III
CALENDAR'S DAUGHTER
All but purring with satisfaction and relief, Calendar halted.
"Dorothy, my dear, permit me to introduce an old friend--Mr. Kirkwood.Kirkwood, this is my daughter."
"Miss Calendar," acknowledged Kirkwood.
The girl bowed, her eyes steady upon his own. "Mr. Kirkwood is very kind,"she said gravely.
"That's right!" Calendar exclaimed blandly. "He's promised to see you home.Now both of you will pardon my running away, I know."
"Yes," assented Kirkwood agreeably.
The elder man turned and hurried toward the main entrance.
Kirkwood took the chair he had vacated. To his disgust he found himselftemporarily dumb. No flicker of thought illuminated the darkness of hisconfusion. How was he to open a diverting conversation with a young womanwhom he had met under auspices so extraordinary? Any attempt to gloze thesituation, he felt, would be futile. And, somehow, he did not care torender himself ridiculous in her eyes, little as he knew her.
Inanely dumb, he sat watching her, smiling fatuously until it was bornein on him that he was staring like a boor and grinning like an idiot.Convinced, he blushed for himself; something which served to make him moretongue-tied than ever.
As for his involuntary protegee, she exhibited such sweet composure that hecaught himself wondering if she really appreciated the seriousness of herparent's predicament; if, for that matter, its true nature were known toher at all. Calendar, he believed, was capable of prevarication, polite andimpolite. Had he lied to his daughter? or to Kirkwood? To both, possibly;to the former alone, not improbably. That the adventurer had told him thedesperate truth, Kirkwood was quite convinced; but he now began to believethat the girl had been put off with some fictitious explanation. Hertranquillity and self-control were remarkable, otherwise; she seemed veryyoung to possess those qualities in such eminent degree.
She was looking wearily past him, her gaze probing some unguessed abyss ofthought. Kirkwood felt himself privileged to stare in wonder. Her naivealoofness of poise gripped his imagination powerfully,--the moreso, perhaps, since it seemed eloquent of her intention to remainenigmatic,--but by no means more powerfully than the unaided appeal of herloveliness.
Presently the girl herself relieved the tension of the situation, fairlystartling the young man by going straight to the heart of things. Withoutpreface or warning, lifting her gaze to his, "My name is really DorothyCalendar," she observed. And then, noting his astonishment, "You would beprivileged to doubt, under the circumstances," she added. "Please let us befrank."
"Well," he stammered, "if I didn't doubt, let's say I was unprejudiced."
His awkward, well-meant pleasantry, perhaps not conceived in the best oftaste, sounded in his own ears wretchedly flat and vapid. He regretted itspontaneously; the girl ignored it.
"You are very kind," she iterated the first words he had heard from herlips. "I wish you to understand that I, for one, appreciate it."
"Not kind; I have done nothing. I am glad.... One is apt to becomeinterested when Romance is injected into a prosaic existence." Kirkwoodallowed himself a keen but cheerful glance.
She nodded, with a shadowy smile. He continued, purposefully, to distracther, holding her with his honest, friendly eyes.
"Since it is to be confidences" (this she questioned with an all butimperceptible lifting of the eyebrows), "I don't mind telling you my ownname is really Philip Kirkwood."
"And you are an old friend of my father's?"
He opened his lips, but only to close them without speaking. The girl movedher shoulders with a shiver of disdain.
"I knew it wasn't so."
"You know it would be hard for a young man like myself to be a very oldfriend," he countered lamely.
"How long, then, have you known each other?"
"Must I answer?"
"Please."
"Between three and four hours."
"I thought as much." She stared past him, troubled. Abruptly she said:"Please smoke."
"Shall I? If you wish it, of course...."
She repeated: "Please."
"We were to wait ten minutes or so," she continued.
He produced his cigarette-case.
"If you care to smoke it will seem an excuse." He lighted his cigarette."And then, you may talk to me," she concluded calmly.
"I would, gladly, if I could guess what would interest you."
"Yourself. Tell me about yourself," she commanded.
"It would bore you," he responded tritely, confused.
"No; you interest me very much." She made the statement quietly,contemptuous of coquetry.
"Very well, then; I am Philip Kirkwood, an American."
"Nothing more?"
"Little worth retailing."
"I'm sorry."
"Why?" he demanded, piqued.
"Because you have merely indicated that you are a wealthy American."
"Why wealthy?"
"If not, you would have some aim in life--a calling or profession."
"And you think I have none?"
"Unless you consider it your vocation to be a wealthy American."
"I don't. Besides, I'm not wealthy. In point of fact, I ..." He pulled upshort, on the verge of declaring himself a pauper. "I am a painter."
Her eyes lightened with interest. "An artist?"
"I hope so. I don't paint signs--or houses," he remarked.
Amused, she laughed softly. "I suspected it," she declared.
"Not really?"
"It was your way of looking at--things, that made me guess it: thepainter's way. I have often noticed it."
"As if mentally blending colors all the time?"
"Yes; that and--seeing flaws."
