM 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 
 
 31
 
 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 Fidette 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-a-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 Vidette 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 
 Fidette 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 
 Fidette, 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 cloJsely. 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.
 
 Chapter VI 
 A Hand that Trembled 
 
 r~ j^HE two new-comers who had appeared in 
 A 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 
 
 40
 
 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. 
 
 41
 
 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 wr T free to eat the 
 
 bread which had been n he ate 
 
 eagerly. He ate until 
 peared. He ate the 
 drawing this towar 
 of an almost sulk. 
 
 "Come, what 
 roast beef?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Well 1 
 welcome." 
 
 The strange creai . 
 
 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 
 
 like everything else. You think about it. You 
 know I'm right." 
 
 "Some newspapers," said Estabrook quietly. 
 
 The third diner now lifted his eyes timidly to 
 Estabrook's. "Every business attracts some good 
 people an3 some bad people," he ventured. 
 
 "That's the simple truth," said Estabrook. 
 
 But the derelict declared with a certain heat: 
 "The good people get skinned, and the crooks 
 gobble up everything." 
 
 The waitress returned presently with the second 
 order of roast beef; and when Estabrook had in- 
 dicated to her by a glance for whom it was in- 
 tended, he gave his undivided attention for a mo- 
 ment to the group of men at the other end of the 
 room the men who idled around a circular table. 
 One of these men now leaned forward that he 
 might drop the ash from his cigarette into his 
 coffee-cup ; and resuming his reclining position, he 
 said in a pensively drawling voice as if in con- 
 tinuation of an idea previously put forward by 
 some member of his group : 
 
 "You've got to feel sorry for any poor devil 
 whose life is snuffed out as if it didn't amount to 
 anything more than a match. And yet I suppose 
 if you'd search the city over with a fine-tooth 
 comb you'd not find a soul of less actual value 
 to the community than that old skin-flint who 
 has just gone to his acccount." 
 
 The words exerted a subtle influence upon the 
 47
 
 Whispers 
 
 very atmosphere of the room. An instant of un- 
 broken silence ensued. All the men over at the 
 round table were rapt in thought. Estabrook's 
 interest in what had just been said was such that 
 his head seemed to lift. His eyes narrowed. He 
 seemed to be waiting intently to hear what would 
 follow. And Beakman, who had been taking 
 rather furtive notice of the man whom he had 
 called Whispers, now regarded him narrowly 
 as if he suspected that any reference to the mur- 
 der which had been committed that night must 
 have for him a special significance. The timid 
 youth at Estabrook's table had caught the words, 
 too, and he seemed to listen with a kind of terror 
 to hear what would follow. Only the derelict 
 seemed unconcerned. He was attacking the food 
 which had been placed before him. The edge of 
 his hunger seemed quite as sharp as ever. 
 The man over at the round table continued: 
 "No, if I were asked to select a man in the 
 whole of Missouri City who might be expected 
 to slip over on the other side of the great divide 
 without being missed or mourned, I'd unhesi- 
 tatingly pronounce the name of old Pheneas 
 Drumm." 
 
 The crash of a goblet was heard in the room. 
 The timid youth at Estabrook's table, drinking a 
 final draught of water, had seemed almost to col- 
 lapse when the name of Pheneas Drumm was 
 spoken. Now, with trembling fingers he was pick- 
 
 48
 
 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 
 
 MADAM 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. 
 
 SO
 
 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
 
 Whispers 
 
 indicating that, after all, that was where her real 
 business lay. 
 
 Estabrook left his table now. He spoke a part- 
 ing word to the derelict: "Take your time; and 
 . good-night." He picked up the two checks 
 which lay near his plate and approached the 
 cashier. 
 
 Madam left off asking the cashier questions as 
 he drew near, and again she smiled at him. She 
 noted the fact that he placed two checks on th'e 
 desk and she understood perfectly, she thought, 
 the presence of an alien type of diner in her room. 
 "Monsieur is a Good Samaritan," she said. She 
 liked Good Samaritans, because they were not 
 ones to complain when they were overcharged. 
 
 He did not reply to this specifically. "You 
 have a very pleasant dining room," he said. 
 "And famous, too. I've heard of it long before I 
 knew I should ever see it." 
 
 Her eyes really brightened. "How very nice !" 
 she said. She spoke English in a manner which 
 would have elicited no comment among her Ameri- 
 can patrons save only that she enunciated her 
 words rather more precisely than they are com- 
 monly enunciated, and occasionally she placed 
 her accents rather unexpectedly. "But that would 
 apply to the rooms above not to this one," she 
 added. "Some evening Monsieur might visit one 
 of the dining rooms />-stairs." 
 
 52
 
 The Confederate 
 
 "Still it's very nice here. Those gentlemen at 
 the round table " 
 
 "From the Fidette" 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 wwderstand," 
 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 Vidette 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 Fidette. 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 " 
 
 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 Fi- 
 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 
 
 BEAKMAN 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 
 Fidette 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 Fidette 
 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
 
 Whispers 
 
 with us by this time to-morrow." Knowing that 
 none of the men would like to ask if he meant 
 to put the new-comer on the Drumm case, he 
 added, "If we could beat the News in finding out 
 what really happened around in old Drumm's 
 shop it would give us a boost. If this chap proves 
 to be genuine I think I'll call his hand. He said 
 forty-eight hours. I'd be willing to give him 
 forty-eight days. Everybody would like to know 
 what's back of the Drumm tragedy. There was 
 a kind of glamour about the old man. I never 
 knew anything about him but that's it. No- 
 body did, seemingly. Was he really fabulously 
 wealthy, as rumor has it? And if so, where did 
 he get his money? Did he steal an idol's eye? 
 and did he have an Indian vendetta concealed 
 about his person? Was he alone in the world? 
 or was there a woman, or women, in the back- 
 ground? Was he an E. Phillips Oppenheim char- 
 acter, or just a lonely old dealer in masks, eking 
 out a scanty livelihood, as the phrase-books have 
 it? That's what the public would like to know. 
 
 And if we could beat the News to it " 
 
 He did not finish the sentence. It was the sort 
 of sentence which implies more when it is left 
 incomplete. But during the silence which ensued 
 a kind of constraint took possession of every man 
 at the table. They were all thinking how diffi- 
 cult it was to "beat the News to it" in anything. 
 More depressing still, they were thinking how 
 
 60
 
 The Two Journals 
 
 pretense and bombast and assurance seemed to 
 carry men further on the News than genuine merit 
 carried other men on the Fidette. A good story 
 seemed almost to lose virtue when it was printed 
 in the Fidette; 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 Fidette habit among 
 the people. What I mean is that nine persons out 
 of ten take a newspaper bcause 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 Fidette 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 Fidette 
 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 
 
 WHEN Estabrook mounted the stairs lead- 
 ing to Madam Joan's upper dining-rooms 
 he had made up his mind pretty definitely what he 
 should be able to do, what he was going to do. 
 He was going to work for the Fidette. That, for 
 the present, was the main thing. His work would 
 begin at about one o'clock in the afternoon. That 
 was the hour at which work always began on a 
 morning newspaper. He should want to get up 
 any time between ten o'clock and noon. Those 
 were the hours to which he had been accustomed 
 during most of his experiences as a newspaper 
 man. There was no need of his going to bed 
 before two and at present he felt no need of 
 sleep or rest. 
 
 He looked at his watch. It was half past one. 
 He might take another half hour to get his bear- 
 ings, to acquire the sense of being settled again 
 and at home. 
 
 He meant to do good work for the Fidette. 
 He liked Campbell's manner and appearance. 
 He liked the appearance of the other Fidette 
 
 64
 
 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 Fidette 
 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- 
 man. 
 
 He meant to write the story of the Drumm 
 murder for the Fidette. 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 Fidette 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-
 
 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 1 
 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 thisi 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 Ftdette 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 Fidette 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
 
 Whispers 
 
 But Madam lightly demurred. It would be 
 quite sufficient if he stopped at his leisure, on some 
 occasion when he was passing her desk. It was 
 her theory that a wary landlady makes a wary 
 guest and she did not like to entertain wary 
 guests. She was about to withdraw when Esta- 
 brook detained her with a question 
 
 "And, Madam the young man who sat at my 
 table to-night whom you spoke of as meaning to 
 leave to-morrow" 
 
 "Ah, a sad case. He wished earnestly to lo- 
 cate himself in the city, but it seems no one needs 
 him." 
 
 But Estabrook shook his head decisively. 
 "That couldn't be true," he declared. "Men are 
 always needed, everywhere the right kind of 
 men. The trouble with most young chaps is that 
 they don't know how to find a place, though there 
 may be places all about them needing to be filled. 
 ,You have to be a bit forward, you know I mean, 
 a man looking for a job. You almost have to 
 say 'This is my place. I'm going to take it.' 
 The big fellows like. that. It makes them think: 
 'There's something to that boy. He's got the 
 right stuff in him.' I'll tell you about this what 
 did you say his name was?" 
 
 With all her shrewdness Madam did not stop 
 to realize that she had not really said what her 
 guest's name was. "Cape," she replied. "Philip 
 Cape." 
 
 70
 
 A New Lodger 
 
 "Well, when you see him again suggest to him 
 that he might speak to me to his advantage. I'll 
 be getting about a good bit. I might be able to 
 help him, you know. And thank you for so com- 
 fortable a room, Madam. Good-night."
 
 Chapter X 
 Cape Comes in 
 
 HE sat down in one of the two chairs the 
 room contained and listened to Madam's 
 retreating footsteps until they could be heard no 
 more. 
 
 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
 
 Whispers 
 
 It was Cape, the young man of the dining room, 
 the stranger of the trembling hands. 
 
 Estabrook did not stir for an instant; and then 
 he brought his eyes to rest tranquilly on the face 
 of the man outside his door. He did not speak; 
 but his whole being expressed, subtly, an invita- 
 tion. 
 
 "I saw your light," faltered Cape. "I just 
 stopped a minute . . . I've not been able to sleep. 
 A bad toothache " 
 
 "Won't you come in?" Estabrook succeeded 
 in putting a pleasantly casual note into his voice. 
 A smile was taking form on his lips. 
 
 "If you don't mind . . ." The youth crossed 
 the threshold and hesitated before he moved 
 toward the unoccupied chair which Estabrook had 
 indicated by a wave of his hand. Then, obviously 
 ill at ease and with nothing to say, he sat down. 
 
 "I'm glad you stopped," said Estabrook. "I 
 think I know how you feel unsettled, I mean, 
 and restless. I've often felt that way myself. I 
 think Madam Joan told me you're a stranger in 
 town just as I am." 
 
 "Yes," replied the other, "I've been here only 
 a month. I'm leaving to-morrow." He lapsed 
 into an abstracted mood and sat gazing at the 
 floor. Once he seemed to try to arouse himself, 
 to say something; but after swallowing with diffi- 
 culty and casting a restless, haunted glance at 
 
 76
 
 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." 
 
 32
 
 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 
 
 80
 
 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. I. 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 matinee. 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 
 oh! 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?" 
 
 82
 
 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! 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 
 
 A 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 
 
 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 
 
 8?
 
 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 Fidette. 
 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 
 
 HE 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 
 
 91
 
 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 Fidette 
 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 Fidette'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 
 1 1 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
 
 Whispers 
 
 tomatic movements and then went away patting 
 her lips. 
 
