Her Forbidden Knight

by Rex Stout

  Then Dumain decided on a little strategy of his own. The result was unfortunate; but he could not have foreseen that. The little Frenchman was well acquainted with woman’s weakness; but he knew little of her strength. On that day he was destined to acquire knowledge.

  When the others wandered out in search of lunch, leaving the lobby all but deserted, he remained behind. For the sake of moral support he communicated his design to Dougherty, who expressed a fear that something was about to be started which it would be difficult to finish.

  “Bah!” said Dumain. “You shall see. Sit here to wait. It will be easy.”

  When Lila returned from lunch he hurried to her desk and helped her off with her coat.

  “Have you been taking lessons in gallantry, Mr. Dumain?” Lila smiled.

  “Such a question as zat is insult to zee Frenchman,” said Dumain, assuming an injured air. “We do not learn gallantry; we are born wiz eet. I insist on an apology.”

  “But that is not gallant,” Lila protested.

  Dumain laughed.

  “Eh bien! We all have our lapses. And, too, you should not have offended me. I am very sensiteeve. Eet ees not fair. Only today I have rendered you a very great sairvice. Not zat I expect any reward—or even gratitude. But I think you should know of eet.”

  Lila looked up quickly.

  “You mustn’t talk like that, Mr. Dumain. You have been good and kind to me—all of you; and you know I am grateful. I can never thank you enough.”

  Dumain was silent.

  “But what is the service you have rendered me?” Lila said presently.

  “One zat you may not thank me for,” said Dumain.

  “But what was it?”

  “Killing anozzer dragon—of zee human species.”

  She frowned.

  “I’m afraid I don’t understand you.”

  Dumain stammered something about “men” and “danger,” and “the need of a protector.” He was finding it harder than he had thought.

  “But what do you mean?” Lila insisted.

  The little Frenchman gathered himself together and plunged in.

  “I mean,” he said impressively, “zat we have dropped Knowlton and told heem to stay away from you.”

  The unexpectedness of it made Lila catch her breath in surprise. Then her face colored gloriously, treacherously. A little tremulous, uncertain laugh came from between her lips.

  “That was hardly necessary, was it?” she inquired with a brave attempt at indifference.

  “We thought so,” Dumain answered, admiring her courage. He was thinking to himself: “She’s a thoroughbred. Mon Dieu! What a woman!”

  “You see,” he added aloud, “we found out something about heem that was not exactly to his credit. So, of course, we cut heem. What does that mean?” noticing a curious smile on Lila’s face.

  “I was just thinking,” said Lila slowly, “that it must be a very good man who could afford to say to another man: ‘You are not fit to associate with me.’ Don’t you think so?”

  Dumain winced.

  “But that wasn’t it,” he protested. “We were thinking of you. None of us pretend to be angels. But we know you are one.”

  “But why should you have singled out Mr. Knowlton?” Lila insisted, ignoring the compliment. “He acted just as the rest of you. He is kind to me—so are you, so is Mr. Dougherty. He has never offended me.”

  Dumain opened his mouth as though to answer; but was silent.

  “Why?” Lila persisted.

  Dumain stammered something about roses.

  “Roses!” exclaimed Lila in amazement. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean zat you take hees roses home,” said Dumain desperately, “and no one else’s.”

  He should have known better. No one can get a secret from a woman in that manner; provided, of course, that it is her own secret. Lila leaned back in her chair and laughed delightedly. The little Frenchman regarded her with a comical expression of wounded vanity.

  “Oh!” Lila cried, as soon as she could speak. “Mr. Dumain, you are positively childish! You must forgive me; but it is so funny!”

  It was too much for Dumain; he gave it up.

  “Tom!” he called in the tone of a drowning man crying for help.

  Dougherty rose from the seat Dumain had assigned to him and came over to them. In as few words as possible Dumain explained his dilemma, telling him that Lila was aggrieved at their attitude toward Knowlton.

  Lila interrupted him.

