"I didn't clout him," hotly. "I clouted him he'd've gone down."
"I tried to explain to Jerve that it's an American custom—"
"More or less is."
"—but now I'm afraid we've lost our chance for an understanding."
"I don't want an understanding, I want a fight. I'm tired of all this prissy-go-pink-toe business. If he won't fight me polite, then I'll just draw and pitch into him. If he—" 192
"Sh-sh! Here he comes back."
They saw no change in the bedaubed visage when Clark's most talked-of customer passed them on his way from the necessary. He bowed to Chumley as though seeing him for the first time, and his mask was unmarred, no blood. He was lackadaisically picking his teeth.
"He may pass it off," Chumley whispered. "More likely he'll challenge me, for having brought you here. And I'll apologize."
"Why shouldn't he challenge me?"
"How can he? He hasn't been introduced to you."
"I bloodied his nose. Ain't that introduction enough?"
"Not in Clark's," coldly.
Everybody knew what had happened, though Adam was danged if he could see how: there had been no witness. The buzz of talk never rose above a level befitting the gentility; but it was significant that nobody left.
After perhaps half an hour Sir Jervis Johnston did ask for plume and paper. Everybody pretended not to notice.
Similarly never a head was turned when the waiter bore the missive to the table where Chumley and Adam sat. The waiter handed it to Adam.
Though this was against tradition, Adam couldn't help tossing a grin of triumph at John Chumley, who languidly sipped wine.
Adam unfolded the paper. The hand was round, firm, good.
Esteemed Captain, sir:
The person whose name you mentioned would sure not relish the thought that two of her friends were bickering like fishwives. Doubtless you have an explanation that in my unmannerly haste I didn't hear. If this be true, pray correct me.
I remain, sir,
Yr Worship's most humble and most obedient servant,
J. Johnston, Bart.
"Now I call that handsome," Adam cried.
"He's had a plenty of practice."
"Get me some of that paper. I'll write him an answer."
"You'll do nothing of the sort. You put the matter into my hands now. You ignore this message."
"But that would be unmannerly!"
"At this stage of the proceedings you're supposed to be. Don't touch the note any more. Don't even glance at it. When I go to Jerve's table I'll pass the fire and drop the note in. That in itself will announce my intention of insisting upon a duel. It's customary," Chumley added, "to destroy all correspondence before a rencontre, lest the crown seize the survivor on a charge of murder."
Adam siglied.
"Well, why don't you go then?"
"Not yet, man! We must chat a bit. I'll go over in half an hour or so, as if I'd just remembered it. My dear, my dear, will you never learn that in polite society one never does anything in a hurry?"
"In polite society one never does anything at all," Adam muttered.
That was it—you waited and waited. You sat doing nothing, seeing nothing, getting nowhere, hour after weary hour. It fair gave Adam the creeps. When he visited the ships' chandlers or shopped for nails or needles, when he sat in Edward Lloyd's place listening to nearby conversations, or simply walked the streets of this celebrated sewer, he was learning something, or at the very least exposing himself to the chance of learning something. When he sat before the fire at the Hearth Cricket, telling little Lil a story, or dipping his nose into a jack of ale, he was enjoying himself. But at Clark's all he did was wait.
Even after John Chumley had sauntered over to Johnston's table, dropping the note into the fire as he went, there was nothing to indicate that those two men would reach an early decision. Stealing a look at them now and then, as everybody else in the coffee house was doing, Adam saw that they appeared to be chatting indolently about matters that bored. Yet they bowed politely enough, if somewhat offhandedly, when Chumley at last rose to go.
Back opposite Adam, Chumley ordered a pipe.
"What'd you agree, man? Tell me!"
"Tut, tut. Don't lean forward like that. You're being watched."
"But what'd you decide?"
"He'll meet you. He deems it condescending, but he's in a good mood. The cockpit back of Birdcage Walk, in the morning."
"What time?"
