XXV
IT was in early June when she arrived in town again. He was in the lobbyas usual; he lunched at the table by the window as usual. There seemed tobe nothing changed about him except that he was a handsomer man than shehad supposed him.
She ate very little luncheon. As usual, he glanced at her once--aperfectly pleasant and inoffensive glance--and resumed his luncheon andhis newspaper. He was always quiet, always alone. There seemed to be acurious sort of stillness which radiated from him, laying a spell uponhis environment for a few paces on every side of him. She had felt this;she felt it now.
Downtown her business was finally transacted; she went to a matinee allby herself, and found herself staring beyond the painted curtain and themummers--beyond the bedizened scenery--out into the world somewhere andinto two dark, boyish eyes that looked so pleasantly back at her. Andsuddenly her own eyes filled; she bent her head and touched them with herhandkerchief.
No, she must never again come to the Hotel Aurora Borealis. There werereasons. Besides, it was no longer necessary for her to come to town atall. She _must_ not come any more. . . . And yet, if she could only knowwhat became of him--whether salvation ever found him----
The curtain fell; she rose and pinned on her hat, gathered her trifles,and moved out with the others into the afternoon sunshine of Broadway.
That evening she dined in her room. She had brought no luggage. About teno'clock the cab was announced.
As she walked through the nearly deserted lobby she looked around forhim. He stood near the door, talking to the hotel detective.
Halting a moment to button her gloves, she heard the detective say:
"Never mind the whys and whats! You fade away! Understand?"
"By what authority do you forbid me entrance to this hotel?" asked theyoung man coolly.
"Well, it's good enough for you that I tell you to keep out!"
"I can not comply with your suggestion. I have an appointment here inhalf an hour."
"Now you go along quietly," said the detective. "We've had our eyes onyou. We know all about you. And when the hotel gets wise to a guy likeyou we tip him off and he beats it!"
"We can discuss that to-morrow; I tell you I have an appointment----"
"G'wan out o' here!" growled the detective.
The young man quietly fell into step beside him, but on the sidewalk heturned on him, white and desperate.
"I tell you I've _got_ to keep that appointment." He stood aside as thegirl passed him, head lowered, and halted to wait for her cab. "I tellyou I've got to go back----"
"Here, you!" The detective seized his arm as he attempted to pass; theyoung man wheeled and flung him aside, and the next instant reeled backas the detective struck him again with his billy, knocking him halfwayinto the street.
"You damned dead-beat!" he panted, "I'll show you!"
The young man stood swaying, his hands against his head; porters, cabmen,and the detective saw him stagger and fall heavily. And the next momentthe girl was kneeling beside him.
"Let him alone, lady," said somebody. "That bum isn't hurt."
The "bum," in fact, was getting to his feet, groping for some support;and the girl's arm was offered and he leaned on it a moment, clearing hiseyes with a gloved hand. Suddenly he made a movement so quick that shenever understood how she wrenched the short, dull-blue weapon from hishand.
"Pick up your hat!" she gasped. "Do what I tell you!"
He looked at her, dazed, then the blood blotted his dark eyes again. Shestooped swiftly, caught up his hat, and, holding tightly to his arm,opened the other door of the taxicab.
"They'll kill you here," she whispered. "Come with me. I've got to talkto you!"
"Lady--are you crazy?" demanded the tall head-porter, aghast.
But she had got him into the cab. "Drive on," she said through clenchedteeth. And the chauffeur laughed and started east.
In the swaying cab the man beside her sat bent over, his face in hishands, blood striping the fingers of his gloves. With a shudder sheplaced the automatic weapon on the cushion beside her and shrank back,staring at him.
But his senses seemed to be returning, for presently he sat up, found hishandkerchief, staunched the rather insignificant abrasion, and settledback into his corner. Without looking at her he said:
"Would you mind if I thank you? You have been very kind."
She could not utter a word.
Presently he turned; and as he looked at her for the first time a faintflicker of humour seemed to touch his eyes.
"Where are we going--if you don't mind?" he said pleasantly.
Then the breathless words came, haltingly.
"I've got to tell you something; I've _got_ to! I can't stand aside--I_can't_ pass by on the other side!"
"Thank you," he said, smiling, "but Lazarus is all right now."
"I mean--something else!" Her voice fell to a whisper. "I _must_ speak!"
He looked pleasantly perplexed, smiling.
"Is there anything--except a broken head--that could possibly permit methe opportunity of listening to you?"
"I--have seen you before."
"And I you."
She leaned against her window, head resting on her hand, her heart achaos.
"Where are you going when--when I leave you?" she said.
He did not answer.
"Where?" She turned to look at him. "Are you going back to that hotel?"And, as he made no reply: "Do you wish to become a murderer, too?" shesaid tremulously. "I have your pistol. I ask you not to go back there."
After a moment he said: "No, I won't go back. . . . Where is the pistol?"
"You shall not have it."
"I think perhaps it would be safer with me."
"No!"
"Very well."
"And--I--I ask you to keep away from that man!" She grew unconsciouslydramatic. "I ask you--if you have any memory which you hold sacred--topromise me on that memory not to--to----"
"I won't shoot him," he said, watching her curiously. "Is that what youmean?"
"Y-yes."
"Then I promise--on my most sacred memory--the memory of a young girl whosaved me from committing--what I meant to do. . . . And I thank her verydeeply."
She said: "I _did_ save you from--_that_!"
"You did--God knows." He himself was trembling a little; his face hadturned very white.
"Then--then----" she forced her courage--lifted her frightened eyes,braving mockery and misconstruction--"then--is there a chance ofmy--helping you--further?"
For a moment her flushed face and timid question perplexed him; then thequick blood reddened his face, and he stared at her in silence.
"I--I can't help it," she faltered. "I believe in you--and in--salvation.. . . Please don't say anything to--hurt me."
"No," he said, still staring, "no, of course not. And--and thank you. Youare very kind. . . . You are _very_ kind. . . . I suppose you heardsomebody say--what I am."
"Yes. . . . But that was long ago."
"Oh, you knew--you have known--for some time?"
"Yes."
He sat thinking for a while.
Presently they both noticed that the cab had stopped--had probably beenstanding for some time in front of the station; and that severalred-capped porters were watching them.
"My name is Lily Hollis," she said, "and I live at Whitebrook Farm,Westchester. . . . I am not coming to New York again--and never again tothat hotel. . . . But I would like to talk to you--a little."
He thought a moment.
"Do you want a gambler to call on you, Miss Hollis?"
"Yes," she said.
"Then he will do it. When?"
"To-morrow."
He passed his hand over his marred young face.
"Yes," he said quietly, "to-morrow."
He looked up and met her eyes, smiled, opened the door, and stepped tothe sidewalk. Then he went with her to her train. She turned at the gatesand held out her hand to him; and, hat in hand, he b
ent his battered headand touched her gloves with twitching lips.
"To-morrow?"
"Certainly."
She said, wistfully: "May I trust in you?"
"Yes. Tell me that you trust me."
"I trust you," she said; and laid the pistol in his hands.
His face altered subtly. "I did not mean in that way," he said.
"How could I trust you more?"
"With--yourself."
"That is a--lesser trust," she said faintly. "It is for you that I havebeen afraid."
He saw the colour deepen in her cheeks, looked, bit his lip in silence.
"To-morrow?" she said under her breath.
"Yes."
"Good-bye till then."
"Good-bye."
The Gay Rebellion Page 26