  “Not aggrieved,” she said. “It does not especially interest me; only it seems unjust. And I see no reason for it.”

  Dougherty turned to Dumain.

  “Why did you say anything about it to her?” he growled.

  Dumain, having nothing to say, was silent.

  Dougherty turned to Lila.

  “And you think we are unjust?”

  “Yes,” she replied.

  “Well, you are wrong.”

  “I believe I am right.”

  Dougherty reflected for a moment, sighed for courage, cleared his throat, and said:

  “Miss Williams, it is time we understand each other. Now is as good a time as any.”

  “I don’t understand you,” said Lila.

  “You will before I get through. I only ask you to remember what I—what we think of you.

  “You know what we’ve done—not much, perhaps, but all we could—to show you how we feel. We’ve been glad enough for the chance. There’s not much good in any of us, but we’re always anxious to use what we’ve got.

  “Now about Knowlton. As long as he was merely one of us, we asked no questions. He was good enough for us. And I guess he always treated you all right. But that’s not the point. We have an idea you’re beginning to think too much of him.

  “And that won’t do. Knowlton’s all right to buy you roses, and look after you, like the rest of us. But we ain’t fit to touch you, and neither is he.

  “That’s all there is to it. If you’ll tell us you don’t think any more of Knowlton than you do of any of the rest of us, we’ll admit we’re wrong and apologize.

  “We have some rights, you know. You’ve let us stand by you and do things for you. All we ask you to do is this: say you don’t love this Knowlton.”

  During this speech Lila lost her courage. Was everyone in on her secret? Her color rose and fell, her face was lowered, and her hand trembled as she raised it to adjust a stray lock of hair behind her ear. Still, she found sufficient strength to answer:

  “I know—I know you have rights, Mr. Dougherty. I know what you have done for me. If it were not for that I would be very angry. You may treat Mr. Knowlton just as you like; the subject does not interest me. And now—go, please.”

  “But you ought to tell us—”

  “Go!” Lila exclaimed. “Please!”

  They turned and left her without another word.

  And Lila knew she had done right not to be angry with them. Perhaps they had been impertinent; but she knew they had not meant to be.

  And she was frightened; rather, vaguely anxious. For she felt that they would never have presumed so far unless they knew more of Knowlton than they had told her.

  What could it be? Her heart said, he is worthy. But she had not spent months in the Hotel Lamartine without learning something of the unsightly mess that lies concealed beneath the crust; and she feared.

  But after all, why should she trouble herself with thoughts of Knowlton? He had shown no interest in her. He had treated her with courtesy, of course; he was obviously a gentleman. But he had given her no reason to suppose that he would ever be the instrument either of her pleasure or her sorrow.

  The afternoon passed slowly. The telegraph desk at the Lamartine was never overworked; but today it seemed to Lila duller than usual. She tried to read, but found it impossible to settle her mind.

  At five o’clock she began to fill in her daily report, and prolonged the task as far as possible in the effort to rem
ain occupied. At half past five she prepared the cash for the collector of the telegraph company, who called every evening.

  A few minutes later he arrived.

  “Not much for you today,” Lila smiled.

  The collector, a short, plump man with an air of importance, counted the cash, wrote out a receipt and handed it to Lila. Then he took an envelope from his pocket and drew from it a crisp, new ten-dollar bill, which he laid on the desk in front of her.

  He leaned toward her with a mysterious air as he said:

  “Miss Williams, do you know who gave you that?”

  Lila looked at the bill, wondering.

  “In the past month,” continued the collector, “you have turned in something like a dozen of these. We want to know where they come from.”

  The oddity of the question had taken Lila by surprise, and she had remained silent, gathering her wits; but now she remembered.

  Of course, the bills were Knowlton’s. Did he not always pay for his telegrams with new bills? And her receipts were not so large but that she would have remembered any others.

  “But why?” she stammered, to gain time.

  The collector ignored the question.

  “Do you know who gave them to you?” he repeated.

  “No,” replied Lila distinctly.

