ever met this is the worst. I wish whoever built it had thought to put
in a few windows. His idea of ventilation was apparently to leave a
hole about the size of a lima bean and let the thing go at that."
"I guess there's a door on to de roof somewhere," suggested Pugsy. "At
de joint where I lives dere is."
His surmise proved correct. At the end of the passage a ladder, nailed
against the wall, ended in a large square opening, through which was
visible, if not "that narrow strip of blue which prisoners call the
sky," at any rate a tall brick chimney and a clothesline covered with
garments that waved lazily in the breeze.
John stood beneath it, looking up.
"Well," he said, "this isn't much, but it's better than nothing. I
suppose the architect of this place was one of those fellows who don't
begin to appreciate air till it's thick enough to scoop chunks out with
a spoon. It's an acquired taste, I guess, like Limburger cheese. And
now, Pugsy, old scout, you had better beat it. There may be a
rough-house here any minute now."
Pugsy looked up, indignant.
"Beat it?"
"While your shoe-leather's good," said John firmly. "This is no place
for a minister's son. Take it from me."
"I want to stop and pipe de fun," objected Master Maloney.
"What fun?"
"I guess you ain't here to play ball," surmised Pugsy shrewdly, eying
the big stick.
"Never mind why I'm here," said John. "Beat it. I'll tell you all about
it to-morrow."
Master Maloney prepared reluctantly to depart. As he did so there was a
sound of well-shod feet on the stairs, and a man in a snuff-colored
suit, wearing a brown Homburg hat and carrying a small notebook in one
hand, walked briskly up the stairs. His whole appearance proclaimed him
to be the long-expected collector of rents.
CHAPTER XXV
CORNERED
He did not see John for a moment, and had reached the door of the room
when he became aware of a presence. He turned in surprise. He was a
smallish, pale-faced man with protruding eyes and teeth which gave him
a certain resemblance to a rabbit.
"Hello!" he said.
"Welcome to our city," said John, stepping unostentatiously between him
and the stairs.
Master Maloney, who had taken advantage of the interruption to edge
back into the center of things, now appeared to consider the question
of his departure permanently shelved. He sidled to a corner of the
landing, and sat down on an empty soap box with the air of a dramatic
critic at the opening night of a new play. The scene looked good to
him. It promised interesting developments. He was an earnest student of
the drama, as exhibited in the theaters of the East Side, and few had
ever applauded the hero of "Escaped from Sing Sing," or hissed the
villain of "Nellie, the Beautiful Cloak-model" with more fervor. He
liked his drama to have plenty of action, and to his practised eye this
one promised well. There was a set expression on John's face which
suggested great things.
His pleasure was abruptly quenched. John, placing a firm hand on his
collar, led him to the top of the stairs and pushed him down.
"Beat it," he said.
The rent-collector watched these things with a puzzled eye. He now
turned to John.
"Say, seen anything of the wops that live here?" he enquired. "My
name's Gooch. I've come to take the rent."
John nodded.
"I don't think there's much chance of your seeing them to-night," he
said. "The father, I hear, is in prison. You won't get any rent out of
him."
"Then it's outside for theirs," said Mr. Gooch definitely.
"What about the kid?" said John. "Where's he to go?"
"That's up to him. Nothing to do with me. I'm only acting under orders
from up top."
"Whose orders?" enquired John.
"The gent who owns this joint."
"Who is he?"
Suspicion crept into the protruding eyes of the rent-collector.
"Say!" he demanded. "Who are you anyway, and what do you think you're
doing here? That's what I'd like to know. What do you want with the
name of the owner of this place? What business is it of yours?"
"I'm a newspaper man."
"I guessed you were," said Mr. Gooch with triumph. "You can't bluff me.
Well, it's no good, sonny. I've nothing for you. You'd better chase off
and try something else."
He became more friendly.
"Say, though," he said, "I just guessed you were from some paper. I wish
I could give you a story, but I can't. I guess it's this _Peaceful
Moments_ business that's been and put your editor on to this joint,
ain't it? Say, though, that's a queer thing, that paper. Why, only a few
weeks ago it used to be a sort of take-home-and-read-to-the-kids affair.
A friend of mine used to buy it regular. And then suddenly it comes out
with a regular whoop, and starts knocking these tenements and boosting
Kid Brady, and all that. It gets past me. All I know is that it's begun
to get this place talked about. Why, you see for yourself how it is.