 He had finished his breakfast and was turning 
 away from the cashier's desk when Cape entered 
 the dining room: Cape in a mood as despondent 
 and furtive and aloof as at any moment during the 
 night before. 
 
 Estabrook confronted him with a certain energy 
 and cheerfulness. "We meet again!" he ex- 
 claimed with a smile. And then, as by an after- 
 thought, he added, "If you're anywhere about this 
 afternoon I may find time to look you up; and at 
 any rate suppose we have dinner together this 
 evening say between six and seven. You can be 
 here, can't you?" And he went away without 
 giving Cape time to make any excuses. 
 
 He thought of his appointment with Campbell 
 of the Vidette; but it was much too early to hope 
 to find him at his desk now. Campbell wouldn't 
 be down before twelve o'clock or so, and for per- 
 haps an hour thereafter he would be busy with his 
 assignment book and in getting his reporters away 
 for their afternoon work. One o'clock would be 
 a suitable hour at which to call. \ 
 
 In a moment he was on the street, strolling in 
 what seemed an aimless manner though it was 
 only seemingly so. Already he was getting the 
 feel of the city, as he would have said: he was 
 acquiring a certain proprietorship in the streets, 
 getting his bearings, finding his way about. He 
 
 94
 
 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." 
 
 96
 
 In the Place of Masks 
 
 i 
 
 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 Fidette." 
 
 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. i 
 
 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 
 
 97
 
 Whispers 
 
 it was a room where invisible spirits exerted an 
 influence where Pheneas Drumm, though dead, 
 still spoke. 
 
 He stood for an instant, oppressed by the 
 weight of certain solemn reflections; and then he 
 was aroused by the officer, who had opened the 
 door leading up into the storerooms. 
 
 "He came down this way," said the officer. 
 
 Estabrook turned to inspect the stairway. He 
 stooped for evidences of footprints. They were 
 there, though only faintly discernible, and there 
 were many of them. No doubt a score of per- 
 sons had ascended and descended the stairs since 
 the murderer had come and gone. He turned to 
 the officer. "Were the impressions taken?" he 
 asked. 
 
 "Very likely. I only went on duty this morn- 
 ing." 
 
 The armored knight beside the doorway en- 
 gaged Estabrook's attention. He stepped closer 
 for a detailed inspection. 
 
 "A fool thing 1" was the officer's comment. 
 
 "Yes," conceded the other. His back was 
 toward the officer now; and he stooped lower to 
 see why the knight's sword did not rest more 
 snugly in its scabbard. Suddenly a beam of light 
 flitted across his face and was gone. He turned 
 about with an indifferent air. "Yes, a fool 
 thing," he repeated. "Sword and all. It's made 
 of pewter, I suppose." 
 
 98
 
 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 
 
 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 " 
 
 "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 
 
 100
 
 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 
 101
 
 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. 
 
 102:
 
 Chapter XIII 
 A Talk with Campbell 
 
 AFTER 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. 
 
 103
 
 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 Fidette. 
 
 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- 
 
 104
 
 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 Vidette 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 Fidette'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* 
 
 105
 
 Whispers 
 
 was entirely to his liking. Campbell was just dis- 
 missing the last of his reporters; and now he 
 glanced up at Estabrook with a pleasant if some- 
 what whimsical "Well!" and then leaned for- 
 ward to draw a chair into companionable prox- 
 imity to his own. 
 
 Estabrook sat down; but as he did so he con- 
 tinued to glance about the room, and finally, bring- 
 ing his eyes back to Campbell's, he said, "A dif- 
 ferent sort of place altogether from the News 
 office." 
 
 In response to Campbell's glance of inquiry he 
 added, "I went up there last night before I saw 
 you at Madam Joan's. I thought I might apply 
 for work there but I changed my mind." 
 
 Campbell nodded. "They're very successful 
 over at the News," he said, "but scarcely anything 
 else." 
 
 Estabrook smiled. "I know that sort of news- 
 paper office," he said. "I mean, the kind where 
 they don't give vacations, and cut down the men's 
 expense accounts, and have the habit of saying 
 No to every man who asks for more money and 
 where they finally throw you out, old and penni- 
 less, as if they didn't acknowledge any responsi- 
 bility for you at all, or any indebtedness to you. 
 It's all based on what you might call money think- 
 ing if that means anything." 
 
 Campbell was regarding his visitor musingly. 
 If there had been, a touch of banter in his greet- 
 
 106
 
 A Talk with Campbell 
 
 ing at first, it was gone now. There was a cer- 
 tain veiled intensity in Estabrook's manner which 
 the Fidette 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 
 Fidette 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 Fidette 
 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 stones. 
 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 
 
 108
 
 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 I ran into story 
 No. i. 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 
 
 109
 
 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 
 
 no
 
 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. 
 
 in
 
 Whispers 
 
 The Golden Era Free Transportation Company 
 have a scheme which you can see through at a 
 glance, yet it's the sort of thing which fascinates 
 simple persons the sort of individuals P. T. Bar- 
 num had in mind when he uttered his one famous 
 saying. Here's their scheme. They advertise 
 street-car tickets at six for a quarter, though 
 everybody knows that the street-car company 
 won't sell for less than five cents straight, even 
 if you bought by the million." 
 
 "It's not free transportation, then?" inquired 
 Campbell. 
 
 "The sixth ticket is free. They work their 
 quaint little graft on the endless chain plan. We'll 
 suppose that I go to them to claim their offer of 
 six tickets for a quarter. First I pay my quar- 
 ter. Then I consent to go out and find five per- 
 sons wlio will accept their offer of six tickets for 
 a quarter. When my five purchasers come in 
 and give up a quarter apiece I get my six tickets. 
 You see, the Golden Era people have kept their 
 word so far. I've got six tickets for a quarter, 
 though the transportation company doesn't sell 
 them for a mill less than five cents apiece. But 
 the problem has ceased to concern just me and 
 the Golden Era people. It now has for its 
 dramatis persona five persons and the company. 
 And these five persons undertake to do what I 
 did. The next step presto ! shows twenty-five 
 persons involved. Do you follow the process? 
 
 112
 
 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."
 
 Chapter XIV 
 "The Drumm Case Estabrook" 
 
 ESTABROOK 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 rea^y 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." 
 
 114
 
 "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
 
 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 
 
 116
 
 "The Drumm Case Estabrook" 
 
 declaration that little Benny never stole a thing 
 in his life. When the financial magnate informs 
 me that he got his start by saving the first dollar 
 he ever earned, I allow the statement to pass ; but 
 I notice that when he buys apples at the fruit 
 stand he keeps the largest one for himself. You 
 see what I'm getting at. Well, the man who slew 
 Pheneas Drumm did confess to me, though he 
 doesn't know it." 
 
 "And you met him " 
 
 "I met him at Madam Joan's. He's stopping 
 at Madam Joan's at this moment." 
 
 Again Campbell seemed at the point of losing 
 his patience completely. "But, my dear sir," he 
 demanded, "how would you explain the man's 
 being in a place like Madam Joan's a place so 
 obscurely located that it's known chiefly only to 
 the initiated?" 
 
 Again Estabrook's eyes brightened. "That 
 brings me to another one of my theories," he 
 said. "Do you know, if I had a nice little brother 
 whom I was particularly fond of, and he killed 
 some helpless old man, what I'd advise him to 
 do? I'd advise him to stop at the most prominent 
 hotel in the largest city in the world, and make 
 his appearance only on the most fashionable 
 thoroughfares. The amateur criminal always 
 seeks the obscurest place possible; the quietest 
 hotel, the most deserted streets. The man's being 
 
 117
 
 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-jtfstification, "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- 
 
 118
 
 "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 
 
 119
 
 Whispers 
 
 to understand that? That's the real province of 
 a newspaper. Suppose you publish a learned arti- 
 cle on the science of government a fine abstrac- 
 tion. What's the result? Fifty of your readers 
 will nod their approval and say, 'The Vidette is 
 an excellent newspaper.' Yet forty of the fifty are 
 too busy to read the article, or they know what's 
 in it and agree with it without reading. Nine out 
 of the fifty will read it without grasping it. Only 
 one will really appreciate it and perhaps cut it 
 out and file it. But when you slay a dragon 
 why, then, man, the crowd comes on the run. 
 There are thousands of persons interested in the 
 fake schemes I've told you about. They're in 
 them themselves, or their neighbors are. If you 
 kill a dragon thousands of men say, 'It's in the 
 Vidette! And if you keep on killing dragons you 
 soon find that you have to increase your supply of 
 print paper, and that you haven't any return cop- 
 ies on your hands." 
 
 Campbell's smile was becoming a little less pat- 
 ronizing. "And the Drumm mystery," he sug- 
 gested, "how does your theory of dragon-slaying 
 apply to that?" 
 
 For an instant Estabrook seemed at a loss for 
 words. Then with new energy he said, "Ah, that 
 touches another theory of mine the Drumm case. 
 Let me go into that. You know there are only 
 two things that a newspaper must do : it must in- 
 form and it must entertain. It must publish facts 
 
 120
 
 "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 
 
 121
 
 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 Fi- 
 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 
 
 122
 
 "The Drumm Case E stab rook" 
 
 yours. You are keen to find him. You are eager 
 to be in at the finish. At such a time every man 
 is part of a mob though he may not stir out of 
 his own house. His interests, to some extent 
 even his passions, are bound up in those of a great 
 number of men. The slaying of an individual 
 has in it, in little, all the elements of a great trag- 
 edy. And in the case of Drumm there are added 
 certain obscurities which increase the dramatic 
 value of the situation. The mystery surrounding 
 him ; the fact that thousands knew him superficially 
 without knowing him really; the absence of any 
 obvious motive on the part of his slayer all 
 these circumstances help- And it's the Fidette's 
 story. The News has put itself out of court by 
 its silly attack on the police force. That's stale 
 stuff in no matter what city you happen to be. A 
 police force has got little or nothing to do with 
 crime. It's all right for cases of disturbances of 
 the peace, to arrest men for beating their wives 
 or children or dumb beasts. But when it comes 
 to criminals, a police officer is almost as helpless 
 as a town marshal would be against an invading 
 army. Public sentiment makes him helpless 
 even if he had any real ability. If he arrests a 
 real criminal unless the latter is a stranger in 
 the city there's a bondsman for the criminal be- 
 fore he is taken as far as the nearest police sta- 
 tion. And if his case is taken into court it de- 
 velops that the prosecuting witness has been 
 
 123
 
 Whispers 
 
 warned that if he offers testimony against him 
 his property and the wellbeing of himself and 
 his family will be placed in jeopardy. It's no use 
 abusing the police. That's not the newspaper's 
 job. It's to ferret out facts and publish them. 
 And my job, with your permission, will be to lay 
 bare all the facts touching the death of that old 
 man who rented masks, but who kept the best 
 mask he had for his own personal use." 
 
 Campbell was smiling again but his smile now 
 was one of a certain deep satisfaction. He partly 
 arose and took down an assignment book from the 
 top of his desk. In it he made an entry of four 
 words : 
 
 The Drumm case Estabrook. 
 
 He held the book so that Estabrook could read. 
 Then he said briskly, yet cordially "And good 
 luck to you." 
 
 124
 
 Chapter XV 
 The Spider and the Fly 
 
 ESTABROOK 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. 
 
 125
 
 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 
 128
 
 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- 
 most " 
 
 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
 
 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 

 
 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 
 
 133
 
 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 
 
 134
 
 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." i 
 
 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 
 135
 
 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 tii le 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."
 
