by Anthology
“And I,” echoed the doctor; then as we turned down the street; “I do not comprehend Leighton or what has led him into this course of duplicity if not crime. A hero at one period of his life; a scamp, if not worse, at another! What are we to think of the man whose nature admits such contradictions! What are we to think of human nature itself! I declare I am sometimes baffled by its operations, and heartily wish that in this present instance I could ascribe them to an unsound mental condition.”
I had no answer for this ebullition of feeling, so walked on silently till our ways divided. As he turned towards home, I took the shortest route to my apartments. But before entering them I dined in the café below, so that it was eight o’clock at least before I mounted to my rooms.
A man was sitting on the stairs waiting for me. As I stooped to unlock my door, he made known his errand. He was an officer in plain clothes, and he came to tell me that I was wanted at the earliest possible moment at the District Attorney’s office.
XXVI. Ferry Lights
THERE could be but one reason for this message from the District Attorney. I had identified myself too closely with the Gillespie case not to have attracted the notice of the police. I was about to be called upon to explain; and, while I shrank from the task, I could not but acknowledge to myself that the time for such explanations had come; that the burden then weighing upon me was too heavy to be borne any longer unassisted.
But the explanations I have thus alluded to would cost me Hope. Never would she forget through whose instrumentality the man she loved had been betrayed to his doom.
It was now raining hard, and the chill which this gave to the atmosphere was sensibly felt by us both as we stepped out into the air. At the suggestion of the officer accompanying me, I had provided myself with a heavy overcoat. It stood me in good stead that night, much more so than I had any reason for anticipating when I donned it.
The ride down-town was hurried and without incident. I entered the District Attorney’s office about nine o’clock, and found him in close conversation with Mr. Gryce. Both showed relief at seeing me.
This did not add to my satisfaction, and when the detective rose and I noticed his composed aspect and the somewhat startling fact that the wrinkle which I had so long observed between his brows had entirely disappeared, I experienced a strange sensation of dread only to be accounted for by the delicate nature of the sympathy which bound me to Hope Meredith. For the moment I was Leighton Gillespie, conscious of guilt and quailing under the quiet eye of this old detective.
This sensation, odd and thrilling as it was, did not cease with the first sight of this man. It followed me with more or less insistence through the whole of this memorable night, occasioning me, I have no doubt, a more poignant anguish and a more intolerable share in the grief and suspense of the woman most affected than Leighton Gillespie himself would have felt or did feel when the whole power of the law was brought to bear upon him.
But these feelings, with all their sub-consciousness of another’s suffering, did not interfere with my outward composure; and I may here remark in passing that I learned a lesson from this experience which has proved of great use to me in my profession. However true it may be that sudden shock reveals the hidden motions of the heart, it is also true that a man, if he is a man, may be the victim of the keenest internal struggle without abating a jot of his natural manner, or showing by look or gesture the wild contention raging within him. This I have learned, and I no longer gauge a man’s internal sensations by his outward appearance.
The District Attorney was not slow in making me understand what he wanted of me.
After the necessary civilities had passed, he told me bluntly that he had heard of my visit to Mother Merry’s and of the conversation I had held there with a young woman against whom a warrant of arrest had for some time been made out. As by this inter view I had been rendered competent to identify her, would I be good enough to accompany the officers who were about to attempt her arrest? A failure in seizing the right girl would at this stage of the affair be fatal to the successful progress of the important matter at present engaging them.
What could I say? My position at the best required explanation, and any hesitation I might show towards aiding the police in their legitimate task, might easily be construed not only to my own disadvantage, but to that of the man in whose behalf I showed resistance. Indeed, there was nothing left for me but acquiescence, hard and uncongenial as I found it.
“I am at your service,” I returned. “But, first, I should like to explain—”
“Pardon me,” interposed the District Attorney. “Explanations will come later. Mr. Gryce says he has no time to lose, the woman being a very restless one and liable at any moment to flit. Her name is Mille-fleurs; or, rather, that is the name by which she is known on the police books. You have seen her, and have only to follow Mr. Gryce; he will explain the rest.”
I bowed my acquiescence, and joined the old detective at the door.
“It will be a rough night,” that venerable official remarked, with a keen glance at my outfit. And with just this hint as to what was before us, he stepped out into the street, where I hastily followed him.
We did not carry umbrellas, Mr. Gryce looking upon them as a useless encumbrance; and as I waited there in the wet while my companion exchanged some words with a man who had stepped up to him, I marvelled at the impassibility of this old man and the astonishing vigour he showed in face of what most young and able-bodied men would consider the disadvantages of the occasion. Short as was the whispered conference, it seemed to infuse fresh life into the rheumatic limbs I had frequently seen limping along in much more favourable weather, and it was with a gesture of decided satisfaction he now led the way to a cab I had already seen dimly outlined through the mist which now enveloped everything in sight.