  “No recollection whatever?”

  “None.”

  He reached in another pocket and drew forth another bill exactly similar to the one he had shown her, saying:

  “I just got this out of your cash drawer. You took it in today. Surely you remember who gave you this?”

  Lila repeated “No.”

  For a minute the collector eyed her keenly in silence. Then, returning the bills to the envelope, he said slowly:

  “That’s odd. Very odd—in a little office like this. I don’t see how you could help remembering. Anyway, be sure you keep a lookout from now on. They’re counterfeit.”

  “Counterfeit!” Lila gasped.

  The collector nodded, repeated his injunction to “keep a lookout,” and departed.

  Counterfeit!

  Lila buried her face in her hands and sat quivering, horrified.

  CHAPTER V.

  Two Escorts

  THAT NIGHT WAS AN UNPLEASANT ONE FOR LILA. She perceived clearly for the first time whither her heart was leading her, and recoiled in terror from the dangerous path on which she had already set her foot.

  She had lied, and she had been faithless to her trust—which, though a small one, was felt by her to be none the less inviolable. She had lied instinctively, naturally, as a matter of course—the heart commands the brain, if at all, with an awful authority.

  And for whom had she made the sacrifice? she asked herself. For a man about whom she knew one thing, and that thing was: she loved him. Perhaps, after all, the Broadway cynic is partly right.

  Alone in her room that night she attempted to subject herself to a strict and sincere examination. She asked herself: “Why have you done this thing?” and her heart fluttered painfully, endeavoring by silence to keep its secret; but she felt the answer.

  She crept, shivering, from her bed, and buried her face in a tray of withered rose leaves on the table.

  Love is no snob. He forces the princess to deceive a court, defy a king, and renounce her royalty, that she may fly to the open arms of her despised lover; he forces the working girl to laugh at justice and law, and sacrifice her dearest possession—even herself. And the one triumph is to him fully as sweet as the other. Love is no snob.

  His struggle with Lila was a hard one. She fought with the strength of despair, having forced herself to realize the significance of the battle. Nothing is more horrible to a woman than the fear that she has bestowed her heart on one unworthy; I say, the fear, for when the bestowal is once consummated and admitted, she is more apt to glory in it than to be ashamed of it.

  Lila ended by saying to herself: “I have done right to shield him. He is good—I know it—surely my heart would not deceive me? What am I to do? I do not know. But I do not regret what I have done.”

  And she smiled, and slept.

  The following day, at her desk in the Lamartine, she felt her doubts and fears return. She chafed under an indefinable sensation of restlessness and expectancy; she performed her duties absentmindedly and perfunctorily; there was a marked absence of the usual pleasant cheerfulness in her manner; her eyes constantly wandered to the door, and returned again to her desk, filled with disappointment. The lobby of the Lamartine did not see Knowlton that day.

  To the Erring Knights this meant a triumph. They believed that after all Knowlton had heeded their warning and decided to obey their dictum. They allowed themselves to become unduly excited over the matter, and as the afternoon wore away their faces took on an expression of jubilant satisfaction. Partly was this owing to their genuinely tender interest in Miss Williams; partly to the inherent vanity of man.

  At four o’clock in the afternoon Dougherty was pacing up and down the lobby, past the lofty marble pillars, through clouds of tobacco smoke, with the air of a pitcher strolling to the bench after a victorious inning.

  He was superbly indifferent to the amused glances of the loungers seated and standing here and there about the lobby, and was even undisturbed by the biting remarks of the Venus at the cigar stand. Finally he strolled over to the leather lounge where two or three of the others were seated.

  “You see,” said he, waving his hand grandly, “he does not come. And who was it that told him to stay away? I.”

  “Wait,” said Driscoll darkly. “It’s early yet. And then—what will you do?”

  “Bah!” said Dumain explosively. “As for me, I theenk he is no coward. He will come. And zen—well, we have our program.”