 Chapter XVI 
 The Weaving of the Web 
 
 THE 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
 
 The Weaving of the Web 
 
 "And your uncle?" ventured Estabrook at 
 last. 
 
 "My uncle unfortunately, the story has to 
 come back to him. It was still a good while before 
 I heard anything about him; and then a bit of 
 news came quite by accident. He was here here 
 in this city. He was seen and located by chance 
 by a man I'd been working for. And he kept the 
 matter a secret, except that he told me. He 
 thought I'd know what I ought to do, or what I'd 
 want to do." 
 
 "That would have seemed the proper course," 
 remarked Estabrook. 
 
 "I suppose so if it had been anybody but me. 
 But I couldn't decide what to do. Have my uncle 
 arrested and perhaps punished as a defaulter? 
 That would only have seemed to drag my mother's 
 name through the mire. At least, it couldn't have 
 helped her. And for the time being I didn't 
 think of myself or of my own wrongs. My wrongs, 
 compared with my mother's, seemed too small to 
 consider. They didn't seem to exist for a time. 
 It was only little by little that I began to think in 
 a definite way toward a definite conclusion of 
 my uncle. It took me a whole year to get my mind 
 at all straight as to what his real responsibility 
 was. And during that year I kept at my work. I 
 went to live with a neighbor. Our home wasn't 
 ours any more, by this time. I mean, it wasn't 
 mine. I was really at home in the neighbor's 
 
 139
 
 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." 
 
 140
 
 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 
 141
 
 ^Whispers 
 
 timely could have occurred than that Cape should 
 have said at that moment 
 
 "I haven't asked you how you've been faring. 
 You see how wrapped up in myself I am ! I seem 
 to have taken it for granted that you'd prosper." 
 
 Estabrook's laughter was so natural that Beak- 
 man could scarcely have suspected it was meant 
 to cover anything, nor did it at all surprise Cape. 
 "Do you know," he said, "you're the first indi- 
 vidual who has asked me a question since I've 
 registered at Madam Joan's? I seem to have 
 been doing all the questioning myself! But I'm 
 glad you're interested. Yes, I think I've pros- 
 pered, in a very modest way. I found a place to 
 work to-day, at least." 
 
 "And so you'll not try to carry out your 
 plan- 
 But Estabrook interrupted. "That imaginary 
 scheme I outlined to you? Well, in a way that's 
 the sort of work I'm going to do. I'm to collect 
 information of a sort and turn it in to a corpora- 
 tion which makes a business of handling informa- 
 tipn." 
 
 "Information?" echoed Cape, vaguely troubled. 
 
 "I began work only to-day and so I've not got- 
 ten very deeply into it. I'll be able to tell you 
 more about it another time." 
 
 "But at least it's settled that you'll not be going 
 away?" 
 
 "Not for a time. Though my chief object i 
 142
 
 The Weaving of the Web 
 
 life is to go away before very long and tackle a 
 job I've made for myself a long distance from 
 here." 
 
 "Won't you tell me about that?" asked Cape; 
 and his tone and eyes betrayed the fact that to go 
 away a long distance seemed to him just then the 
 most desirable thing a man might do. 
 
 "Of course! though it's a rather common- 
 place story, I'm afraid. It concerns two partner- 
 ships. The first is with a young fellow who per- 
 suaded me to go down into the oil belt in Texas 
 with him more than a year ago. We went into a 
 sort of bonanza town and started a little news- 
 paper. Our idea was to grow up with the town 
 and own a fine property when it became a city." 
 
 "And didn't the town grow?" 
 
 "Yes, it grew rapidly enough. And my part- 
 ner and I did well enough in a way. But we were 
 permitted to accept certain oil stocks in lieu of 
 cash for much of our work; and a time came when 
 we had too much stock and too little money and 
 so it fell to my lot to get out and find a job some- 
 where, so that my partner could keep the business 
 going." 
 
 "You mean that the stocks weren't worth any- 
 thing?" 
 
 "No, I don't mean that though perhaps a 
 good part of them were useless. We'll not know 
 for a long time what some of them are worth. 
 What we do know is that the town is growing 
 
 143
 
 Whispers 
 
 beyond all expectation; that we've got the first 
 and best daily paper in it, and that if we can hold 
 on we'll come in for a lot of unearned increment 
 some day and be fixed for life. But in the mean- 
 time the venture doesn't quite carry itself by 
 reason of those payments in stock and so it re- 
 mains for me to supply a little real money at inter- 
 vals. The plant made enough to pay our printer 
 and the other larger expenses. All I've got to do 
 is to raise enough to pay a reporter." 
 
 He laughed again; and glancing casually at 
 Beakman and the other News man, he noted that 
 they were preparing to depart. 
 
 "And the other partnership?" prompted Cape; 
 "you know you spoke of two." 
 
 "The forming of the second partnership hasn't 
 been quite completed yet. Its permanent forma- 
 tion depends upon the success of the first partner- 
 ship." 
 
 He smiled significantly; and Cape, with a 
 slightly embarrassed yet pleased expression, put 
 in by way of interpretation "I think you mean 
 that the second partnership means marriage?" 
 
 "That's it!" said Estabrook; and so it hap- 
 pened that there was real gaiety in his eyes when 
 Beakman and his companion finally took their de- 
 parture. And then he leaned back in his chair, 
 lost in reflection, though he was not thinking of 
 either of the two partnerships he had just spoken 
 of. He was making a new appraisal of the char- 
 
 144
 
 The Weaving of the Web 
 
 acter of his companion; he was trying to decide 
 how he might best succeed in winning the full con- 
 fidence of this luckless youth who had told him 
 much, and yet so little. 
 
 He had nothing for the moment to do save to 
 camp on Cape's trail to employ the language of 
 his trade. But Cape was not yet ready to tell him 
 everything. Their acquaintanceship needed fuller 
 developing. And Estabrook entertained the 
 theory that a completer acquaintanceship might be 
 developed best, not by one or two long interviews, 
 but by a number of briefer meetings. Cape needed 
 to feel the impetus of loneliness. His source of 
 supply of congenial companionship needed to 
 be shut off again and again. 
 
 He arose briskly. "I ought to be going," he 
 said. "You'll understand that I've a good deal 
 of work ahead of me? But I'm awfully glad to 
 have had this chance to talk to you." He seemed 
 on the point of turning away; and then, as if by 
 an afterthought, he hesitated. "By the way," he 
 added, "I'll be coming in at about eleven to-night. 
 If you haven't gone to bed by that time I'd be 
 glad to hold another little session with you that 
 is, if you think it wouldn't bore you. You see, I'm 
 inclined to feel rather lonesome myself!" 
 
 Cape's face flushed faintly. "Bore me!" he 
 said; "if you only knew " 
 
 "Then I'll look for you at eleven o'clock," said 
 Estabrook briskly. "And if you don't mind, in 
 
 145
 
 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 
 
 147
 
 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
 
 Chapter XVII 
 
 The Fly Appears 
 
 HE spent the whole evening in his room, 
 though he had not planned to do so. His 
 letter-writing held him an hour or so, and then 
 he lapsed into a dreamy mood during which many 
 pleasant aspects of his two partnerships of 
 which he had spoken to Cape passed before his 
 vision; and then he thought long of Cape and his 
 unfortunate plight. When at last he felt the im- 
 pulse to stir he looked at his watch and saw that 
 it was after ten o'clock and then he would not 
 go away lest by chance he might miss Cape. 
 
 Upon second thought he was glad enough not 
 to stir abroad. He was getting a more intimate, 
 a deeper, impression of Madam Joan's strange 
 hostelry; and this impression was tending strongly 
 to produce a mood well adapted to confidences 
 and reminiscences and the other intimacies of con- 
 versation. All about him a sort of eloquent silence 
 had begun to reign, broken only vaguely by whis- 
 pered or murmuring voices and faltering foot- 
 steps, or by the infrequent ascent and descent of 
 the elevator. Something which he took to be 
 
 149
 
 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 u 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, 
 
 150
 
 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
 
 Whispers 
 
 a sort of academic way or if you really live 
 them when a real test comes!" 
 
 "I live them," returned Estabrook; and he 
 added invitingly, "Won't you move your chair 
 a little closer? I know I don't always make 
 myself heard very well." 
 
 It was the first reference he had made to Cape 
 of His infirmity; and his words, uttered with a 
 singular simplicity of manner, served to draw the 
 other man suddenly closer to him in liking and 
 faith. 
 
 "I'm sure it's fine," said Cape; "and yet I can't 
 help thinking there must be a lot of things you've 
 never experienced, or you wouldn't believe that 
 all of life that it ought to be revealed, as you 
 said." Then he suddenly clasped his hands 
 together with painful intensity. "Why, man, 
 there are circumstances in which one couldn't fol- 
 low your plan without inviting ruin without being 
 actually destroyed." He was now kneading his 
 hands nervously; he moved uneasily in his chair; 
 and then most helpless manifestation of all 
 he tried to smile into Estabrook's face, and the 
 smile degenerated into a grimace of agony. 
 
 "You're leaving me in the dark," said Esta- 
 brook gently. "I like to stick to principles. It's 
 the safest way. And you're probably thinking 
 of some special case which if you'll pardon me 
 you may be looking at from a wrong angle." 
 
 "I'm thinking of my own case!" exclaimed 
 152
 
 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!" 
 
 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 
 
 153
 
 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?" 
 
 154
 
 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 
 
 155
 
 Whispers 
 
 to the tendency to do things furtively tc hide 
 our actions and our thoughts we're harking back 
 to our cave-man instincts; to the time when the 
 basis of life was thought to be enmity rather than 
 the wish to help." 
 
 He seemed to be withdrawing from his com- 
 panion then; withdrawing his interests and with 
 them his sympathy. He observed that Cape was 
 struggling with himself. But he seemed to be un- 
 aware of this. He appeared to be yielding to 
 the rather mysterious spell of Madam Joan's 
 house ; to heed the far-off, obscure sounds, to feel 
 the throbbing of all the troubled hearts which 
 had come and gone since the house was founded. 
 
 And little by little it seemed that he was actu- 
 ally casting the weight of these sensations upon 
 his companion too. Cape had sunk into an al- 
 most collapsed, beaten attitude; yet his eyes told 
 the tale of a soul which was struggling through 
 deep waters toward a place of rescue. 
 
 As neither spoke for a long interval another 
 intangible force made itself felt in the room: the 
 force of a charged silence. It changed from a 
 passive a negative force, to an active, positive 
 force. It seemed to hum and then to roar, as if 
 the old house had a departed soul which had come 
 back in agony. Estabrook suddenly sat erect as 
 if with a vague alarm, and his companion followed 
 his example. 
 
 156
 
 "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. 
 
 157
 
 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! " 
 
 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
 
 The Fly Appears 
 
 have slipped back into the room. He must have 
 re-entered by some other door. 
 
 He looked about him narrowly, his body 
 strained in every nerve and muscle. There was 
 no other door. And the one door was closed and 
 had not been moved since his late companion had 
 passed out of it. 
 
 There was only one place in the room where a 
 man might possibly hide. He stepped to the large 
 cabinet against the wall, only a step away. He 
 opened the door of it with fingers which seemed 
 half paralyzed. It was empty save for a few 
 hooks, ready to receive the roomer's garments. 
 The little upper compartment he disregarded. 
 