"Dawn. That's the hour that's fashionable for duels. The only thing it is fashionable for, damn me, in this town!"
Adam rose. It was late afternoon. Chumley objected in a low voice, but Adam had listened to Chumley too long. He wasn't going to sit around any more. And Chumley at last shrugged, and accompanied Adam, walking slowly, hand on hip, to the door. They bowed as they passed Jervis Johnston's table, and he bowed in return.
John Chumley leaned in the window of Adam's chair.
"I'll call for you, of course. Before it's light. I'll have two chairs. We'll need link boys, too. And whatever you do, please, my chick, my sweet, don't get coarse on the field."
"What's that got to do with it?"
"Do that, and Jerve might refuse to accept your apology. Then you'd have to fight him." Chumley shuddered. "And he'd carve you." 194
Adam said nothing.
"And get a good sleep," Chumley urged.
"I will, my chick, my sweet," Adam snarled.
"It's thought bad taste to have a drawn countenance when you go to the field of honor."
"Mine won't be drawn," Adam promised.
He was not so sure of that when, ten minutes later, he re-entered the Hearth Cricket—to find Goodwife Bingham on her knees sobbing, while her husband the host stood stunned.
"My Lillian! My one child! Lil, Lil, come hack to me!"
Hal Bingham, no color in his face, looked at Adam.
"The kidnappers got her," he whispered.
A h^ It was well that Adam was not a blasphemous man, else now JL / surely he would have taken the name of the Lord in vain.
"Then what in thunderation are you doing on your knees?"
The blow must have fallen only a moment earlier. The air tingled. There was another person in the ordinary—a lank, knotty-throated youth named Lamson, brother of that same Anne Lamson who had been stolen off the streets a week ago. Adam pointed a finger that might have been a poniard.
"You! Did you see her napped?"
The young man gulped, nodding.
"Two men was walking with 'er. Over in Loo Lane. Just now. She saw me and she started to call out somefing, but they 'ustled 'er along. They was 'olding 'er 'ands each side."
"Why didn't you go up to her?"
"I made out to, but one of the men chised me awie."
"What with? A regiment of lancers?"
"No, sir. But 'e doubled up 'is fist as if 'e'd it me, so I 'urried back 'ere. I was afride 'e'd 'it me."
"You mean—'it you like this?" asked Adam, and hit him.
"Oxv-w! Please, Captain—"
"Or like this?" asked Adam, and hit him again.
Adam turned back to Hal Bingham.
"We'll go to that place and start asking questions. There's still a smitch of daylight left. You got a weapon?"
"Got a cudgel back of the bar."
"Fetch it out."
He turned back to the cringing Lamson, on the Hoor.
"You'll take us to the spot," he said.
"Not me! You couldn't get me to— Please, Captain!"
Adam had drawn, and he lashed the lad's legs, right, left, rhythmically, almost as though he were swinging a scythe. He was careful to strike with the flat, but he struck hard.
"Look at me, Lamson," caressively, as though calling a kitten.
Lamson opened his eyes. The point of the sword was two inches from his nose.
"You are taking us there, Lamson."
"Y-Yes, sir."
Adam glanced at Hal, arm
ed with the club now. "Come along." He flung open the street door—and Lillian Bingham fell into his arms.
Much must be allowed a mother in moments of stress. Hal Bingham wept, and freely. It was the first time Adam had ever seen a Londoner weep. Adam himself was not sure of his eyes for a while. Nevertheless it was Adam who broke up the scene. Kneeling before Lillian: "Let's have the story once more, before we go out."
"Out?" cried Goodwife Bingham. "There's nobody in this family ever goes out after dark again!"
"Let's have the story once more," Adam said gently.
It was a simple story. Lillian was fully recovered now, had her breath back. She looked straight at Adam while she talked.
She had been playing at the intersection of Loo Lane, the upstreet limit she was allowed, and it was not quite dark. She'd been about to start home. She insisted that she had not gone further than she should have gone or stayed out later.
"All right, all right!"