Here is your editor sending you down to get a story about it. But, say,
those _Peaceful Moments_ guys are taking big risks. I tell you
straight they are, and I know. I happen to be wise to a thing or two
about what's going on on the other side, and I tell you there's going
to be something doing if they don't cut it out quick. Mr. Qem, the
fellow who owns this place isn't the man to sit still and smile. He's
going to get busy. Say, what paper do you come from?"
"_Peaceful Moments_," said John.
For a moment the inwardness of the information did not seem to come
home to Mr. Gooch. Then it hit him. He spun round. John was standing
squarely between him and the stairs.
"Hey, what's all this?" demanded Mr. Gooch nervously. The light was dim
in the passage, but it was sufficiently light to enable him to see
John's face, and it did not reassure him.
"I'll soon tell you," said John. "First, however, let's get this
business of the kid's rent settled. Take it out of this and give me the
receipt."
He pulled out a bill.
"Curse his rent," said Mr. Gooch. "Let me pass."
"Soon," said John. "Business before pleasure. How much does the kid
have to pay for the privilege of suffocating in this infernal place? As
much as that? Well, give me a receipt, and then we can get on to more
important things."
"Let me pass."
"Receipt," said John laconically.
Mr. Gooch looked at the big stick, then scribbled a few words in his
notebook and tore out the page. John thanked him.
"I will see that it reaches him," he said. "And now will you kindly
tell me the name of the man for whom you collected that money?"
"Let me pass," bellowed Mr. Gooch. "I'll bring an action against you
for assault and battery. Playing a fool game like this! Get away from
those stairs."
"There has been no assault and battery - yet," said John. "Well, are you
going to tell me?"
Mr. Gooch shuffled restlessly. John leaned against the banisters.
"As you said a moment ago," he observed, "the staff of _Peaceful
Moments_ is taking big risks. I knew it before you told me. I have
had practical demonstration of the fact. And that is why this Broster
Street thing has got to be finished quick. We can't afford to wait. So
I am going to have you tell me this man's name right now."
"Help!" yelled Mr. Gooch.
The noise died away, echoing against the walls. No answering cry came
from below. Custom had staled the piquancy of such cries in Broster
Street. If anybody heard it, nobody thought the matter worth
investigation.
"If you do that again," said John, "I'll break you in half. Now then! I
can't wait much longer. Get busy!"
He looked huge and sinister to Mr. Gooch, standing there in the
uncertain light; it was very lonely on that top floor and the rest of
the world seemed infinitely far away. Mr. Gooch wavered. He was loyal
to his employer, but he was still more loyal to Mr. Gooch.
"Well?" said John.
There was a clatter on the stairs of one running swiftly, and Pugsy
Maloney burst into view. For the first time since John had known him,
Pugsy was openly excited.
"Say, boss," he cried, "dey's coming!"
"What? Who?"
"Why, dem. I seen dem T'ree Pointers - Spider Reilly an' - "
He broke off with a yelp of surprise. Mr. Gooch had seized his
opportunity, and had made his dash for safety. With a rush he dived
past John, nearly upsetting Pugsy, who stood in his path, and sprang
down the stairs. Once he tripped, but recovered himself, and in another
instant only the faint sound of his hurrying footsteps reached them.
John had made a movement as if to follow, but the full meaning of
Pugsy's words came upon him and he stopped.
"Spider Reilly?" he said.
"I guess it was Spider Reilly," said Pugsy, excitedly. "Dey called him
Spider. I guess dey piped youse comin' in here. Gee! it's pretty
fierce, boss, dis! What youse goin' to do?"
"Where did you see them, Pugsy?"
"On the street just outside. Dere was a bunch of dem spielin' togedder,
and I hears dem say you was in here. Dere ain't no ways out but de
front, so dey ain't hurryin'. Dey just reckon to pike along upstairs,
peekin' inter each room till dey find you. An' dere's a bunch of dem
goin' to wait on de street in case youse beat it past down de stairs
while de odder guys is rubberin' for youse. Gee, ain't dis de limit!"
John stood thinking. His mind was working rapidly. Suddenly he smiled.
"It's all right, Pugsy," he said. "It looks bad, but I see a way out.
I'm going up that ladder there and through the trapdoor on to the roof.
I shall be all right there. If they find me, they can only get at me one
at a time. And, while I'm there, here's what I want you to do."
"Shall I go for de cops, boss?"