 Bewilderment gave place to a sharper alarm. 
 There must be some explanation of the matter. 
 Voices did not come from nowhere; and he did 
 not believe that he had become so unstrung that 
 conscience or imagination would play sheer tricks 
 upon him. He stepped hastily to the door and 
 opened it. 
 
 Estabrook was there in the distance, waiting for 
 the return of the elevator, which had just passed 
 slowly upward. He was smoking his last cigarette 
 with a sort of quiet intensity. 
 
 The distressed youth did not close the door 
 again until the elevator had returned and Esta- 
 brook had stepped into it and disappeared. Yet 
 he had stood where he should not be seen. He 
 did not wish Estabrook to know that he had 
 
 159
 
 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. 
 
 "Strange!" 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- 
 
 1 60
 
 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
 
 Chapter XVIII 
 The Fly Enters 
 
 E STAB ROOK smoked tranquilly a moment, 
 as if he were thinking only of the deep 
 satisfaction of the smoke. But presently he 
 glanced from the burning end of his cigarette to 
 the eyes of the man who sat opposite him. His 
 glance was one of friendly reassurance and invi- 
 tation. 
 
 "I have told you a good deal about my uncle," 
 began Cape. "But the only thing that really 
 
 counted " He leaned forward, his elbows 
 
 on his knees, his hands clasped. "I didn't tell 
 you that in my last encounter with my uncle I I 
 killed him." 
 
 As he uttered the words he did not resort to 
 the kind of theatrical mannerism which might 
 have accompanied the announcement. There was 
 a note of incredulity in his voice, which had sunk 
 to a low note. His muscles were strained; he 
 gazed searchingly, helplessly, into Estabrook's 
 eyes as if he sought to learn whether his own 
 words could possibly be true, or how completely 
 they would damn him. 
 
 162
 
 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 knew!" 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. / 
 knew." 
 
 "But you couldn't have known!" 
 
 "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 
 
 164
 
 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!' 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 
 
 168
 
 The Fly Enters 
 
 right, so far as the rest of it is concerned. You've 
 told it all, except how I fought against the temp- 
 tation to go to his shop at night. I'd had long 
 days and nights of worrying, you know; and I'd 
 come to the conclusion that I couldn't get on at 
 all that I'd have to go back home and admit I 
 was a failure. And then I began to hear rumors 
 about 'old man Drumm' about his being a re- 
 cluse, and wealthy, and mysterious. And when at 
 last I fully decided to go to him the decision 
 came so suddenly that I was on my way before 
 I realized it." 
 
 "Yes," said Estabrook soothingly. "We all do 
 a great many things that way, I think." 
 
 "But think where it places me! He's to be 
 buried to-morrow. I saw that in one of the papers. 
 And there won't be a soul belonging to him to see 
 him put away unless I go and you know I 
 couldn't think of going!" 
 
 "Well, why should you?" 
 
 "And there's the question of his estate what- 
 ever it amounts to. There isn't any relative but 
 me; and yet I couldn't go forward to claim it!" 
 
 "Not for a day or so, perhaps yet why not? 
 After all, it will not be necessary. The probate 
 court will act, if it hasn't already acted. The 
 public administrator will step in. There's a ma- 
 chine kept running for such cases." 
 
 He could see that Cape had not been definitely 
 enlightened by these words, and he volunteered 
 
 169
 
 Whispers 
 
 the information : "Their first plan will be to find 
 a relative or better, a thousand relatives, so that 
 the estate will be eaten up in litigation. And 
 pending the discovery of relatives they are likely 
 to keep his business going, if it's a profitable busi- 
 ness. And you've only to step forward in your 
 own good time and claim whatever there is, minus 
 tribute to the machine I've just mentioned." 
 
 He was smiling drily; and he was not prepared 
 for Cape's outburst. 
 
 "Oh, but don't you see," exclaimed Cape de- 
 spairingly, "that's not the problem at all, so far as 
 I'm concerned. So far as the estate's concerned, 
 I should think they'd refuse to give it to me, after 
 what I've done " 
 
 Estabrook spoke calmly: "I believe Blackstone 
 has it that a man cannot derive a benefit from his 
 own crime. But that could scarcely apply here 
 in America, at least save in a case of first-degree 
 murder. And you've not been guilty of that." 
 
 "Well, never mind about that, then. All that 
 amounts to nothing. I'm thinking about the brand 
 I've placed upon myself. I'm wondering how I 
 am to go on living, with the thought that I've 
 taken a human life even such a life as old 
 Drumm's. His baseness doesn't seem to count 
 now. He was alive, and I took his life. What- 
 ever he was, I've made myself a thousand times 
 worse than he ever was." 
 
 170
 
 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 !" 
 
 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 
 
 YOU 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! 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
 
 Whispers 
 
 "It wouldn't be fair!" declared Cape. "I didn't 
 do anything, really, that almost any other man 
 wouldn't have done. It was a manlier thing to 
 do than to have set the police on him. And yet if 
 I confessed I'd be branded at least in the minds 
 of people who would never really know and I'd 
 be punished. I'd be locked up in prison. I might 
 be hanged!" 
 
 Estabrook seemed to consider this judicially, 
 patiently. At length he said: "You mustn't mind 
 being branded in the minds of people who would 
 never really know. It's a weakness to think of 
 that. And you wouldn't be hanged. Nothing like 
 that. We ought to view the thing reasonably, 
 you know. They would lock you up yes." He 
 smiled dryly. "Milton was locked up, you re- 
 member. Let's not be afraid of a phrase. What 
 makes you think it would be so terrible a thing to 
 be locked up for a little while? That's what 
 life is: a soul in prison, locked up. And we all 
 shrink from having it liberated." 
 
 Cape seemed on the point of rising impatiently. 
 "Those abstractions I know what they're worth. 
 This is not a time for them. They'll do when 
 you're considering the other fellow. I'm not in- 
 terested in them now." 
 
 "Excuse me," said Estabrook. "I shouldnt have 
 permitted myself to be led into abstractions. 
 You're right. But come, let me point out the 
 actual conditions and facts." 
 
 174
 
 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 
 v/or.ld begin to assume the upper hand. The other 
 
 175
 
 Whispers 
 
 side rextenuating circumstances ^provocation- 
 the theory of self-defense all these agencies 
 would come forward. They would all aid you. 
 You'd have real friends to take the places of the 
 invisible, unreal enemies who had made things 
 look so dark for you in the beginning. It wouldn't 
 be so bad, really. I've watched the process scores 
 of times. You may believe what I tell you." 
 
 Cape had been far from unimpressed by the 
 other's argument. He had been examining the 
 exhibits placed before him and they had seemed 
 increasingly desirable and interesting. And then, 
 true to the habit of the rustic mind, he had begun 
 to see his situation through the eyes of the group 
 of persons who knew him at home, and his stub- 
 born resistance reasserted itself. "But to go vol- 
 untarily and tell," he argued, "when there's a 
 chance they might never find out I can't quite 
 see why I should do that, after all!" 
 
 Estabrook regarded him musingly, a little hope- 
 lessly. The man's inability to grasp the problem 
 in an impersonal way; his eager youth, with its 
 blundering and shallow impulses these seemed 
 really formidable obstacles in the way of a right 
 solution of the problem. 
 
 "Let me try again," he said, as if he were ad- 
 dressing himself rather than his companion. "You 
 don't mind my saying how I feel about it, at 
 least?" He shifted his position in his chair and 
 slowly settled into an attitude of thoughtful re- 
 
 176
 
 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 have! 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
 
 The Terms of the Treaty 
 
 you've served your time, and the warden has called 
 you into his office to notify you that the day of 
 your release is at hand, and you stand at last out- 
 side the prison gate with the free light and air 
 about you, and the world before you. Can't you 
 imagine the sensation of having squared up? No 
 living man could say to you 'You cheated; you 
 didn't pay.' You'd be all set for a fresh start. 
 The world would be a new world. 
 
 "But look at the other side of it: Suppose you 
 should decide to run away, to hide without paying. 
 Should you feel right for a minute? You know 
 you'd not! And you'd keep feeling worse every 
 day as long as you lived. You'd be forever duck- 
 ing your head in the presence of honest men. 
 You'd become a trembling coward. And that's 
 a condition that becomes progressive. The poison 
 of secrecy and cowardice would eat further and 
 further into your character until it wouldn't leave 
 you a single sound impulse. You'd become worth- 
 less through and through. And so at the end of 
 the adventure in the day of your old age you'd 
 curse the day you were born, and even your curse 
 would be so feeble that no one would shudder or 
 care. The persons who might be witnesses to 
 your death would simply say: 'He was one of the 
 poor creatures who cheated.' And they would 
 pass on, forgetting you." 
 
 The expression in Cape's eyes, still fixed upon 
 vacancy, had changed slightly. The object he 
 
 179
 
 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!" 
 
 180
 
 The Terms of the Treaty 
 
 he cried. "There isn't anything else for me to 
 do. I'm going " 
 
 He had turned excitedly toward the door, as if 
 all that he desired or cherished lay in the path 
 which Estabrook had pointed out to him. After 
 long inactivity the lumbering elevator was heard 
 moving. 
 
 Estabrook arose with a tranquillity which he 
 assumed with difficulty. "But not quite that 
 way," he suggested in a detaining tone. "If you 
 don't mind will you sit down again for just a 
 minute?" 
 
 181
 
 Chapter XX 
 Estabrook Shows His Hand 
 
 THERE are a few things I want to explain 
 before you go any further before either 
 of us goes any further," said Estabrook. 
 
 Cape faced him inquiringly and remained in 
 his place reluctantly, it appeared. "If it could 
 wait until another time what you have to say, 
 I mean," he said. "I can't believe there's any- 
 thing else I need to hear. You've made my situ- 
 ation perfectly clear to me so clear it seems to 
 me remarkable that I shouldn't have known, with- 
 out advice, just what I ought to do. We'll meet 
 often again, I hope " 
 
 "Of course we shall. But on the whole I should 
 think it might be better if you didn't report to 
 the police to-night." 
 
 Cape's expression darkened momentarily. "It 
 would seem so much easier at night," he said. 
 "There'd be only a few to see. And in the morn- 
 ing when I woke up the worst would be over 
 that's really how it occurs to me. It wouldn't seem 
 at all difficult to go to-ni^ht. But you know . . . 
 I don't believe I act generally on principle, as you 
 
 182
 
 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 Fidette." 
 
 Cape's face became a curious study in emotions, 
 in an expression of bitter grief, crystallizing 
 through the mingled expffcssions 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 
 Fidette'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 
 
 186
 
 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 ?" 
 
 "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 Fictette" 
 
 187
 
 Chapter XXI 
 Setting the Stage 
 
 AT eleven 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 
 188
 
 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
 
 ^Whispers 
 
 well, I think the only thing then will be for you to 
 say how much space you'll care to give to the 
 story." 
 
 Campbell drew a writing-pad toward him and 
 began at once a letter of introduction to the chief. 
 
 "The story " he murmured absent-mindedly; 
 
 and Estabrook suggested: 
 
 "You might give it a column, I suppose?" 
 
 "Yes, a column, certainly, if you like. I think 
 I may leave that to you." He continued to write 
 on the tab under his hand. 
 
 "And I suppose the story ought to be in hand 
 not very much after midnight?" 
 