  But Knowlton did not arrive. Five o’clock came, and six. At the approach of dinnertime the crowd in the lobby thinned perceptibly, and the Erring Knights disappeared by ones and twos.

  Jennings, on his way out from the billiard room, stopped at the corner in search of a dinner companion. He found Sherman seated there alone.

  “Thanks,” said Sherman in response to his invitation. “I’d like to go, but I have a date. See you tonight.”

  Jennings nodded and left the lobby.

  Lila was still at her desk. It was nearly an hour past her period of duty, and there was nothing, apparently, to detain her; still she lingered. She sat with her eyes fixed on the door, hoping that the figure she longed to see would appear at the last minute.

  Finally, she arose and slowly put on her coat and hat. On her way out she stopped at the cigar stand and chatted for a moment with Miss Hughes, who expressed some concern at her pallor and appearance of fatigue.

  “It’s no wonder you’re sick,” said the Venus sympathetically. “A dump like this is enough to kill you. I can stand it. I’m used to it. But sometimes it gives even me the willies.”

  “It’s nothing,” Lila smiled. “I think I have a headache. Thank you for asking. Good night.”

  She left the lobby by the main entrance, walked up Broadway to Twenty-third Street, then turned west. The rush hour was past, and the sidewalks were nearly deserted. A few belated pedestrians hurried along as rapidly as the slippery condition of the pavement would permit.

  The lighted shop windows shone in the frosty air with a sharp brilliancy. Taxicabs and hansoms picked their way cautiously through the ice and snow, and the crosstown cars clanged noisily on their way to either river.

  Lila had got nearly to Sixth Avenue, and was hastening her step at the urging of the cold east wind at her back, when she heard her name called behind her. Turning, she saw Billy Sherman, who advanced smiling, with lifted hat.

  Half frightened, she nodded and turned to go, but Sherman stopped her with a gesture. There was a conciliatory smile on his dark, handsome face as he looked down at her.

  “Do you take the Sixth Avenue ‘L’?” he asked.

  Lila nodded.

  “Then we can ride toge
ther. I am going uptown. You are ill, and you need some one to look after you. If you would only—”

  Lila broke in with a protest, but Sherman paid no attention to it, and walked by her side to the Elevated station and up the steps. He stopped at the window to buy tickets, but Lila took one from her purse and dropped it in the box as she passed to the platform. In a moment he joined her.

  “Are you unwilling that I should do even so little for you?” he asked reproachfully.

  Lila was silent. A train pulled in, and they boarded it together. On account of the late hour, they had no difficulty to find seats. As the train started Sherman turned in his seat to look at her, and repeated his question.

  His manner was respectful, and his solicitude appeared to be genuine; and Lila, wearied and worn by anxiety, was touched by it. After all, she asked herself bitterly, who was she, to despise anybody?

  “I don’t know,” she said doubtfully in answer to his question, which he repeated for the third time. “You must remember—what you have said to me—and how you have acted. I wish—I think it would be best for you to leave me at the next station. You were not going uptown, were you?”

  “I beg you to forget how I have acted,” said Sherman earnestly. “I know that twice I have forgotten myself, but not without reason. You must know that I am and want to be, your friend.

  “I shall not pretend that it is all my desire. But if you will not allow me to be more than a friend, I will be satisfied with that. I couldn’t let you come home alone tonight. You were so weak you could hardly stand.”

  He continued in this strain for many minutes, while the train rumbled northward, and Lila sat back in her seat with her eyes half closed, scarcely listening.

  His voice came to her in a gruff monotone above the rattle of the train, and against her will filled her with a sense of protection and comfort. The words came to her vaguely, unintelligible; but the tone was that of sympathy and friendship—and how she needed them!

  Thus she allowed him to continue, while she remained silent, dimly conscious of the danger she had once felt in his glance and voice.

  At the One Hundred and Fourth Street station he rose, and she saw with a sense of surprise that she had reached her destination. At the train gate she turned to thank him, but he assisted her down the steps of the station and started west on One Hundred and Fourth Street at her side.