"I have discovered none," he told her brazenly.
But again her secret cares were claiming her thoughts, and the gay,inconsequential banter died upon her scarlet lips as a second time herglance ranged away, sounding mysterious depths of anxiety.
Provoked, he would have continued the chatter. "I have confessed," hepersisted. "You know everything of material interest about me. Andyourself?"
"I am merely Dorothy Calendar," she answered.
"Nothing more?" He laughed.
"That is all, if you please, for the present."
"I am to content myself with the promise of the future?"
"The future," she told him seriously, "is to-morrow; and to-morrow ..." Shemoved restlessly in her chair, eyes and lips pathetic in their distress."Please, we will go now, if you are ready."
"I am quite ready, Miss Calendar."
He rose. A waiter brought the girl's cloak and put it in Kirkwood's hands.He held it until, smoothing the wrists of her long white gloves, she stoodup, then placed the garment upon her white young shoulders, troubled by theindefinable sense of intimacy imparted by the privilege. She permittedhim this personal service! He felt that she trusted him, that out of hergratitude had grown a simple and almost childish faith in his generosityand considerateness.
As she turned to go her eyes thanked him with an unfathomable glance. Hewas again conscious of that esoteric disturbance in his temples. Puzzled,hazily analyzing the sensation, he followed her to the lobby.
A page brought him his top-coat, hat and stick; tipping the child fromsheer force of habit, he desired a gigantic porter, impressively ornate inhotel livery, to call a hansom. Together they passed out into the night, heand the girl.
Beneath a permanent awning of steel and glass she waited patiently,slender, erect, heedless of the attention she attracted from wayfarers.
The night was young, the air mild. Upon the sidewalk, muddied by a millionfeet, two streams of wayfarers flowed incessantly, bound west from GreenPark or east toward Piccadilly Circus; a well-dressed throng for the mostpart, with here and there a man in evening dress. Between the carriages atthe curb and the hotel doors moved others, escorting fluttering butterflywomen in elaborate toilets, heads bare, skirts daintily gathered abov
etheir perishable slippers. Here and there meaner shapes slipped silentlythrough the crowd, sinister shadows of the city's proletariat, blottingominously the brilliance of the scene.
A cab drew in at the block. The porter clapped an arc of wickerwork overits wheel to protect the girl's skirts. She ascended to the seat.
Kirkwood, dropping sixpence in the porter's palm, prepared to follow; but ahand fell upon his arm, peremptory, inexorable. He faced about, frowning,to confront a slight, hatchet-faced man, somewhat under medium height,dressed in a sack suit and wearing a derby well forward over eyes that werehard and bright.
"Mr. Calendar?" said the man tensely. "I presume I needn't name mybusiness. I'm from the Yard--"
"My name is not Calendar."
The detective smiled wearily. "Don't be a fool, Calendar," he began. Butthe porter's hand fell upon his shoulder and the giant bent low to bringhis mouth close to the other's ear. Kirkwood heard indistinctly his ownname followed by Calendar's, and the words: "Never fear. I'll point himout."
"But the woman?" argued the detective, unconvinced, staring into the cab.
"Am I not at liberty to have a lady dine with me in a public restaurant?"interposed Kirkwood, without raising his voice.
The hard eyes looked him up and down without favor. Then: "Beg pardon, sir.I see my mistake," said the detective brusquely.
"I am glad you do," returned Kirkwood grimly. "I fancy it will bearinvestigation."
He mounted the step. "Imperial Theater," he told the driver, giving thefirst address that occurred to him; it could be changed. For the momentthe main issue was to get the girl out of the range of the detective'sinterest.
He slipped into his place as the hansom wheeled into the turgid tide ofwest-bound traffic.
So Calendar had escaped, after all! Moreover, he had told the truth toKirkwood.
By his side the girl moved uneasily. "Who was that man?" she inquired.
Kirkwood sought her eyes, and found them wholly ingenuous. It seemedthat Calendar had not taken her into his confidence, after all. She was,therefore, in no way implicated in her father's affairs. Inexplicably theyoung man's heart felt lighter. "A mistake; the fellow took me for some onehe knew," he told her carelessly.
The assurance satisfied her. She rested quietly, wrapped up in personalconcerns. Her companion pensively contemplated an infinity of arid andhansom-less to-morrows. About them the city throbbed in a web of mistytwilight, the humid farewell of a dismal day. In the air a faint haze swam,rendering the distances opalescent. Athwart the western sky the after-glowof a drenched sunset lay like a wash of rose-madder. Piccadilly's asphaltshone like watered silk, black and lustrous, reflecting a myriad lights invibrant ribbons of party-colored radiance. On every hand cab-lamps dancedlike fire-flies; the rumble of wheels blended with the hollow poundingof uncounted hoofs, merging insensibly into the deep and solemn roar ofLondon-town.
Suddenly Kirkwood was recalled to a sense of duty by a glimpse of Hyde ParkCorner. He turned to the girl. "I didn't know where you wished to go--?"