 Campbell did not reply immediately. He fin- 
 ished his letter of introduction and placed it in 
 an envelope. "What did you say?" he inquired: 
 "the time? Well our city edition goes to press 
 about three. In an emergency we could handle a 
 story that got to my desk as late as two. Cer- 
 tainly it ought not to be much later than that." 
 Then the bantering expression returned to his 
 eyes in a slighter degree. "But why shouldn't you 
 turn it in now, since you're so sure of your man?" 
 
 Estabrook frowned faintly. "My work's not 
 done yet," he said. "But I'll keep the hour in 
 mind two o'clock. You may be sure the story 
 will be in your hands not a minute later than that." 
 
 He was making certain reservations in his deal- 
 ing with Campbell reservations which he would 
 scarcely have acknowledged to himself. It was his 
 
 190
 
 Setting the Stage 
 
 impression that Campbell was an ideal city editor; 
 but experience had taught him to be wary of all 
 city editors. Their almost universal fault, he be- 
 lieved, was to take themselves too seriously. In 
 the very nature of things theirs being the larger 
 responsibility they would rarely trust a reporter 
 implicitly and permit him to do his work unaided 
 and unhindered. Being required to remain, in- 
 active, at their desks, they were inclined to worry, 
 to interfere. And he did not want Campbell to 
 interfere in the Drumm case. He might put 
 another reporter on the case and another re- 
 porter, even with the best intentions in the world, 
 might spoil his well-laid plans. He might make 
 inquiries of the police or of others which would 
 cause the delicate structure which he was rearing 
 to totter and fall. 
 
 It was his belief that he could have turned in, 
 within the next half-hour or hour, practically 
 every word of the story he expected to write 
 with the exception of a brief statement from Cape 
 which he hoped to get; but it was not part of his 
 intention to turn the story in now. There were too 
 many possibilities of a leakage and there was no 
 real necessity of turning in the story before two 
 o'clock, according to Campbell's own statement. 
 
 "I may not see you again before midnight or 
 after," he said, as he turned away, the letter of 
 introduction to the chief of police in his hand. 
 "But you'll take me seriously, I'm sure, when I 
 
 191
 
 Whispers 
 
 give you my positive assurance. My story will be 
 in by two o'clock, a column of it." 
 
 "Then I'll expect it," said Campbell, all traces 
 of his raillery gone. "The compositors, the proof- 
 readers, the make-up man all of us will ex- 
 pect a column story in by two o'clock. And I'm 
 sure I needn't caution you: be sure you're right 
 before you go ahead." 
 
 "I'll be dead-sure of every detail," said Esta- 
 brook. "I think I may even promise a brief writ- 
 ten confession from the man who committed the 
 crime. But in any event, I'll be sure I'm right 
 before I go ahead. Good afternoon." 
 
 192
 
 Chapter XXII 
 A' Compact with the Chief 
 
 AT 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 
 
 193
 
 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 Fidette" 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 Fidette." 
 
 The chief's rather expressionless face softened 
 perceptibly at the sound of Campbell's name. He 
 
 194
 
 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 havert'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 stagehand in romances. They don't haunt the 
 
 195
 
 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," saii 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 Fidette and the News, for ex- 
 ample?" 
 
 "Go ahead." 
 
 "As I'm working for the Fidette 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 Fidette." 
 
 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 
 
 197
 
 Whispers 
 
 Vidette 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 
 199
 
 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. 
 
 200
 
 Chapter XXIII 
 "Pieces of Eight" 
 
 IT lacked a little to seven o'clock that evening 
 when Estabrook appeared at Madam Joan's. 
 He had spent a considerable part of the afternoon 
 in following the body of Pheneas Drumm to its 
 final resting-place in the city's largest cemetery a 
 place far out on a suburban hill. He had scarcely 
 hoped to discover any facts which might be of 
 value to him; he had gone, as he put it to himself, 
 to be on the safe side. And he had been astounded 
 to note how great a number of persons had mani- 
 fested an interest in the funeral. He had been 
 unable to gain admittance to the undertaking par- 
 lors where the services had been conducted. The 
 place had been thronged. He had obtained a seat 
 in the car belonging to the undertaker and had 
 been enabled to go to the cemetery without delay. 
 He had achieved this by invoking the power of 
 that open sesame, his reporter's badge. And he 
 had learned that a very appropriate service had 
 been conducted by a city missionary formerly 
 pastor to a wealthy congregation in a good neigh- 
 
 201
 
 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 protege 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 " 
 
 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 
 
 202
 
 "Pieces of Eight" 
 
 to Madam, and they now waited until after she 
 should have spoken to Estabrook. 
 
 Madam was all sprightliness and good cheer. 
 "I wanted to ask Monsieur if he had found every- 
 thing to his liking," she said, smiling rather too 
 brilliantly into Estabrook's face. She scarcely 
 seemed to see Cape. 
 
 "I couldn't be better pleased," declared Esta- 
 brook. His complete satisfaction was unmistak- 
 able. Then he lowered his voice so that even 
 Madam caught his words with difficulty. "I 
 want to take this occasion to advise you, Mad- 
 am," he said, "that a number of gentlemen vill 
 hold a sort of conference " 
 
 He glanced lightly over Madam's shoulder. 
 It seemed to him that Beakman and his companion 
 were much too frankly curious as to the nature of 
 his confidences with Madam Joan. 
 
 Madam noted his glance. "Monsieur need 
 feel no uneasiness," she said. "That gentleman 
 is Monsieur Beakman." 
 
 "I know. And his companion?" 
 
 "His companion " Madam tapped her fore- 
 head with her finger-tips in droll confusion, her ex- 
 pression meanwhile conveying the assurance that 
 Monsieur Beakman's companion was really a per- 
 son of no moment. She smiled with relief. 
 " Monsieur Cook. That is his name. He is 
 one of Monsieur Beakman's subordinates." 
 
 Estabrook nodded. He recalled the name. It 
 203
 
 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 
 
 204
 
 "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 anyway?" 
 
 "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- 
 
 207
 
 Whispers 
 
 line arrested their attention: $600,000. 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 in!" 
 
 208
 
 Chapter XXIV 
 Somebody Blunders 
 
 THE little Swiss clock in Madam Joan's 
 office struck the hour delicately: in a voice 
 which, was nicely calculated not to shock the nerves 
 or to awaken the consciences of her patrons in 
 adjoining rooms, where murmurs as of a tranquil 
 sea arose. Madam looked at the face of the 
 clock graciously, as if she had been accosted by a 
 really beloved patron. "Twelve o'clock!" she 
 said. She had not realized that the midnight hour 
 had come so soon. 
 
 She seemed for the moment a creature of gentle 
 contentment and repose, though you would have 
 known, if you had been really acquainted with her, 
 that her mind was in a score of places at that very 
 moment, and that she knew almost in detail what 
 was transpiring in every part of her mysterious 
 house of entertainment. For example, she knew 
 that Estabrook and Cape were now in Estabrook's 
 room, awaiting the visitors of whom Estabrook 
 had spoken to her in a rather significant manner. 
 She also knew that the young man who was Incon- 
 spicuously glancing at the pages of the hotel regis- 
 ter, as if he were trying to find the name of a 
 
 209
 
 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?" 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 
 
 210
 
 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 
 
 211
 
 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 
 
 212
 
 Somebody Blunders 
 
 table at which Estabrook was sitting. And of all 
 the five faces in the group including'the one face 
 which was invisible to the others not one ap- 
 proximated, as an interesting study, the face of 
 Cook. 
 
 As a matter of fact, those neatly-folded sheets 
 of newspaper copy-paper contained Estabrook's 
 account of the slaying of Pheneas Drumm. The 
 story was as complete and effective as Estabrook 
 knew how to make it, save that at one place there 
 was a single omission, indicated by the words 
 "Here insert Cape's confession." The confession, 
 in Cape's own writing, had been set down on a sep- 
 arate sheet and had been kept apart because the 
 man who wrote it was not quite sure that he was 
 satisfied with it as it stood. He had written it 
 from constant suggestions by Estabrook; and 
 after the writing had been finished perhaps half 
 an hour before the arrival of the officers he had 
 asked leave to think about one or two of the state- 
 ments he had made in it. 
 
 Beside the folded sheets lay a quantity of un- 
 used paper and half a dozen large envelopes. For 
 it was Estabrook's intention to place the story in 
 an envelope and seal it up after he and Cape had 
 arrived at a final understanding as to the wording 
 of the confession. That he was an exception 
 among reporters in that he occasionally sealed a 
 story in an envelope is no more true than that he 
 
 213
 
 Whispers 
 
 was an exceptional reporter in many other mat- 
 ters. 
 
 Now, totally oblivious of the fact that his very 
 laboriously-laid plans were in a fair way of going 
 wrong, he turned to Cape. "You've only to say 
 the word as to your confession," he said, "and my 
 work is done." 
 
 But Cape met his reassuringly candid glance 
 with a frown of perplexity. "If I could only feel 
 a little more certain of that one sentence in what 
 I wrote " he said. 
 
 "It's all right," declared Estabrook decisively. 
 And then, as if to convince the other man, he 
 drew a folded sheet from his pocket. It bore 
 the word "insert" at the top, and was in Cape's 
 handwriting. "It's all right,"Tie repeated, unfold- 
 ing the sheet. "What's wrong?" And he read 
 aloud : 
 
 " 'When he turned toward the table at which 
 he had been sitting and reached for the weapon in 
 the open drawer, I feared for my life. It was then 
 that I realized that my hand rested upon a piece 
 of metal. I grasped the piece of metal without 
 stopping to think, and then I struck in the dark. 
 He had just put the light out. I heard him fall' 
 that was what you objected to, I believe. Now, 
 what's wrong about it?" 
 
 "I'm not certain it's wrong," admitted Cape. 
 "In fact, I'm pretty certain it's precisely true. But 
 it's a guess, all the same. I don't know that he 
 
 214
 
 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 
 215
 
 Whispers 
 
 the light out I felt sure that it was part of a plan 
 to harm me. I was greatly alarmed. And it was 
 then that I realized that my hand was resting upon 
 a piece of metal. I grasped the piece of metal 
 without stopping to think and struck the blow' 
 How would that do?" 
 
 "That's it!" cried Cape. "That's true. That's 
 just the way it was." 
 
 "Very well," said Estabrook. "Suppose you 
 make the change." And he passed the sheet 
 across the table. 
 
 Cape's unsteady hands took the sheet. He 
 searched for the paragraph which he wished to 
 change ; and having found it he was compelled to 
 ponder laboriously before he could shape the new 
 sentence which Estabrook had suggested. His 
 hand traveled slowly and more than once he 
 ooked up and asked Estabrook for the right word. 
 
 He was still writing painstakingly, and the two 
 officers were looking on in the wholly detached 
 manner in which men of deeds are apt to regard 
 men of words, when a discreet tap sounded on the 
 door. 
 
 Estabrook responded; and through the narrow 
 aperture provided by his very limited opening of 
 the door he looked into the pleasantly apologetic 
 eyes of Madam Joan. 
 
 "So sorry to disturb Monsieur," said Madam, 
 "but someone wishes to speak to Monsieur Esta- 
 brook at the telephone in my office." 
 
 216
 
 Somebody Blunders 
 
 He had no thought of refusing to respond. It 
 would be a call from the city room of the Fidette, 
 of course. It would be Campbell, seeking infor- 
 mation, or assurance . . . 
 