"No, not the cops. Do you know where Dude Dawson lives?"
The light of intelligence began to shine in Master Maloney's face. His
eye glistened with approval. This was strategy of the right sort.
"I can ask around," he said. "I'll soon find him all right."
"Do, and as quick as you can. And when you've found him tell him that
his old chum, Spider Reilly, is here, with the rest of his crowd. And
now I'd better be getting up on to my perch. Off you go, Pugsy, my son,
and don't take a week about it. Good-by."
Pugsy vanished, and John, going to the ladder, climbed out on to the
roof with his big stick. He looked about him. The examination was
satisfactory. The trapdoor appeared to be the only means of access to
the roof, and between this roof and that of the next building there was
a broad gulf. The position was practically impregnable. Only one thing
could undo him, and that was, if the enemy should mount to the next
roof and shoot from there. And even then he would have cover in the
shape of the chimney. It was a pity that the trap opened downward, for
he had no means of securing it and was obliged to allow it to hang
open. But, except for that, his position could hardly have been
stronger.
As yet there was no sound of the enemy's approach. Evidently, as Pugsy
had said, they were conducting the search, room by room, in a thorough
and leisurely way. He listened with his ear close to the open trapdoor,
but could hear nothing.
A startled exclamation directly behind him brought him to his feet in a
flash, every muscle tense. He whirled his stick above his head as he
turned, ready to strike, then let it fall with a clatter. For there, a
bare yard away, stood Betty.
CHAPTER XXVI
JOURNEY'S END
The capacity of the human brain for surprise, like that of the human
body for pain, is limited. For a single instant a sense of utter
unreality struck John like a physical blow. The world flickered before
his eyes and the air seemed full of strange noises. Then, quite
suddenly, these things passed, and he found himself looking at her with
a total absence of astonishment, mildly amused in some remote corner of
his brain at his own calm. It was absurd, he told himself, that he
should be feeling as if he had known of her presence there all the
time. Yet it was so. If this were a dream, he could not be taking the
miracle more as a matter of course. Joy at the sight of her he felt,
keen and almost painful, but no surprise. The shock had stunned his
sense of wonder.
She was wearing a calico apron over her dress, an apron that had
evidently been designed for a large woman. Swathed in its folds, she
suggested a child playing at being grown up. Her sleeves were rolled
back to the elbow, and her slim arms dripped with water. Strands of
brown hair were blowing loose in the evening breeze. To John she had
never seemed so bewitchingly pretty. He stared at her till the pallor
of her face gave way to a warm red glow.
As they stood there, speechless, there came from the other side of the
chimney, softly at first, then swelling, the sound of a child's voice,
raised in a tentative wail. Betty started violently. The next moment
she was gone, and from the unseen parts beyond the chimney came the
noise of splashing water.
And at the same instant, through the trap, came a trampling of feet and
the sound of whispering. The enemy had reached the top floor.
John was conscious of a remarkable exhilaration. He felt insanely
light-hearted. He laughed aloud at the thought that until then he had
completely forgotten the very existence of these earnest seekers after
his downfall. He threw back his head and shouted. There was something
so ridiculous in their assumption that they mattered to a man who had
found Betty again.
He thrust his head down through the trap, to see what was going on. The
dark passage was full of indistinct forms, gathered together in puzzled
groups. The mystery of the vanished object of their pursuit was being
discussed in hoarse whispers.
Suddenly there was an excited shout, then a rush of feet. John drew
back his head, and waited, gripping his stick.
Voices called to each other in the passage below.
"De roof!"
"On top de roof!"
"He's beaten it for de roof!"
Feet shuffled on the stone floor. The voices ceased abruptly. And then,
like a jack-in-the-box, there popped through the trap a head and
shoulders.
The new arrival was a young man with a shock of red hair, a broken
nose, and a mouth from which force or the passage of time had removed
three front teeth. He held on to the edge of the trap, and stared up at
John.
John beamed down at him, and shifted his grip on the stick.
"Who's here?" he cried. "Historic picture. 'Old Dr. Cook discovers the
North Pole.'"
The red-headed young man blinked. The strong light of the open air was
trying to his eyes.
"Youse had best come down," he observed coldly. "We've got youse."
"And," continued John, unmoved, "is instantly handed a gum-drop by his
faithful Eskimo."