She did not know from which direction the two men had come. They were just suddenly there. Did they call her by her name? No. They'd only called her "little girl" and things like that.
"You know—silly things."
"Go on," said Adam.
She had not at first felt frightened when each of these men took her by the hand and started to walk her, for indeed it had been in this direction, toward the inn, which seemed natural to her. Hadn't she just been about to start this way herself? She had not recognized either man but she'd not remarked anything unusual about them. Their dress was neither a peacock's nor notably mean. She remembered that they had walked faster than she liked to walk; but grown-ups usually did that. She had assumed that they were occasional customers at the Hearth Cricket. She met many such. She was vaguely obligated to smile upon 196
any man in this neighborhood who acted as though he knew her. She always had been.
But these men, after a short distance, had turned, turning her with them, and soon were moving away from the inn. It could be they hoped that in the gathering darkness the girl would not notice this. They stood closer to her now, and walked a bit faster, and when she pointed out that they were going the wrong way they hadn't answered with words, only tugged her along.
"They didn't hold my hands very tight. It didn't hurt. But I couldn't let go."
Yes, she had seen and recognized the Lamson lad, and she'd called out to him, she didn't know what. One of the men had snarled at him, and he'd scampered away.
It might have been at about this time that she started to cry. But she hadn't cried much, she assured them now.
The men had hurried her along. They kept telling her that they were taking her home, that they'd only gone for a little walk and were near the Hearth Cricket now. Yes, they'd named the inn.
She hadn't really believed them, but neither had she fought hard to get away. She'd only held back as much as she was able, dragging, purposely stumbling and falling to her knees. The men had not been rough when they pulled her to her feet, but they'd been quick about it—they weren't wasting any time.
"Weren't there people around? Why didn't you scream for help?"
This had not even occurred to Lillian, she freely confessed. Then, too, she had been out of breath: the men made her move fast.
Not until they came to the house had she really balked. Walking the open streets, even while the light failed, was one thing; entering a strange house was quite another. Lil had torn herself free and turned and ran. Perhaps because she had been so "good," her revolt took them off guard. She didn't know whether either or both followed her. She'd never looked back. She had run up one street and down another until at last she recognized some shops. She had never stopped running until she fell into Adam's arms.
"Now about the house, my beauteous. This is important. What was that house like?"
Well, it was three stories, she thought. It was plaster-and-lath, not stone. It stood flush with the street, a cobbled one of average width. The door, which was wide, was dark brown in color, or it might even have been black. There was no knocker. She didn't think that there was a fanlight. Two or three stone steps led up to the door, she thought.
Now this description might have fitted any one of hundreds of houses within a mile of the Hearth Cricket.
Hunkered down before the girl, Adam remembered the sugar bun and brought it forth. LilHan grinned shyly.
"What do you say?" prompted her mother.
"Thank you, sir," said Lil.
"Now about this house," serious, confidential. "If we was to take you to where these men first came up to you, your father and I, and if we was to walk next to you, one on each side, the way they did, do you think you could walk us right to that house?"
"I— I might."
"It might come back to you, don't you think?"
"Maybe."
"That can wait till morning," said Goodwife Bingham. "Lillian, back to the kitchen. We're going to have a wash."
"No, no," Adam cried. "Tomorrow morning may be too late. We must get this while the memory's fresh. I think Lil could walk right there— now. She'd never be able to do that tomorrow."
"Now see here. Captain Long. We're monstrous grateful for all you've done, but Lil don't go out in the dark any more—not even if she was to be escorted by a company of the Queen's horse!"
"I'll go, sure," said Lillian.
Adam rose.
"Ma'am," softly, "it's not a time to hide under the bed. We've got a chance to break up this gang, if we act fast. We won't be long. And once we've found the place we'll bring Lil right back."
"She don't go out," said Mrs. Bingham.
Lillian, munching her sugar bun, looked from one to the other.