She seemed to realize his meaning with surprise, as one, whose thoughtshave strayed afar, recalled to an imperative world.
"Oh, did I forget? Tell him please to drive to Number Nine, FrognallStreet, Bloomsbury."
Kirkwood poked his cane through the trap, repeating the address. Thecab wheeled smartly across Piccadilly, swung into Half Moon Street, andthereafter made better time, darting briskly down abrupt vistas of shiningpavement, walled in by blank-visaged houses, or round two sides of one ofLondon's innumerable private parks, wherein spring foliage glowed a tendergreen in artificial light; now and again it crossed brilliant main arteriesof travel, and eventually emerged from a maze of backways into OxfordStreet, to hammer eastwards to Tottenham Court Road.
Constraint hung like a curtain between the two; a silence which the youngman forbore to moderate, finding more delight that he had cared (or dared)confess to, in contemplation of the pure girlish profile so close to him.
She seemed quite unaware of him, lost in thought, large eyes sober, lipsserious that were fashioned for laughter, round little chin firm with someoccult resolution. It was not hard to fancy her nerves keyed to a highpitch of courage and determination, nor easy to guess for what reason.Watching always, keenly sensitive to the beauty of each salient linebetrayed by the flying lights, Kirkwood's own consciousness lost itself ina profitless, even a perilous labyrinth of conjecture.
The cab stopped. Both occupants came to their senses with a little start.The girl leaned out over; the apron, recognized the house she sought in oneswift glance, testified to the recognition with a hushed exclamation,and began to arrange her skirts. Kirkwood, unheeding her faint-heartedprotests, jumped out, interposing his cane between her skirts and thewheel. Simultaneously he received a vivid mental photograph of thelocality.
Frognall Street proved to be one of those by-ways, a short block inlength, which, hemmed in on all sides by a meaner purlieu, has (even inBloomsbury!) escaped the sordid commercial eye of the keeper of furnishedlodgings, retaining jealously something of the old-time dignity and reservethat were its pride in the days before Society swarmed upon Mayfair andBelgravia.
Its houses loomed tall, with many windows, mostly lightless--materiallyaggravating that air of isolate, cold dignity which distinguishes theEnglishman's castle. Here and there stood one less bedraggled thanits neighbors, though all, without exception, spoke assertively ofrespectability down-at-the-heel but fighting tenaciously for existence.Some, vanguards of that imminent day when the boarding-house should reignsupreme, wore with shamefaced air placards of estate-agents, advertisingtheir susceptibility to sale or lease. In the company of the latter wasNumber 9.
The American noted the circumstance subconsciously, at a moment when MissCalendar's hand, small as a child's, warm and compact in its white glove,lay in his own. And then she was on the sidewalk, her face, upturned tohis, vivacious with excitement.
"You have been so kind," she told him warmly, "that one hardly knows how tothank you, Mr. Kirkwood."
"I have done nothing--nothing at all," he mumbled, disturbed by a sudden,unreasoning alarm for her.
She passed quickly to the shelter of the pillared portico. He followedclumsily. On the door-step she turned, offering her hand. He took andretained it.
"Good night," she said.
"I'm to understand that I'm dismissed, then?" he stammered ruefully.
She evaded his eyes. "I--thank you--I have no further need--"
"You are quite sure? Won't you believe me at your service?"
She laughed uneasily. "I'm all right now."
"I can do nothing more? Sure?"
"Nothing. But you--you make me almost sorry I can't impose still furtherupon your good nature."
"Please don't hesitate ..."
"Aren't you very persistent, Mr. Kirkwood?" Her fingers moved in his;burning with the reproof, he released them, and turned to her so woebegonea countenance that she repented of her severity. "Don't worry about me,please. I am truly safe now. Some day I hope to be able to thank youadequately. Good night!"
Her pass-key grated in the lock. Opening, the door disclosed a dark anduninviting entry-hall, through which there breathed an air heavy with thedank and dusty odor of untenanted rooms. Hesitating on the threshold, overher shoulder the girl smiled kindly upon her commandeered esquire; andstepped within.
He lifted his hat automatically. The door closed with an echoing slam. Heturned to the waiting cab, fumbling for change.
"I'll walk," he told the cabby, paying him off.
The hansom swept away to a tune of hammering hoofs; and quiet rested uponthe street as Kirkwood turned the nearest corner, in an unpleasant temper,puzzled and discontented. It seemed hardly fair that he should have beendragged into so promising an adventure, by his ears (so to put it), only tobe thus summarily called upon to write "Finis" beneath the incident.
He rounded the corner and walked half-way to the next street, coming to anabrupt and
rebellious pause by the entrance to a covered alleyway, of twominds as to his proper course of action.
In the background of his thoughts Number 9, Frognall Street, reared itsfive-story facade, sinister and forbidding. He reminded himself of itsunlighted windows; of its sign, "To be let"; of the effluvia of desolationthat had saluted him when the door swung wide. A deserted house; and thegirl alone in it!--was it right for him to leave her so?
The Black Bag Page 3