As he spoke, he brought the stick down on the knuckles which disfigured
the edges of the trap. The intruder uttered a howl and dropped out of
sight. In the passage below there were whisperings and mutterings,
growing gradually louder till something resembling coherent
conversation came to John's ears, as he knelt by the trap making
meditative billiard shots with the stick at a small pebble.
"Aw g'wan! Don't be a quitter."
"Who's a quitter?"
"Youse a quitter. Get on top de roof. He can't hoit youse."
"De guy's gotten a big stick."
John nodded appreciatively.
"I and Theodore," he murmured.
A somewhat baffled silence on the part of the attacking force was
followed by further conversation.
"Gee! Some guy's got to go up."
Murmur of assent from the audience.
A voice, in inspired tones: "Let Sam do it."
The suggestion made a hit. There was no doubt about that. It was a
success from the start. Quite a little chorus of voices expressed
sincere approval of the very happy solution to what had seemed an
insoluble problem. John, listening from above, failed to detect in the
choir of glad voices one that might belong to Sam himself. Probably
gratification had rendered the chosen one dumb.
"Yes, let Sam do it," cried the unseen chorus. The first speaker,
unnecessarily, perhaps - for the motion had been carried almost
unanimously - but possibly with the idea of convincing the one member of
the party in whose bosom doubts might conceivably be harbored, went on
to adduce reasons.
"Sam bein' a coon," he argued, "ain't goin' to git hoit by no stick.
Youse can't hoit a coon by soakin' him on de coco, can you, Sam?"
John waited with some interest for the reply, but it did not come.
Possibly Sam did not wish to generalize on insufficient experience.
"We can but try," said John softly, turning the stick round in his
fingers.
A report like a cannon sounded in the passage below. It was merely a
revolver shot, but in the confined space it was deafening. The bullet
sang up into the sky.
"Never hit me," said John cheerfully.
The noise was succeeded by a shuffling of feet. John grasped his stick
more firmly. This was evidently the real attack. The revolver shot had
been a mere demonstration of artillery to cover the infantry's advance.
Sure enough, the next moment a woolly head popped through the opening,
and a pair of rolling eyes gleamed up at him.
"Why, Sam!" he said cordially, "this is great. Now for our interesting
experiment. My idea is that you _can_ hurt a coon's head with a
stick if you hit it hard enough. Keep quite still. Now. What, are you
coming up? Sam, I hate to do it, but - "
A yell rang out. John's theory had been tested and proved correct.
By this time the affair had begun to attract spectators. The noise of
the revolver had proved a fine advertisement. The roof of the house
next door began to fill up. Only a few of the occupants could get a
clear view of the proceedings, for the chimney intervened. There was
considerable speculation as to what was passing in the Three Points
camp. John was the popular favorite. The early comers had seen his
interview with Sam, and were relating it with gusto to their friends.
Their attitude toward John was that of a group of men watching a dog at
a rat hole. They looked to him to provide entertainment for them, but
they realized that the first move must be with the attackers. They were
fair-minded men, and they did not expect John to make any aggressive
move.
Their indignation, when the proceedings began to grow slow, was
directed entirely at the dilatory Three Pointers. They hooted the Three
Pointers. They urged them to go home and tuck themselves up in bed. The
spectators were mostly Irishmen, and it offended them to see what
should have been a spirited fight so grossly bungled.
"G'wan away home, ye quitters!" roared one.
A second member of the audience alluded to them as "stiffs."
It was evident that the besieging army was beginning to grow a little
unpopular. More action was needed if they were to retain the esteem of
Broster Street.
Suddenly there came another and a longer explosion from below, and more
bullets wasted themselves on air. John sighed.
"You make me tired," he said.
The Irish neighbors expressed the same sentiment in different and more
forcible words. There was no doubt about it - as warriors, the Three
Pointers were failing to give satisfaction.
A voice from the passage called to John.
"Say!"
"Well?" said John.
"Are youse comin' down off out of dat roof?"
"Would you mind repeating that remark?"
"Are youse goin' to quit off out of dat roof?"
"Go away and learn some grammar," said John severely.
"Hey!"
"Well?"
"Are youse - ?"
"No, my son," said John, "since you ask it, I am not. I like being up
here. How is Sam?"
There was silence below. The time began to pass slowly. The Irishmen on
the other roof, now definitely abandoning hope of further
entertainment, proceeded with hoots of derision to climb down one by
one into the recesses of their own house.
And then from the street far below there came a fusillade of shots and
a babel of shouts and counter-shouts. The roof of the house next door
filled again with a magical swiftness, and the low wall facing the
street became black with the backs of those craning over. There
appeared to be great doings in the street.