 "I'll be back in a minute," he called back into 
 the room. And after closing his door behind him 
 he accompanied Madam Joan along the hall and 
 down the stairway. ' 
 
 He could not escape the impression that 
 Madam was trying to delay him. She walked 
 slowly, yet with the manner of one who does not 
 wish to be left behind. She talked to him almost 
 incessantly though afterward he could not recall 
 anything that she had said. For the moment it 
 was his wish to humor her; and for each chirpingly 
 birdlike word of hers, uttered to the accompani- 
 ment of a furtively appraising glance, he gave 
 back an unruffled reply, though without any ap- 
 praising glances. He felt that he read Madam 
 easily; and he ascribed her chirping manner to her 
 wish to be with him for the moment though he 
 could not guess why she should have desired his 
 companionship. 
 
 When he reached the office he found the re- 
 ceiver of the telephone down. Madam nodded 
 him cheerfully toward the instrument; and he 
 placed it to his ear not without a very unusual 
 degree of curiosity. 
 
 But to his disappointment there was no response 
 to his crisp, "Hello!" He tried again, but only 
 
 217
 
 Whispers 
 
 a murmurous silence greeted him; and at last the 
 voice of Central was saying monotonously: "Num- 
 ber, please." 
 
 He asked anxiously "But wasn't there a call 
 for " 
 
 He was interrupted by a lifeless voice repeat- 
 ing, "Number, please." 
 
 He hung up the receiver. "They didn't wait," 
 he said to Madam Joan. 
 
 She exhibited just the right nuance of distress. 
 "How provoking!" she said. And she would 
 have commiserated with him, or volunteered an 
 explanation, perhaps; but with a sudden vague 
 misgiving he hurried away, back to his room. 
 
 Unfortunately his brief absence had been quite 
 sufficient for all the purposes of Cook of the News 
 at whose request Madam Joan had staged the 
 little farce of an imaginary telephone call. 
 
 Within a minute or so after Estabrook had left 
 his room at the instance of Madam, Cape and 
 the two officers guarding him had looked up to 
 see the door open briskly yet apologetically and a 
 stranger enter. 
 
 "Pardon me," said the intruder, "but Mr. Esta- 
 brook wants this envelope on the table. It's a 
 matter of very great importance " 
 
 He had crossed the room rapidly as he spoke; 
 and he had taken up the sealed envelope, together 
 with a blank envelope, and walked out with it 
 before either of the individuals in the room could 
 
 218
 
 Somebody Blunders 
 
 utter a word. But in a surprisingly short time he 
 reappeared. "It's all right," he said; and again 
 he crossed the room and deposited on the table the 
 identical envelope seemingly which he had just 
 removed. And then he made his final exit. 
 
 When Estabrook returned a moment later there 
 was a perplexed frown on his face. He took his 
 seat without a word of explanation; but the frown 
 on his face lingered. 
 
 And because of that frown and because they 
 had had time to reflect Messrs. Meade and Han- 
 kins glanced at each other furtively and uncom- 
 fortably. But they said nothing at all, and they 
 \ ere glad that their prisoner did not speak of that 
 br\k, surprising intrusion. For it was beginning 
 to be borne in on their minds that they had sadly 
 blundered. 
 
 219
 
 Chapter XXV 
 A Summons for Estabrook 
 
 AT 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 
 
 220
 
 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- 
 
 221
 
 Whispers 
 
 brook. I called you up at the Vldette 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 
 near by, 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
 
 A Summons for Estabrook 
 
 he had turned his story in, why not? With swift 
 resolution he fixed his mind upon the unknown, 
 invisible presence at the other end of the wire. 
 "I'll come, Doctor," he said. "Tell him I'm 
 coming." And then he made a mental note of the 
 number and street-car route which the doctor gave 
 him. 
 
 Five minutes later he was rushing impetuously 
 into the presence of Campbell, city editor of the 
 Vidette. "Here we have it," he said, with his 
 large sealed envelope in one hand and Cape's con- 
 fession in the other. "This is an insert see?" he 
 continued. "You'll find everything in shape." He 
 thrust his copy into the city editor's hands and 
 turned unceremoniously to go. "A hurry-up call," 
 he explained as he disappeared. And before the 
 amazed Campbell could speak the reporter was 
 beyond recall. 
 
 Chance ordained that, as he was waiting for the 
 street-car to bear him out to the Morgan Ford 
 Road address, he should find himself standing side 
 by side with one of his fellow-reporters of the 
 Vidette Ellison. Ellison had been detained in the 
 office later than usual and now he was going home. 
 
 "We've missed the last regular car," said Elli- 
 son, "but the first owl-car is due in about five min- 
 utes." He yawned loudly and then added "But 
 I thought you were stopping at Madam Joan's?" 
 
 "I am," replied Estabrook. "I'm going out 
 223
 
 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 Fbrd 
 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 is!" 
 
 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
 
 Whispers 
 
 pretty good chance that she has quite a lot of 
 money. And Beakman, of course, hasn't a cent 
 he's been working for the News for twenty 
 years." 
 
 Estabrook was listening, seemingly with all his 
 mind; yet he was just at the moment recalling 
 Madam's manner when she summoned him to 
 the telephone on the occasion when there was no 
 one waiting for him. 
 
 "You'll naturally wonder what equivalent 
 Beakman has to match Madam's hypothetical 
 wealth," continued Ellison. "It's position. To 
 the crowd that frequents Madam Joan's a news- 
 paper man is a near-god. They conceive him to 
 dwell among the stars. And Madam is the worst 
 of the crowd. To her Beakman is the head and 
 front of the News. She's not capable of making 
 distinctions, and Beakman isn't the kind to hide 
 his light under a bushel. To her he's the editor. 
 To all ignorant persons any individual connected 
 with a newspaper is practically the whole thing. 
 Even the office boy outranks a bank president, 
 because the office boy gets a pass once in a while. 
 It's the profession's fatal lure: getting something 
 for nothing." 
 
 "But about Beakman " interrupted Esta- 
 brook a bit impatiently. 
 
 "I've told you about all there is to tell. Beak- 
 man is holding back because he isn't sure Madam's 
 wealth is sufficient to compensate him for stoop- 
 
 226
 
 A Summons for Estabrook 
 
 ing to the level of a boarding-house keeper; and 
 Madam Joan isn't quite certain whether a hide- 
 ous beast of a man, even though he be a news- 
 paper man, is a sufficient prize to compensate her 
 for the loss of her liberty and the complete ex- 
 ercise of authority over all her affairs. I'm mak- 
 ing them both out to be perfectly nice persons, 
 you see. But my observation during a long pe- 
 riod of years justifies me in doing this." 
 
 Estabrook gazed out of the car window at the 
 obscure objects which went sliding by. He 
 wished Ellison wouldn't say anything more. He 
 had been uttering the typical, cynical patter of a 
 certain class of newspaper men: interpreting facts 
 from the worst possible angle, making discredit- 
 able assumptions which he need not have made; 
 making a jest of serious things. He turned his 
 head and glanced at his companion, whom he had 
 not hitherto observed studiously. He was a large 
 man, getting along toward middle life. Already 
 the tissues of his body were degenerating into 
 flabbiness. His naturally good features had been 
 coarsened by long years of a kind of irresponsible 
 thinking. He slouched in his seat, pressing his 
 knee against the seat in front of them, like a man 
 who has lounged his way through life. Ellison 
 made him uncomfortable because of all these 
 things: but more particularly by the revelation 
 that there was a sort of affiliation between Beak- 
 man and Madam Joan. 
 
 227
 
 Whispers 
 
 He heard Ellison say "I get off at the next 
 corner." And then he was sitting alone. Yet 
 Ellison returned even going a block beyond his 
 stopping-place, with the generous impulse to help 
 Estabrook to find his way on the trip he was mak- 
 ing. He told him where he should leave the car 
 and what direction he should take, and how far 
 he should have to go. He had the virtue of be- 
 ing thoughtful and generous, after all. 
 
 Estabrook rode until he was the only remain- 
 ing passenger in the car. He was riding through 
 a region of lumber-yards and foundries and manu- 
 facturing plants. Grimy dwellings, vacant lots 
 cluttered with rubbish or hidden by weeds, slipped 
 by. And at last the conductor called his street 
 and pulled the bell-cord. He left the car and 
 found himself standing alone in an unlighted, 
 strange region. The car rumbled on out of sight. 
 
 228
 
 Chapter XXVI 
 The House of the Morgan Ford Road 
 
 HE 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
 
 House of the Morgan Ford Road 
 
 Estabrook climbed the creaking stairway, 
 guided by an unguarded gas flame above and be- 
 yond him. At the first door on his right he 
 paused, bending his ear closer for sounds within, 
 and hearing none. And then he softly opened the 
 door. 
 
 Three persons were inside the room, all main- 
 taining a silence so complete that Estabrook feared 
 for an instant that he was too late. But a glance 
 at one of the persons in the room a man who 
 lay in a sunken mass on the bed reassured him. 
 There lay his casual acquaintance of Madam 
 Joan's public dining room, and his eyes, if no 
 other feature, proclaimed that he still lived. 
 
 Estabrook glanced at the two other occupants 
 of the room: one, a physician, obviously; the other 
 the proprietor of the rooming-house, perhaps. 
 
 "Dr. Brinsmade?" inquired Estabrook; and 
 reading the answer in a glance, he added, "I'm 
 Estabrook of the Fidette." 
 
 "Our friend here," said the physician in a cau- 
 tious voice, "will be relieved to see you. He's 
 been resting rather well since I sent for you." 
 He had arisen; and now he warily approached the 
 bed. 
 
 The recumbent figure did not stir; and Esta- 
 brook took occasion to ask, "Was there an acci- 
 dent?" 
 
 "A hemorrhage," replied the physician, with- 
 out removing his glance from the figure of the 
 
 231
 
 Whispers 
 
 invalid. He added in a low voice, "Ah, he's stir- 
 ring." 
 
 Estabrook took two or three steps forward and* 
 stood looking down upon the man who lay before 
 him. 
 
 Then the face on the sunken pillow turned 
 slightly and a rasping voice said "Hello !" But 
 the word was accompanied by the ghost of a smile 
 like a little flag marking the place where cour- 
 age was entrenched. 
 
 "I have come," said Estabrook, groping vainly 
 for less obvious words. 
 
 "Sure you have !" came back the waning voice. 
 
 The doctor spoke. "Our friend here," he said 
 to Estabrook, "says you're a funny guy!" It was 
 his purpose, clearly, to lift the dying man into 
 companionship, if for only a moment, with the 
 quick and the happy. 
 
 "You're a funny guy, too !" said the man on the 
 bed, catching the doctor's eye and achieving again 
 that ghost of a smile. "Sticking by a guy when 
 you could be making money somewhere else !" 
 
 "But you had something to tell Mr. Esta- 
 brook," said the doctor. 
 
 "Yes." He turned his glance upon Estabrook. 
 "I've got something for you to put in the paper. 
 I got it all wrote out with the doc's signature 
 and the landlord's for witnesses. The doc's 
 got it." 
 
 Estabrook looked inquiringly at the physician, 
 232
 
 House of the Morgan Ford Road 
 
 who was nodding, and producing from his pocket 
 a cheap letter-head covered with writing. He 
 passed it over to Estabrook. But Estabrook 
 looked at the man on the bed. He felt wholly 
 in the dark. "What is it?" he asked. 
 
 "You know the old false-face guy they took to 
 the morgue?" 
 
 "Yes, I know." 
 
 The man on the bed lifted his hand and pointed 
 a fore-finger impressively to his hollow chest. 
 