"Ma'am, if nobody ever does anything about this, if they don't ever do more than that cowhearted Lamson, you'll have it all over again. We're near 'em—let's get 'em! Your own husband told me this morning, right here in this room, that if that gang ain't cleared out soon they'll be snatching the babes right out of bed!"
"He's right, Mary," Hal Bingham said. "We got to go now."
"She don't leave this house!"
"It ain't just Lillian, ma'am, though it's her we're thinking of first. But there's others. There's other mothers, too. We may not get these villains, ma'am, but we're bound by our faith in the Lord to try."
"He's right, Mary," Hal said.
The woman gave in suddenly. She sank to a stool, and for the first time she wept. Elbows on knees, head in hands, she rocked a bit, while the tears streamed down her face. She began to moan.
Hal Bingham put a hand on his daughter's shoulder and he leaned close to Adam.
"Come on," he whispered. "Before she changes her mind."
The last to leave, Adam Long looked back from the doorway. Good-wife Bingham still sat on that stool, her shadow enormous on the wall beyond. She only rocked or swayed a little, but the shadow swung halfway across the room and back. Her moans were low.
There were few to see the curious walk these two men took with the child, no one really to watch it. Respectable London had shuttered itself in. The streets were deserted. There was no fog, and it was warm for that time of year. The air was oddly light and unsure of itself. It would stiffen erratically, waxing ominous, slamming a loose shutter, kicking up a whirlpool of dust and tiny sticks; then immediately afterward it would die, leaving silence.
They stayed close to Lillian, who was clear-eyed and cool. Lillian mostly looked down as she walked. She had probably looked down while walking with the strangers. She did not hesitate. The thing was so fresh in her mind that she could follow her instinct, not talking, letting her body take her. She did not go fast, but neither did she waver.
They had walked perhaps half a mile, and had made a dozen turns, some right, others left, when in the middle of a small somnolent street Lillian pointed.
"That's it."
She appeared not to have the slightest doubt, and the house fitted her description.
There was nobody in sight up or down
the street. No light showed.
"What d'ye think we ought to do?" Hal Bingham breathed.
"Knock up the nearest magistrate. Who is he?"
"Man named Nixon. A right 'un, they tell me. But he might not be willing to smash in the door just on a little girl's say-so."
"If he won't do it," said Adam, "I'll go dovm to the schooner and order my whole crew up here, and we'll do it."
He examined the door closely, to see if he could make out any sort of name or number. There was none. He stepped back.
"You're positively sure now, Lil, my beauteous?"
"I am pos-i-tive-ly sure," Lillian said with great aplomb. "They got me all the way up on this stone before I broke away. I was standing here—"
She had passed in front of Adam and stood between him and the door.
Then this happened: The door was opened a few inches, and a hand came out. The hand grabbed Lillian by her dress. The door was opened a little wider, and Lillian was yanked in—out of sight. The door was slammed shut. There was the sound of a bolt being thrown.
Lillian had not made a squeak, hadn't had a chance to. The thing had happened in the blink of an eye.
Adam threw himsclt against the door. He couldn't so much as quiver it. There was a latch, which he rattled frantically. There was no keyhole, no opening of any sort.
"Go down to the schooner and get the men! All of them!"
"The magistrate—"
"Blust the magistrate! Take too long to make out warrants! Tell Forhes to bring a spar!"
Hal Bingham ran away.
This street was paved, if somewhat sketchily. Adam had kicked a loose stone a moment before. He found it, prised it fully free. Holding it high in both hands, he started for the door again.
He stopped, dumbfounded. He lowered the paving stone.
The door stood open. Nothing but darkness showed beyond.
"Won't you come in?" said a voice from that darkness.
Adam looked up the street, down the street. He was alone. Yet minutes might count. If he ran he could be chased, hacked to pieces.
He dropped the stone. He drew.
"Now d'ye know, I think I will," he said.
A O He walked with his sword held before him at arm's length. JL CD The street was dark, but the darkness massed inside the
Captain Adam Page 25