John smiled comfortably.
In the army of the corridor confusion had arisen. A scout, clattering
upstairs, had brought the news of the Table Hillites' advent, and there
was doubt as to the proper course to pursue. Certain voices urged going
down to help the main body. Others pointed out that this would mean
abandoning the siege of the roof. The scout who had brought the news
was eloquent in favor of the first course.
"Gee!" he cried, "don't I keep tellin' youse dat de Table Hills is
here? Sure, dere's a whole bunch of dem, and unless youse come on down
dey'll bite de hull head off of us lot. Leave dat stiff on de roof. Let
Sam wait here wit' his canister, and den he can't get down, 'cos Sam'll
pump him full of lead while he's beatin' it t'roo de trapdoor. Sure!"
John nodded reflectively.
"There is certainly something in that," he murmured. "I guess the grand
rescue scene in the third act has sprung a leak. This will want
thinking over."
In the street the disturbance had now become terrible. Both sides were
hard at it, and the Irishmen on the roof, rewarded at last for their
long vigil, were yelling encouragement promiscuously and whooping with
the unfettered ecstasy of men who are getting the treat of their lives
without having paid a penny for it.
The behavior of the New York policeman in affairs of this kind is based
on principles of the soundest practical wisdom. The unthinking man
would rush in and attempt to crush the combat in its earliest and
fiercest stages. The New York policeman, knowing the importance of his
safety, and the insignificance of the gangsman's, permits the opposing
forces to hammer each other into a certain distaste for battle, and
then, when both sides have begun to have enough of it, rushes in
himself and clubs everything in sight. It is an admirable process in
its results, but it is sure rather than swift.
Proceedings in the affair below had not yet reached the
police-interference stage. The noise, what with the shots and yells
from the street and the ear-piercing approval of the roof audience, was
just working up to a climax.
John rose. He was tired of kneeling by the trap, and there was no
likelihood of Sam making another attempt to climb through. He got up
and stretched himself.
And then he saw that Betty was standing beside him, holding with each
hand a small and - by Broster Street standards - uncannily clean child.
The children were scared and whimpering, and she stooped to soothe
them. Then she turned to John, her eyes wide with anxiety.
"Are you hurt?" she cried. "What has been happening? Are you hurt?"
John's heart leaped at the anxious break in her voice.
"It's all right," he said soothingly. "It's absolutely all right.
Everything's over."
As if to give him the lie, the noise in the street swelled to a
crescendo of yells and shots.
"What's that?" cried Betty, starting.
"I fancy," said John, "the police must be taking a hand. It's all
right. There's a little trouble down below there between two of the
gangs. It won't last long now."
"Who were those men?"
"My friends in the passage?" he said lightly. "Those were some of the
Three Points gang. We were holding the concluding exercise of a rather
lively campaign that's been - "
Betty leaned weakly against the chimney. There was silence now in the
street. Only the distant rumble of an elevated train broke the
stillness. She drew her hands from the children's grasp, and covered
her face. As she lowered them again, John saw that the blood had left
her cheeks. She was white and shaking. He moved forward impulsively.
"Betty!"
She tottered, reaching blindly for the chimney for support, and without
further words he gathered her into his arms as if she had been the
child she looked, and held her there, clutching her to him fiercely,
kissing the brown hair that brushed against his face, and soothing her
with vague murmurings.
Her breath came in broken gasps. She laughed hysterically.
"I thought they were killing you - killing you - and I couldn't leave my
babies - they were so frightened, poor little mites - I thought they were
killing you."
"Betty!"
Her arms about his neck tightened their grip convulsively, forcing his
head down until his face rested against hers. And so they stood,
rigid, while the two children stared with round eyes and whimpered
unheeded.
Her grip relaxed. Her hands dropped slowly to her side. She leaned back
against the circle of his arms, and looked up at him - a strange look,
full of a sweet humility.
"I thought I was strong," she said quietly. "I'm weak - but I don't
care."
He looked at her with glowing eyes, not understanding, but content that
the journey was ended, that she was there, in his arms, speaking to
him.
"I always loved you, dear," she went on. "You knew that, didn't you?
But I thought I was strong enough to give you up for - for a
principle - but I was wrong. I can't do without you - I knew it just now
when I saw - " She stopped, and shuddered. "I can't do without you," she
repented.