 "You mean ?" said Estabrook. 
 
 "I done it. I cracked his bean in me." 
 
 "Impossible!" cried Estabrook. The dying 
 man's mind was wandering, of course. 
 
 "It's all down in writing on that paper in your 
 hand witnessed and all. I knew you'd want to 
 put it in the paper. That's all." 
 
 "Tell me about it," said Estabrook in a curi- 
 ous tone. 
 
 "Sure. I went into his place late in the after- 
 noon. There was a bunch of silly guys getting 
 ready for a ball or something looking at false 
 faces and wigs. And I saw my chance and slipped 
 into a tall cabinet and pulled the door shut. I'd 
 been figuring on it, y'understand. I had a bit of 
 gaspipe wrapped in a newspaper. There's a hell 
 of a lot of times there's a gaspipe in a news- 
 paper if you get me. What did I want to do 
 it for? Better ask why wouldn't I want to do it. 
 He had so much money that it didn't matter which 
 
 233
 
 Whispers 
 
 pocket he stuck his hand into, a wad would come 
 up. That's what everybody said. And he was 
 never known to help a poor guy he wouldn't 
 even look at you with both eyes, he was that close. 
 And I was hurrying on all fours to the potter's 
 field the con., y'understand. When a rich guy 
 gets that his friends all argue whether he better 
 go to Colorado or Texas. They give him eggs 
 and milk. When a guy like me gets it he just sits 
 down in the doorway of a vacant house and waits 
 for the wagon. He don't eat nothing. Fine 
 chance he's got!" 
 
 He broke off and Estabrook found himself 
 flinching, because the poor devil on the bed was 
 now required to pay toll in coughing for the priv- 
 ilege of using his voice. 
 
 "Never mind!" The narrative was resumed. 
 "I hid in the cabinet, and there I sat for hours 
 and hours. I didn't want to use my gas-pipe un- 
 til it got late. I thought there might be some- 
 body hanging about. But at last I slipped out 
 of the cabinet and peeped around the corner of 
 it. Old False Faces was there. He didn't look 
 no more human than I look like George Wash- 
 ing. He was bending over a book, under a hang- 
 ing light. And I began to slip up on him." 
 
 He paused, and Estabrook, gazing at him in- 
 tently, put forth a hand to warn the doctor not 
 to interrupt. 
 
 "And then it looked like hell broke loose. The 
 234
 
 House of the Morgan Ford Road 
 
 old man jumped up like he'd heard me. But he 
 didn't look toward me. He looked behind him. 
 For why? You can search me. I couldn't see 
 what was behind him the light hung so that I 
 couldn't see nothing on the other side of the table. 
 And then the old guy switched the light out. And 
 I made a rush for him, for in the last second I'd 
 seen his hand slip along the table and pull a 
 drawer out. I seen something glitter. 'Look 
 out for his cannon,' I says. And I drew back my 
 piece of pipe. And then bing! something fell 
 on my dome. I saw a million stars. And then I 
 brought my gas-pipe down and caught the old guy 
 the prettiest swat you ever saw. And I says to 
 myself, 'Kingdom Come is where you get off!' 
 And then I stood there for a second in the dark. 
 Dark? It was so dark I thought I was drown- 
 ing." 
 
 He paused a moment as if to straighten out 
 the strands of his story. The doctor, standing 
 a little in the background, looked on with a glim- 
 mer in his pensive eyes. He repeated the words 
 to himself: "It was so dark I thought I was 
 drowning." And he reflected that it was a sin- 
 gularly good and apt saying, and that it was 
 strange that lost men often manifested the surest 
 touch upon words. But Estabrook, his eyes 
 widening with wonder, waited almost breathlessly 
 for the continuation of the invalid's recital. 
 
 "And then I got scared. Did you ever go be- 
 
 235
 
 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 welt 
 have let him live !" 
 
 Estabrook opened the sheet in his hand. 
 
 "It's all there," said the physician. 
 
 The newspaper man looked 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 1" 
 
 237
 
 Chapter XXVII 
 
 Introducing Mr. Craddock 
 
 A 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 Vi- 
 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 
 
 was replying to him out of the silence a voice 
 which was listless, almost lifeless, yet it was the 
 voice of Campbell of the Fidette. 
 
 "Oh Mr. Campbell! " began Estabrook; 
 
 and then he was stunned by the quality which came 
 into that distant voice. 
 
 "Is this you, Estabrook? Say, Estabrook, do 
 you imagine you're playing some sort of a child's 
 game? turning in a lot of blank pages as a cli- 
 max to your absurd boasting " 
 
 Nevertheless it was good to hear that voice 
 to feel even the most intangible contact with his 
 own world, and to forget utterly for the moment 
 that he was far out on the Morgan Ford Road, 
 in a wilderness of mean and remote things. He 
 was about to blurt out "blank pages!" when 
 some subconscious impulse checked him. He 
 could not even begin to guess what had happened 
 to the story he had written, but the name and 
 presence of Madam Joan that and the story El- 
 lison had told him on the street-car flashed 
 across his consciousness. He had been tricked, 
 certainly. But if only Campbell would listen to 
 him and believe him! If only at last 
 
 He placed his lips closer to the telephone. 
 "Mr. Campbell," he began calmly, "I've got the 
 story here " 
 
 "Here? Where?" 
 
 "I'm in a house out on the Morgan Ford 
 
 Road " 
 
 239
 
 Whispers 
 
 "The Morgan Whatf* 
 "I know I'm a long way out- 
 
 "It's too late to get anything into the paper, 
 even if you were here in the office !" 
 
 "Oh, not too late, Mr. Campbell!" 
 
 "We'll be going to press in twenty minutes, or 
 I'll be looking For a job to-morrow at one o'clock 1" 
 
 "But Campbell we've got to get this story in. 
 I can't explain everything to you now, but there 
 are reasons Mr. Campbell, if you'll stick just 
 this once you'll never regret it. And here we are 
 wasting precious minutes " 
 
 Campbell's voice came back, greatly mollified. 
 "But my dear chap, it's impossible. It would 
 take you an hour or more at this time of night to 
 reach the office, and you couldn't telephone in the 
 whole story. We'd not have time to handle it. 
 We've scarcely time to handle a line." 
 
 "You said twenty minutes, Mr. Campbell. Tell 
 me is there a phone on the copy-cutter's desk 
 upstairs?" 
 
 "There is yes." 
 
 "And is there a linotype machine close to the 
 copy-cutter's desk?" 
 
 "Yes, jammed up almost against it." 
 
 "Great! Please please connect me with the 
 phone upstairs, and get one of the linotype men 
 at the receiver." 
 
 "But good heavens, man " 
 
 And then Campbell's voice faded away, and 
 240
 
 Introducing Mr. Craddock 
 
 presently there was the clicking sound of metal; 
 and then "Hello 1" 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" 
 
 etaoinshrdlucmfwyp 
 
 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- 
 
 241
 
 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 Fidette 
 
 242
 
 Introducing Mr. Craddock 
 
 doesn't buy you a new suit of clothes for this, I 
 will." 
 
 And Craddock replied, not too patronizingly, 
 "Well- say! I'm going to try out my new car 
 next Sunday. The old one got a little out of date. 
 If you want to see the sights I'll be glad to take 
 you along." 
 
 Estabrook did not know that Craddock owned 
 three houses which he had bought with his own 
 savings, and that when he left the printing of- 
 fice in the afternoon and went out to the street to 
 meet his wife, who called for him in their machine, 
 he looked precisely like a progressive bank presi- 
 dent. He could only whisper back "I'm sorry, 
 but you know I have to work on Sundays!" 
 
 He hung up the receiver and hurried back for 
 a final word with the man upstairs. But a glance 
 at the physician, and then another at the figure 
 on the bed, sufficed to supply him with the end 
 of the story. 
 
 He returned to the telephone booth, and pres- 
 ently he was in communication with the Fidette 
 office again. 
 
 One of the reporters replied to him this time. 
 
 "Could I have a word with Mr. Campbell, 
 please?" 
 
 "I'm afraid not. He's very busy with a piece 
 of proof just now. What was it?" 
 
 "This is Estabrook speaking. Please be sure 
 to get this right, will you? Just one line in the 
 
 243
 
 Whispers 
 
 story Mr. Campbell's reading should be changed. 
 You got a pencil? Take this down please and 
 have it substituted: 
 
 "The slayer died in a house at Fillmore avenue 
 and Morgan Ford Road at three o'clock this 
 morning." 
 
 244
 
 Chapter XXVIII 
 What the Morning Brought 
 
 WHEN he hung up the receiver it was with 
 the troubling consciousness that there was 
 yet another task for him to perform, and to per- 
 form immediately. Yet so great had been the 
 strain in getting his story into the Vldette office 
 that for a moment he could not concentrate his 
 faculties. And then in a flash he remembered. 
 
 He must save Cape from that dreaded jour- 
 ney to the police station. He must do this for 
 Cape's sake, first of all; but he must do it also 
 in order that he might utterly destroy the validity 
 of the stolen story which the News would almost 
 certainly print on the morrow for he could not 
 doubt that the envelope he had left on his table 
 had been abstracted by a News man, or at least 
 at the instigation of Beakman. No other possi- 
 ble suggestion of its theft was to be entertained 
 for a moment. 
 
 And then he realized, as he had done on count- 
 less occasions before, how sadly limited is the 
 function of the telephone, after all. It was his 
 presence in Madam Joan's which was needed now 
 
 245
 
 Whispers 
 
 to tear down the false structure which he had so 
 laboriously built up. It seemed almost impossi- 
 ble that a word telephoned to Meade and Han- 
 kins should effect the release of Cape, or make 
 plain to those officers the fact that he had made 
 a stupendous mistake in relation to the young man 
 whom they held in custody. 
 
 Moreover, he was subconsciously casting about 
 for some means of saving himself the necessity 
 of confessing to anyone save Cape himself, and 
 of course to Campbell, how nearly he had come 
 to committing a monstrous blunder. And cer- 
 tainly the telephone could not be relied upon as 
 a means of adroit rectification especially as he 
 had so little time in which to act. 
 
 He was about to take down the receiver again, 
 with the unshaped thought of calling up Madam 
 Joan's, and getting at Meade, when fortune fa- 
 vored him. Dr. Brinsmade passed through the 
 room on his way out to the street; and perceiv- 
 ing Estabrook, standing in an almost thwarted 
 attitude in the doorway of the telephone booth, he 
 called out briskly 
 
 "Perhaps you're going my way?" 
 
 Estabrook's heart bounded. He had been vis- 
 ualizing the route back to town the endless 
 stretch of starkly hideous suburbs, with a single 
 line of street-cars traversing it, at this time of 
 night, perhaps once an hour. "I must get back 
 to town," he said. He ventured to add, "It's 
 
 246
 
 What the Morning Brought 
 
 highly important that I should reach the neigh- 
 borhood of the Fidette office in the shortest pos- 
 sible time." 
 
 "Come and get in," was the physician's only 
 response. And he led the way out to the street. 
 
 In the machine they spoke briefly of the man 
 who lay sleeping peacefully at last in the gaunt 
 old house they were leaving behind them. "I'll 
 see that he gets the right kind of burial," said 
 Estabrook. "I've a friend who will want to look 
 after that, I'm sure." And then he fixed his eyes 
 on the soldier-like figure of the chauffeur in front 
 of him, and blessed the man for his efficiency and 
 the unhurried manner in which he was making 
 every second count. 
 
