by Rex Stout
“There’s a lot I could tell you, Dougherty, but that, too, would be useless. You’ve called the turn on me, and I certainly don’t intend to whine. Tell Dumain good-by; he was all right. He’s a good fellow, that little Frenchman.”
Knowlton rose to his feet.
“Is—is she waiting for you now?” stammered Dougherty, glancing across at Lila.
“Yes. When I’m gone, tell her not to wait any longer.”
Knowlton hesitated as though about to speak further, then, changing his mind, turned abruptly and without another word passed down the lobby and out into the street. As he passed the cigar stand he heard his name called. He recognized Dumain’s voice, but did not halt.
On the sidewalk he stopped and glanced to either side as though undecided which way to turn. Then he started at a rapid stride uptown.
His mind was still a chaos of mingled thoughts. Curiously enough, he felt little surprise.
“I am paying,” he kept muttering to himself over and over. “I am paying.”
For two hours he walked the streets, unconscious of direction or surroundings, his brain in a turmoil of regret and despair.
Rarely had he so given way to his emotions, but fate had struck him a blow that left him weak and helpless in their grasp. He called it fate. So do we all.
At the end of the two hours he found himself far uptown, on the Drive. It was a clear, crisp February day. Up from the Hudson came a damp, chilling breeze, with the faintest subtle suggestion of the spring about to come; it brought with it the shrieks of tugs and the more resonant calls of ferryboats. Above the factories and piers across the river slanted the descending sun, disclosing the melancholy barrenness of the slope below the Drive.
Knowlton faced about suddenly and retraced his steps downtown. He was fighting the hardest of all fights, and he had had no time for preparation.
He tried to clear his brain of feeling, to think connectedly; he caught himself trying to conduct a mental operation in mathematics in order to prove to himself that he could think, and he laughed aloud. That was a good sign, he told himself: he could still laugh.
He found himself, without knowing how he had come there, at the entrance of the house on Thirtieth Street. He looked at the door for a moment irresolutely, then entered and mounted the stairs to his rooms on the second floor.
He glanced at a little bronze clock on the mantel; it was half past four. His train for the West was to leave Grand Central Station at seven-thirty.
He sat down on a chair by the window, trying once more to collect his thoughts, but in vain. One picture filled his brain to the exclusion of all else.
Remorse, which comes only after suffering, had not yet touched him; he knew only that his every sense, his very reason, had been dulled and obscured by an all-pervading pain.
But if he could not think, he could act, he told himself. As to the course to be followed he had no choice. He had promised Dougherty that he would leave New York, and since his future was decided by that promise there was really no necessity for thought.
He pulled his trunk to the middle of the floor and began to pack, throwing in suits and shirts indiscriminately. From a shelf in the wardrobe he took a package wrapped in brown paper, about a foot square, and stood for some minutes regarding it uncertainly.
“That won’t do,” he muttered, glancing at the fireplace, long disused, “and I don’t dare take it to the furnace.” Then, still undecided and placing the package on a table, he resumed his packing.
Finally the trunk was filled and there remained only to place his toilet articles and a change of linen in his suitcase, together with the contents of a lower drawer in the wardrobe. These items were somewhat curious.
There was a small white glove, two tiny handkerchiefs, a dozen or more letters, two photographs, and several books. These he wrapped carefully and placed in the suitcase, with the exception of one of the books and a photograph.
Glancing at his watch, he saw that it was six o’clock. The cab which he had ordered would arrive in three-quarters of an hour.
The early winter night had long since fallen; the room was dark. He sat down on the trunk to wait.
In the meantime Lila had spent a long and weary afternoon at her desk in the Lamartine.
When she had seen Knowlton, after he had left her for a moment to speak with Dougherty, turn and leave the lobby without so much as looking in her direction, she had been overcome with amazement.
That he, of all men, should be thus openly discourteous, was unbelievable. Well, she thought, of course he would soon return, and when they were at lunch together—
But as the minutes passed by with no sign of his return she grew uneasy. Was it possible he had forgotten his engagement with her? For that he could have deliberately disregarded it was impossible.
Could his conversation with Dougherty have had anything to do with it? She wondered what the ex-prizefighter had said to him; for she knew that Knowlton had scorned the threats of the Erring Knights.
The minutes flew; a half-hour passed. She told herself that she would wait five minutes more, and then if he had not come, go without him. The five minutes passed, it seemed, as so many seconds; she decided to wait five more. She was glad that Dougherty was not to be seen; she knew that she would have been unable to refrain from asking him to explain.
At one o’clock she forced herself to go.
When she returned from lunch she half expected to find Knowlton in the lobby, and, not seeing him, she burned to ask Miss Hughes or the hotel clerk if he had been there. But she could not bring herself to it, and she proceeded to her desk with a heavy heart.
She was mortified and half angry; but above all, she was uneasy. She told herself that Knowlton would never have thus humiliated her but for some cogent and powerful reason, and she could imagine none, unless—
When Dougherty entered the lobby and joined Dumain and Driscoll in the corner Lila kept herself from calling to him only by an extreme exertion of the will. And, after all, she thought, it might all amount to a mere nothing that could easily be explained and forgiven by a word.