She felt the muscles of his arms quiver, and pressed more closely
against them. They were strong arms, protecting arms, restful to lean
against at the journey's end.
CHAPTER XXVII
A LEMON
That bulwark of _Peaceful Moments_, Pugsy Maloney, was rather the
man of action than the man of tact. Otherwise, when, a moment later, he
thrust his head up through the trap, he would have withdrawn
delicately, and not split the silence with a raucous "Hey!" which acted
on John and Betty like an electric shock.
John glowered at him. Betty was pink, but composed. Pugsy climbed
leisurely on to the roof, and surveyed the group.
"Why, hello!" he said, as he saw Betty more closely.
"Well, Pugsy," said Betty. "How are you?"
John turned in surprise.
"Do you know Pugsy?"
Betty looked at him, puzzled.
"Why, of course I do."
"Sure," said Pugsy. "Miss Brown was stenographer on de poiper till she
beat it."
"Miss Brown!"
There was utter bewilderment in John's face.
"I changed my name when I went to _Peaceful Moments_."
"Then are you - did you - ?"
"Yes, I wrote those articles. That's how I happen to be here now. I
come down every day and help look after the babies. Poor little souls,
there seems to be nobody else here who has time to do it. It's
dreadful. Some of them - you wouldn't believe - I don't think they could
ever have had a real bath in their lives."
"Baths is foolishness," commented Master Maloney austerely, eying the
scoured infants with a touch of disfavor.
John was reminded of a second mystery that needed solution.
"How on earth did you get up here, Pugsy?" he asked. "How did you get
past Sam?"
"Sam? I didn't see no Sam. Who's Sam?"
"One of those fellows. A coon. They left him on guard with a gun, so
that I shouldn't get down."
"Ah, I met a coon beating it down de stairs. I guess dat was him. I
guess he got cold feet."
"Then there's nothing to stop us from getting down."
"Nope. Dat's right. Dere ain't a T'ree Pointer wit'in a mile. De cops
have been loadin' dem into de patrol-wagon by de dozen."
John turned to Betty.
"We'll go and have dinner somewhere. You haven't begun to explain
things yet."
Betty shook her head with a smile.
"I haven't got time to go out to dinners," she said. "I'm a
working-girl. I'm cashier at Fontelli's Italian Restaurant. I shall be
on duty in another half-hour."
John was aghast.
"You!"
"It's a very good situation," said Betty demurely. "Six dollars a week
and what I steal. I haven't stolen anything yet, and I think Mr. Jarvis
is a little disappointed in me. But of course I haven't settled down
properly."
"Jarvis? Bat Jarvis?"
"Yes. He has been very good to me. He got me this place, and has looked
after me all the time."
"I'll buy him a thousand cats," said John fervently. "But, Betty, you
mustn't go there any more. You must quit. You - "
"If _Peaceful Moments_ would reengage me?" said Betty.
She spoke lightly, but her face was serious.
"Dear," she said quickly, "I can't be away from you now, while there's
danger. I couldn't bear it. Will you let me come?"
He hesitated.
"You will. You must." Her manner changed again. "That's settled, then.
Pugsy, I'm coming back to the paper. Are you glad?"
"Sure t'ing," said Pugsy. "You're to de good."
"And now," she went on, "I must give these babies back to their
mothers, and then I'll come with you."
She lowered herself through the trap, and John handed the children down
to her. Pugsy looked on, smoking a thoughtful cigarette.
John drew a deep breath. Pugsy, removing the cigarette from his mouth,
delivered himself of a stately word of praise.
"She's a boid," he said.
"Pugsy," said John, feeling in his pocket, and producing a roll of
bills, "a dollar a word is our rate for contributions like that."
* * * * *
John pushed back his chair slightly, stretched out his legs, and
lighted a cigarette, watching Betty fondly through the smoke. The
resources of the Knickerbocker Hotel had proved equal to supplying the
staff of _Peaceful Moments_ with an excellent dinner, and John had
stoutly declined to give or listen to any explanations until the coffee
arrived.
"Thousands of promising careers," he said, "have been ruined by the
fatal practise of talking seriously at dinner. But now we might begin."
Betty looked at him across the table with shining eyes. It was good to
be together again.
"My explanations won't take long," she said. "I ran away from you. And,
when you found me, I ran away again."
"But I didn't find you," objected John. "That was my trouble."
"But my aunt told you I was at _Peaceful Moments_!"