 The doctor nodded; and he was still ruminat- 
 ing on the words "a funny guy," when the ma- 
 chine completed its task of eating its way through 
 barriers of space, and brought up in the heart of 
 the down-town district. 
 
 The doctor had a final word to speak. "You'd 
 better take this," he said, "for evidence." And 
 he placed a heavy, cold object in Estabrook's hand. 
 "Our unfortunate friend back yonder turned it 
 over to me. It isn't loaded now." 
 
 It was a short-handled pistol with a name- 
 plate bearing the name of Pheneas Drumm. And 
 with this in his possession the newspaperman knew 
 the evidence he had gathered was complete. 
 
 "Here's my corner," said Estabrook, his eager 
 247
 
 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? 1 * 
 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
 
 What the Morning Brought 
 
 ing a sort of farce here, you two and myself. I 
 won't go into the nature of it just now. I'll only 
 say that it's time to get down to business. You'll 
 excuse me, I hope, for misleading you; but he's 
 not the man you're after." He nodded toward 
 Cape. "Your man is in a house out on the Mor- 
 gan Ford Road. Unfortunately, he has just died. 
 I've his confession, properly witnessed. I would 
 suggest that you go out to the house I've men- 
 tioned and verify what I've told you. You ought 
 to have a talk with the proprietor. And then 
 you can make your report to the chief to-morrow 
 accordingly." 
 
 Officer Meade smiled complacently. "What's 
 this?" he asked. 
 
 "It's the truth," declared Estat>rook. 
 
 "And you want to tell me that cub there" 
 with a jerk of his head toward the bed "has been 
 stalling? Get out! He's the man we arrested 
 and he's the man we want." 
 
 Estabrook produced the written confession he 
 had brought back with him. "You might exam- 
 ine this," he said, unfolding it and holding it be- 
 fore the officer's eyes. 
 
 "I don't need to. I'll take it along and show 
 it to the chief to-morrow, if you like ; but my busi- 
 ness is with this fellow on the bed." 
 
 "But read it!" insisted Estabrook. 
 
 The officer read it, his companion looking over 
 249
 
 Whispers 
 
 his shoulder. But the sheet of paper still re- 
 mained in Estabrook's hands. 
 
 "Brinsmade!" 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 1" 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. 
 
 250
 
 What the Morning Brought 
 
 Three-thirty the hour at which he had been di- 
 rected to bring his prisoner to the station. 
 
 But again Estabrook lifted a detaining hand. 
 He couldn't think of permitting Cape to go to a 
 cell after all. Not that it would matter so much 
 in the long run, but for the moment it would give 
 a complete warrant to the News for the story it 
 was printing. That story which had been spir- 
 ited away almost from under his eyes at least 
 from under the eyes of the two officers. 
 
 And then he realized that a weapon had been 
 placed in his hands. 
 
 "All right, gentlemen," he said, "you may take 
 Mr. Cape to the station if you like, though I as- 
 sure you you're making a mistake. But before 
 you go, please . . . there's a little matter I must 
 ask you to explain. When I tell the chief to-mor- 
 row that you permitted a stranger to enter my 
 room this room here during my absence and 
 take away certain documents, thereby ruining my 
 plans what do you imagine he will say?" 
 
 The two officers glanced at each other. It was 
 Meade who said 
 
 "But he had your authority to come into the 
 
 room!' 
 
 "He had not. I can only guess who he was. 
 I didn't know of his being here until hours after- 
 wards." 
 
 "But how " 
 
 "The fact is," continued Estabrook, "that the 
 251
 
 Whispers 
 
 only good you could possibly have accomplished 
 by being here was to prevent the very thing which 
 you permitted to occur. My whole purpose in 
 carrying on this affair secretly was to insure the 
 safety of the information contained in that en- 
 velope which you permitted a stranger to remove 
 from before your eyes." 
 
 Again Meade looked at Hankins. And then 
 he smiled. "I see," he said. "Well, Mr. Esta- 
 brook, perhaps I was a little hasty in deciding that 
 we'd be compelled to take Mr. Cap'e to the sta- 
 tion. Since you assure us that a mistake has been 
 made " He made a signal to his compan- 
 ion, and both moved toward the door. "We'll 
 just let the matter rest where it is. After all, as 
 you said, it's mainly a matter between the chief 
 and yourself. That's what we understood from 
 the beginning." But at the door he turned. "But 
 maybe you'd not find it necessary to speak to the 
 chief about that fellow coming into the room. 
 The fact is, he had so much nerve with him that 
 I didn't think what he was about until he was 
 gone." 
 
 Estabrook seemed to consider. "Perhaps I'll 
 not find it necessary to speak to the chief about it 
 after all," he said finally. And then "But won't 
 you gentlemen have a smoke before you go?" 
 
 He brought the box of cigars. Meade took a 
 cigar and lit it. He was immediately puffing 
 away in a finely jaunty manner. But Officer Han 
 
 252
 
 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 Fidette 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 Vidette 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
 
 What the Morning Brought 
 
 Madam Joan. He would clear out that very min- 
 ute. He had only to put his hat on and all his 
 possessions would be in hand. 
 
 He went to the cabinet and looked into it, to 
 make sure. It contained nothing. He opened 
 the little compartment above. And suddenly he 
 smiled. His eyes were resting on a phonograph 
 of a long-ago model, with a waxen cylinder. He 
 recalled the one occasion when he had used it, and 
 Cape's incredulous expression returned to him. 
 He closed the door. He shouldn't want the mis- 
 erable old phonograph again. 
 
 He was going out of the room for good and 
 all when he ran into Cape. "You know I can't 
 sleep," said Cape. "I've slept enough. And 
 where are you going?" 
 
 "I don't know. But I'm through with Madam 
 Joan's. Im leaving." 
 
 "Well, wait a minute for me," said Cape; "for 
 if you are, then I'm leaving, too. I'm going with 
 you." 
 
 "You're going with me? Where?" 
 
 "I don't know. Anywhere. You see, we've 
 got a lot to talk about." 
 
 "I suppose so. You want me to explain " 
 
 "Yes, that, of course. Though I begin to see 
 how it might have happened. It's funny such a 
 thing never occurred to me, isn't it? But you 
 mustn't take offense, you know. What I really 
 
 255
 
 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 obliged 1" contin- 
 ued the rasping voice. 
 
 "It's a much better one I've got in the Fidette. 
 You're welcome." 
 
 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 
 
 A 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 restfessness 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
 
 Whispers 
 
 "It doesn't for me." 
 
 But Campbell went on, evidently pleased with 
 the figure: "With a few sages sitting apart at 
 distant tables, trying not to be too greatly dis- 
 turbed by the less experienced guests?" 
 
 His friend slowly shook his head. "It's far- 
 fetched," he declared. "It's a romantic concep- 
 tion of an abnormal life." 
 
 "Abnormal?" echoed Campbell; "you mean the 
 life of newspaper men?" 
 
 "Look at it yourself. You're an exception, of 
 course. But think of the army of average re- 
 porters : their petty, habitual cynicism, their cock- 
 sure attitude toward life as a thing of shams and 
 pretenses." 
 
 "Ah," said Campbell in a changed tone, "I 
 see them differently. I think of their homeless- 
 ness, and yet of a certain blitheness about them 
 as if they were too large, too universal, to require 
 a little sheltered corner anywhere. When one 
 of them takes his hat into his hand he is a sailor 
 with his ship, a soldier with his sword, a crusader 
 with his cause. What if there be a certain irre- 
 pressibleness about them? Nature gives to each 
 of us the armor that we need." His eyes slowly 
 beamed as he added, "You ought to have known 
 Whispers!" 
 
 He mused a moment; and then in response to 
 his friend's inquiring glance he continued: 
 
 "His real name was Estabrook. He was one 
 258
 
 Conclusion 
 
 of my reporters until recently. The oddest chap 
 I ever knew, I think. I couldn't hope to describe 
 him. But I happen to think of a sort of illus- 
 tration. He was on the street one day talking 
 to a United States Senator from one of the rural 
 states. You know in the very nature of things a 
 newspaper man must waste a good deal of his 
 time. Well, along came a mendicant a raw- 
 boned Irishman who probably hadn't done a day's 
 work in .years. He sized up Estabrook and the 
 senator, and he spoke to Estabrook. 'Excuse me, 
 brother,' he said, 'but could I speak to you?' 
 'Sure, Mike !' was Estabrook's reply. The man's 
 name must have been Mike, it seemed his face 
 lit up so quickly; as if he had heard his own name 
 for the first time in ages. And he said: 'Could 
 you spare me a dime ? I'll tell you the truth I 
 want to buy a drink. I need a drink bad.' And 
 Estabrook gave him a coin. Til give you the 
 price,' he said; and then with mock solemnity he 
 added, 'but be sure you don't go and buy food 
 with it!' The mendicant gave him back the beam- 
 ing glance of a brother a brother born in an- 
 other town. And then he was lost in the crowd." 
 
 "The point being ?" asked Campbell's visi- 
 tor. 
 
 "The point being that there's a deeper cynicism 
 which holds that evil is just a sham not merely 
 that there are shams in goodness or greatness." 
 
 They remained silent a moment, listening to 
 
 259
 
 Whispers 
 
 the rumbling of the presses down in the basement ; 
 and then Campbell's caller asked: 
 
 "What became of him your benevolent 
 cynic?" 
 
 "The precious pair he and the young fellow 
 Cape, who figured in the Drumm case went off 
 to Texas, or Oklahoma, or somewhere, last week. 
 Cape insisted on lending him all the money he 
 needed for a venture he'd gotten into. It was 
 Cape's idea to make him an outright present of 
 the money, but Estabrook, it seemed, wouldn't 
 listen to that. He declared that just the loan of 
 it would place him in a position where he'd be 
 guiltily wealthy in a few years. And really I don't 
 doubt it. As security for the loan he gave Cape 
 an interest in his business a newspaper in a town 
 that's growing at the rate of a thousand a day. 
 I fully expect the thing to turn out just as Esta- 
 brook says it will." 
 
 He leaned back in his chair in an attitude so 
 completely cheerful that his visitor was prompted 
 to say: "The Fidette is coming into its own 
 pretty rapidly these days, isn't it?" 
 
 "It's amazing," said Campbell enthusiastically. 
 "And I admit I feel we owe much of that to Esta- 
 brook. He stayed on after the Drumm affair to 
 write a series of stories for me and they were very 
 successful. And really, after the News published 
 its retraction of the story about Cape Cape ex- 
 acted that they publish it on the first page, just 
 
 260
 
 Conclusion 
 
 where the original story had appeared, as you 
 may remember it seemed that the tide had 
 turned in our favor. We've got the News on the 
 run. They've let out Beakman, but it seems they 
 took that step too late. The Vidette has gained 
 30,000 circulation in the past thirty days and it's 
 still going strong." He added, after a moment's 
 pause, "I really think Estabrook woke us up a 
 little." 
 
 "A queer name what did you call him, Whis- 
 pers?" 
 
 "Yes," sa^d Campbell. "But he was given an- 
 other name that I like to remember: 'a funny 
 guy' ! I am sure that will stick to my memory. 
 Rigjhtly spoken it fits him perfectly a funny 
 
 guy." ^ 
 
 He glanced behind him at the clock on the 
 wall, and then he pulled tlie lid of his desk down 
 for the night. 
 
 261
 
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