The afternoon dragged slowly by.
You may be sure Dougherty had lost no time in telling the others of his success with Knowlton. They were in high glee.
“But weel he keep zee promise about Mees Williams?” said Dumain.
“As well as you would, my friend.” Dougherty was in ill humor. “I’d like to hear you ask him that.”
“And now, thank the Lord, we’re rid of him,” said Driscoll in a tone of finality.
It voiced the general feeling and it was supposed to be Knowlton’s epitaph.
They wandered into the billiard room—it was the middle of the afternoon—and began a four-handed game; Driscoll and Booth against Jennings and Dougherty.
Sherman had not been seen since he had left earlier in the day. Dumain, barred from the game on account of his superior skill, took a chair nearby and after each miss explained to the player how easy the shot would have been for him.
But Dumain’s mind was only half on the billiard game.
With all due respect to a great people, the fact remains that Frenchmen are as a rule “gabby” little fellows, and Dumain was a true son of his country. They can talk about anything, and at all times with pleasure, and when they really have something to say and somebody to say it to, silence becomes for them a positive pain.
Thus it was that Dumain squirmed in his chair.
Not fifty feet away Lila was seated at her desk, and how he longed to tell her of Knowlton!
The reason he did not run to her at once with the news may be summed up in one word: Dougherty. He knew that the ex-prizefighter would not approve, and he was half afraid of him. Dumain was a little man.
The billiard game lasted until five o’clock, when Booth suddenly ended it by announcing that he had to see a customer and departed in haste.
“That’s what comes of having a job,” said Dougherty in disgust, as they wandered into the lobby. �
�How anybody can be a typewriter salesman I don’t understand. Why can’t he live like a gentleman?”
This seemed to be an unanswerable question, as no one responded. They strolled up and down the lobby, then over to the leather lounge and loafed and smoked like gentlemen. Dumain kept one eye—an eye of impatience—on Lila.
At a quarter to six Jennings and Driscoll rose and announced that it was time for them to depart. They were due at the theater at seven-thirty, and they had yet to dine.
“Where are you going?” Dougherty demanded.
They replied that they intended to eat at Tony’s and invited him and Dumain to accompany them.
“Eet ees too early for me,” said the little Frenchman.
Dougherty hesitated, giving the matter due consideration, and finally decided to accept. They left Dumain alone in the corner. He watched them through the window till they had disappeared up Broadway, then turned quickly. Now was his chance.
Lila, with her hat and coat on, was arranging her desk, preparing to go home. At Dumain’s approach she looked up quickly. Her face wore a tired and listless expression that caused the little Frenchman to hesitate. But only for a moment; then he said:
“So your friend deed not even stop to say good-by! You see I was right about heem. Of course you could not know—but when we told you! And now you see.”
Lila looked at him.
“What are you talking about?” she said shortly.
Dumain was undisturbed:
“I mean zat Knowlton—you know eet. Bah! Deed you not see heem run like a dog wiz hees tail between hees feet? Do you know why? We found out about heem. He ees what you call eet a counterfeiter. And when we tell heem he runs.”
Lila had clenched her fists on the desk before her and was leaning on them heavily.
“That is not true,” she said calmly.
Ignoring her, Dumain went on:
“We made heem to leave New York today. Most probable he ees already gone. Perhaps now you will admit I know something when I tol’ you two, three months ago about zis Knowlton? Bah! You were veree angry. You said I am impertinent.” He nodded his head sagely: “I am wise.”
Lila’s face was very white. But her voice, though little above a whisper, was fairly under control as she said:
“You say Mr. Knowlton is going away?”
Dumain said “Yes,” while his eyes gleamed with satisfaction at the impression he was making.
“Has he gone?”
Dumain supposed so, but wasn’t sure.
Lila straightened herself firmly and a new light appeared in her eyes, of resolve, while she calmly buttoned her coat.
“I thought you ought to know about eet,” said Dumain a trifle lamely.
Lila appeared to be little moved. She made no comment on Dumain’s observation, but thanked him and turned to go, leaving him staring at her in profound amazement.
“Zee devil!” he ejaculated, snapping his fingers. “She cares not zat much!”
But once outside the lobby Lila’s courage forsook her. She grasped at a railing and seemed about to fall.
Then, pressing her lips together tightly and forcing back the tears that sought to blind her, she started up Broadway at a walk that was almost a run. She stopped suddenly. Should she call a cab? But, no, she felt it would be impossible to sit still. Again she started forward.
Darkness had fallen nearly an hour before, and the yellow glare of Broadway lighted her steps. The lull following the close of business and preceding the theater hour was evidenced by the quietness of the street; and the few pedestrians to be seen were hurrying to get home to a late dinner.
But Lila was aware of nothing save a fearful anxiety. Would she be too late? Would she find him gone—forever?
This thought occupied her brain to the exclusion of all else. She did not consider whether Dumain had spoken the truth, nor why she was going, nor what she would do: nor was she conscious of any feeling, one way or the other, concerning the revelation that the man she loved was a criminal. She only knew that she must see him.