"On the contrary, I didn't even know you had an aunt."
"Well, she's not exactly that. She's my stepfather's aunt - Mrs. Oakley.
I was certain you had gone straight to her, and that she had told you
where I was."
"The Mrs. Oakley? The - er - philanthropist?"
"Don't laugh at her," said Betty quickly. "She was so good to me!"
"She passes," said John decidedly.
"And now," said Betty, "it's your turn."
John lighted another cigarette.
"My story," he said, "is rather longer. When they threw me out of
Mervo - "
"What!"
"I'm afraid you don't keep abreast of European history," he said.
"Haven't you heard of the great revolution in Mervo and the overthrow
of the dynasty? Bloodless, but invigorating. The populace rose against
me as one man - except good old General Poineau. He was for me, and
Crump was neutral, but apart from them my subjects were unanimous.
There's a republic again in Mervo now."
"But why? What had you done?"
"Well, I abolished the gaming-tables. But, more probably," he went on
quickly, "they saw what a perfect dub I was in every - "
She interrupted him.
"Do you mean to say that, just because of me - ?"
"Well," he said awkwardly, "as a matter of fact what you said did make
me think over my position, and, of course, directly I thought over
it - oh, well, anyway, I closed down gambling in Mervo, and then - "
"John!"
He was aware of a small hand creeping round the table under cover of
the cloth. He pressed it swiftly, and, looking round, caught the eye of
a hovering waiter, who swooped like a respectful hawk.
"Did you want anything, sir?"
"I've got it, thanks," said John.
The waiter moved away.
"Well, directly they had fired me, I came over here. I don't know what
I expected to do. I suppose I thought I might find you by chance. I
pretty soon saw how hopeless it was, and it struck me that, if I didn't
get some work to do mighty quick, I shouldn't be much good to anyone
except the alienists."
"Dear!"
The waiter stared, but John's eyes stopped him in mid-swoop.
"Then I found Smith - "
"Where is Mr. Smith?"
"In prison," said John with a chuckle.
"In prison!"
"He resisted and assaulted the police. I'll tell you about it later.
Well, Smith told me of the alterations in _Peaceful Moments_, and
I saw that it was just the thing for me. And it has occupied my mind
quite some. To think of you being the writer of those Broster Street
articles! You certainly have started something, Betty! Goodness knows
where it will end. I hoped to have brought off a coup this afternoon,
but the arrival of Sam and his friends just spoiled it."
"This afternoon? Yes, why were you there? What were you doing?"
"I was interviewing the collector of rents and trying to dig his
employer's name out of him. It was Smith's idea. Smith's theory was
that the owner of the tenements must have some special private reason
for lying low, and that he would employ some special fellow, whom he
could trust, as a rent-collector. And I'm pretty certain he was right.
I cornered the collector, a little, rabbit-faced man named Gooch, and I
believe he was on the point of - What's the matter?"
Betty's forehead was wrinkled. Her eyes wore a far-away expression.
"I'm trying to remember something. I seem to know the name, Gooch. And
I seem to associate it with a little, rabbit-faced man. And - quick,
tell me some more about him. He's just hovering about on the edge of my
memory. Quick! Push him in!"
John threw his mind back to the interview in the dark passage, trying
to reconstruct it.
"He's small," he said slowly. "His eyes protrude - so do his
teeth - He - he - yes, I remember now - he has a curious red mark - "
"On his right cheek," said Betty triumphantly.
"By Jove!" cried John. "You've got him?"
"I remember him perfectly. He was - " She stopped with a little gasp.
"Yes?"
"John, he was one of my stepfather's secretaries," she said.
They looked at each other in silence.
"It can't be," said John at length.
"It can. It is. He must be. He has scores of interests everywhere. He
prides himself on it. It's the most natural thing."
John shook his head doubtfully.
"But why all the fuss? Your stepfather isn't the man to mind public
opinion - "
"But don't you see? It's as Mr. Smith said. The private reason. It's as
clear as daylight. Naturally he would do anything rather than be found
out. Don't you see? Because of Mrs. Oakley."
"Because of Mrs. Oakley?"
"You don't know her as I do. She is a curious mixture. She's
double-natured. You called her the philanthropist just now. Well, she
would be one, if - if she could bear to part with money. Yes, I know it
sounds ridiculous. But it's so. She is mean about money, but she
honestly hates to hear of anybody treating poor people badly. If my
stepfather were really the owner of those tenements, and she should
find it out, she would have nothing more to do with him. It's true. I
know her."
The smile passed away from John's face.
"By George!" he said. "It certainly begins to hang together."
"I know I'm right."
"I think you are."
He sat meditating for a moment.
"Well?" he said at last.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, what are we to do? Do we go on with this?"
"Go on with it? I don't understand."
"I mean - well, it has become rather a family matter, you see. Do you
feel as - warlike against Mr. Scobell as you did against an unknown
lessee?"
Betty's eyes sparkled.
"I don't think I should feel any different if - if it was you," she
said. "I've been spending days and days in those houses, John dear, and
I've seen such utter squalor and misery, where there needn't be any at
all if only the owner would do his duty, and - and - "
She stopped. Her eyes were misty.
"Thumbs down, in fact," said John, nodding. "I'm with you."
As he spoke, two men came down the broad staircase into the grill-room.
Betty's back was towards them, but John saw them, and stared.
"What are you looking at?" asked Betty.
"Will you count ten before looking round?"
"What is it?"
"Your stepfather has just come in."
"What!"
"He's sitting at the other side of the room, directly behind you. Count
ten!"
But Betty had twisted round in her chair.
"Where? Where?"
"Just where you're looking. Don't let him see you."
"I don't - Oh!"
"Got him?"
He leaned back in his chair.
"The plot thickens, eh?" he said. "What is Mr. Scobell doing in New
York, I wonder, if he has not come to keep an eye on his interests?"
Betty had whipped round again. Her face was white with excitement.
"It's true," she whispered. "I was right. Do you see who that is with
him? The man?"
"Do you know him? He's a stranger to me."
"It's Mr. Parker," said Betty.
John drew in his breath sharply.
"Are you sure?"
"Positive."
John laughed quietly. He thought for a moment, then beckoned to the
hovering waiter.
"What are you going to do?" asked Betty.
"Bring me a small lemon," said John.
"Lemon squash, sir?"
"Not a lemon squash. A plain lemon. The fruit of that name. The common
or garden citron, which is sharp to the taste and not pleasant to have
handed to one. Also a piece of note paper, a little tissue paper, and
an envelope.
"What are you going to do?" asked Betty again.
John beamed.
"Did you ever read the Sherlock Holmes story entitled 'The Five Orange
Pips'? Well, when a man in that story received a mysterious envelope
containing five orange pips, it was a sign that he was due to get his.
It was all over, as far as he was concerned, except 'phoning for the
undertaker. I propose to treat Mr. Scobell better than that. He shall
have a whole lemon."
The waiter returned. John wrapped up the lemon carefully, wrote on the
note paper the words, "To B. Scobell, Esq., Property Owner, Broster
Street, from Prince John of _Peaceful Moments_, this gift," and
enclosed it in the envelope.
"Do you see that gentleman at the table by the pillar?" he said. "Give
him these. Just say a gentleman sent them."
The waiter smiled doubtfully. John added a two-dollar bill to the
collection in his hand.
"You needn't give him that," he said.
The waiter smiled again, but this time not doubtfully.
"And now," said John as the messenger ambled off, "perhaps it would be
just as well if we retired."
CHAPTER XXVIII
THE FINAL ATTEMPT
Proof that his shot had not missed its mark was supplied to John
immediately upon his arrival at the office on the following morning,
when he was met by Pugsy Maloney with the information that a gentleman
had called to see him.
"With or without a black-jack?" enquired John. "Did he give any name?"
"Sure. Parker's his name. He blew in oncst before when Mr. Smith was
here. I loosed him into de odder room."
John walked through. The man he had seen with Mr. Scobell at the
Knickerbocker was standing at the window.
"Mr. Parker?"
The other turned, as the door opened, and looked at him keenly.
"Are you Mr. Maude?"
"I am," said John.
"I guess you don't need to be told what I've come about?"
"No."
"See here," said Mr. Parker. "I don't know how you've found things out,
but you've done it, and we're through. We quit."
"I'm glad of that," said John. "Would you mind informing Spider Reilly
of that fact? It will make life pleasanter for all of us."
"Mr. Scobell sent me along here to ask you to come and talk over this
thing with him. He's at the Knickerbocker. I've a cab waiting outside.
Can you come along?"
"I'd rather he came here."
"And I bet he'd rather come here than be where he is. That little
surprise packet of yours last night put him down and out. Gave him a