At Thirtieth Street she turned westward. In another ten minutes of breathless, rapid steps she found herself at the address to which she had sent his letters.
She ascended the stoop and searched on the letterboxes for his name. There it was—the second on the left—John Knowlton.
For a moment she hesitated, half conscious for the first time of the recklessness and immodesty of what she was doing.
Then she pressed the bell button firmly.
CHAPTER XI.
The Voice of the Law
THE LATCH CLICKED; SHE ENTERED AND ASCENDED the stairs. In an open door to the left, peering at her curiously in the dim light of the hall, stood a man. It was Knowlton. Back of him the room inside was dark.
Lila’s anxiety dropped from her as a cloak and gave way to a sudden and overwhelming embarrassment. She stood at the top of the stairs looking at him, unable to speak or move.
Knowlton advanced a step from the door, saying:
“Who is it?”
And then, as Lila did not answer, “Who is it?” he repeated, advancing toward her. “Did you want—why—not—Miss Williams! What does this mean? Why did you come? Speak—tell me—”
“I—I don’t know—” Lila stammered in confusion. “I thought—they told me—you had gone—”
She stood with one hand resting on the baluster, her breath coming in quick gasps.
Knowlton jerked himself together with an effort.
“But this will not do. You must go home at once.” He took her arm.
Lila shook her head.
“I want to talk to you. I must. You mean that I should not come to your rooms? Well—I trust you, and what else matters?”
Knowlton, taken by surprise and at his wits’ end, tried to insist, but Lila refused to listen. Finally, in despair, he led the way into his rooms. He lighted the gas and brought a chair for her, then seated himself on the trunk which he had just finished packing.
Lila looked at it.
“So what they said is true. You are going away.”
He attempted playfulness.
“Yes, I am taking some of my swamps out West to sell to some of my old friends. You must admit, though, I never tried to sell you one.”
“And you were going—without saying good-by?”
“I—I had to,” he stammered. “It was on very short notice. There was no time.”
Lila’s face colored, then grew very white. She could not know the effort it was costing Knowlton to play his role; to her his lightness seemed sincere. She rose to her feet uncertainly.
“I do not know why I came,” she said breathlessly. “But, yes, I do know. And now I am sorry. I cannot tell you how ashamed and sorry I am.”
Her lip was quivering, but her eyes were firm and her voice even.
“Mr. Dumain told me you were in trouble—but I have been very bold—and—and I am sorry—”
She was moving toward the door.
At such times and under such circumstances men forget promises and danger, and throw prudence to the winds. Knowlton sprang to his feet and turned to her.
“Lila!”
She stopped, trembling from head to foot. All that she had longed to hear was in his voice—anguish and entreaty and love.
And now that the gates were broken the flood burst forth.
“Lila! For God’s sake don’t leave me like this! I can’t bear it—I won’t! Oh, what a miserable coward I am!”
In another moment she was at his side and in his arms, laughing and crying at once, and placing her hands over his mouth to keep him from calling himself a coward.
“No, no, no!” she kept saying, while he held her closer and closer and covered her hands and wrists with kisses.
“Lila! Tell me—my darling—do you love me?”
She nodded.
“You do love me?”
“Yes.”
“Say it.”
“I—love—you.”
>
“And I—oh, my dear little girl, I worship you. You have known—you must have known, but I want to tell you. And you love me! It can’t be true. Tell me.”
“I love you,” said Lila. And, oh, the curve of her lips and the light in her eyes and the clinging warmth of her arms!
Knowlton kissed her hair, saying:
“And see! You are my little girl.” He picked her up in his arms and carried her to a chair, then knelt before her, muttering, “My little girl!” over and over. He was intoxicated.
Lila’s eyes were swimming in tears of happiness. She stroked his hair and pronounced his name with a delightful shyness and made him tell her how long he had loved her.
He said, “Always,” and got his reward at once.
There was a long silence, while they gazed into each other’s eyes. Then Lila, happening to glance up, sighed and pointed to the trunk.
“And now, what about that?”
Knowlton turned sharply—and awoke. He sprang to his feet.
“My God! I had forgotten! And this—this is madness! Ah! You do not know—and I am a coward.”
Lila said simply:
“I know everything.”
Knowlton stared at her.
“Mr. Dumain told me why you were going away,” she continued. “Did you think I did not know? And I—I have been waiting for you to tell me—” She stopped, coloring.
Knowlton suppressed a groan of anguish and forced himself to speak. The words choked him.
“I am a counterfeiter.”
“I know it,” Lila smiled.
Still Knowlton could not believe, or would not accept. His hands opened and closed convulsively, his breath came in quick gasps, and his eyes were narrowed with misery. Again he forced himself to speak, and the words came with a painful pause between them.
“But—you don’t—understand. I am—a criminal. I am running away.”
Lila shivered involuntarily at the word, but the smile did not leave her face as she said:
“I love you.”
Then Knowlton burst forth:
“But, Lila, you do not know all! Ever since the day—the first time I was with you, I have been straight. And Heaven knows I have tried to make it up. But you humiliate me—you ask me nothing! Do you think there is no explanation? You do not even ask me why!”