“We shall have to cross the city,” he announced, as he followed me inside. “It’s a bad night and gives promise of being worse. But you are young, and I—well, I have been younger, but, young or old, have always managed so far to be in at the finish.”
“It is the finish, then?” I ventured, with that sinking of the heart Leighton might have felt had he heard his own doom thus foreshadowed.
The old detective smoothed out the lap-robe he had drawn over his knees.
“There is reason to think so, unless some mistake or unforeseen misfortune robs us of success at the moment of expected triumph. Is your interest a friendly or a professional one? The affair is one which warrants either.”
It was a question I was surely entitled to evade. But I had already decided to be frank in my explanations to the District Attorney, and why not with the man most in his confidence?
“I am a friend of Miss Meredith,” said I; “in other words, her lawyer. She is more than a friend to the Gillespies, as her relationship demands. To serve her interests I have meddled more in this matter than was perhaps judicious. I was anxious to prove to her that her cousins’ lives would bear scrutiny.”
“I see, and discovered that one of them, at least, would not. Poor girl! she has my sympathy. You are without doubt a man we can rely on, no matter into what complexities our errand takes us?”
“I don’t know; I have never undergone any great test. I am willing to assist you in the identification of this girl; but I would rather not be present at her arrest.”
We were crossing Broadway. He looked out, gave one rapid glance up and down the busy street,—busy even at that hour and in the wet,—and quietly remarked:
“Or at his, I suppose?”
The jolting of the cab over the car-tracks struck my nerves as his question did my heart. To this day I never cross a street track in a carriage, but the double anguish of that moment comes back; also the mist of lights which dazzled down the long perspective as I cast a glance through the dripping windows.
“His?” I repeated, as soon as I could trust my voice.
“Yes, Leighton Gillespie’s. We expect to take him tonight
in her company,” he added.
That last phrase startled me.
“You are going to take him in the presence of Mille-fleurs!” I exclaimed. “Why, I saw him an hour ago standing in his own hall in Fifth Avenue.”
“No doubt, but if you have made a study of Mr. Gillespie’s habits, you have learned that he is given to sudden sallies from his home. He will be found, I assure you, in the same house as Mille-fleurs. I hope we may make no mistakes in locating this house correctly. I hardly think we shall. The men I have chosen for the job are both keen and reliable; be sides, for a gentleman of his antecedents, Mr. Gillespie shows a startling indifference to the result of his peculiar escapades. A strange man, Mr. Outhwaite.”
“Very,” I ejaculated abstractedly enough. My thoughts were with a possibility suggested by his words. Pursuing it, I said, “The letter I saw Mr. Gillespie read was from her, then? I noticed that it caused him great agitation, even from where I stood on the other side of the street.”
The old detective smiled instinctively at my reckless betrayal of the part I had played in this scene, but made no reference to the fact itself, possibly because he was as well acquainted with my movements as I was myself. He only gave utterance to an easy-toned, “Exactly!” which seemed not only to settle this matter, but some others then inflaming my curiosity.
“We have been waiting a long time for some such communication to pass between them,” he presently resumed, with a benevolent condescension, springing, perhaps, from our close contact in that jolting cab. “Otherwise, we should have taken him to-day, and in his own house. We have had great difficulty in holding the reporters back and even in keeping our own men quiet. It was desirable, you see, to take them together.”
“And couldn’t she be found? Wasn’t she at Mother Merry s?”
“Not lately. No one answering to her description has shown up there for days. She seems to have fled from that place, alarmed, no doubt, by the interest shown in her by the young gentleman who got speech with her at the cost of a couple of silver dollars.”
I began to note the corners as we passed them.
“Then we are not going to Mother Merry s?” I observed.
“No, we are not going to Mother Merry’s.”
“Yet we are not far from the docks,” I remarked, as I caught transitory glimpses of the unmistakable green and red lights of the ferry-boats shining mistily on the left.
“No, our errand takes us in the region of her old haunts. I hope you feel no concern as to your safety?”
“Concern?”
“Oh, there’s cause enough, or would be, if we were not in force. But our preparations have been made very carefully, and you can trust us to bring you out all right.”
I signified my entire satisfaction. The prospect of physical struggle or some open adventure was welcome to me. My inner excitement would thus find vent.
“Do not bother about me,” said I. “What I dread most is the possibility of meeting that unhappy woman’s eye. Seeing me with you, she may think I have betrayed her. And perhaps I have; but it was done without intention. She did not strike me as a wicked woman.”
“So much the less excuse for the man who has made her his accomplice,” came in quiet rejoinder. This ended our conversation for the time. We were now making our way up-town through upper West Street. As I came to what I knew must be Canal Street from the cars that went jingling across our path, the difficulties of advance become more marked, and finally the cab stopped.
“What is going on here?” I asked, as carriage after carriage rolled into our course, till the street was blocked and we found it impossible to proceed.
“It’s a Cunarder going out. The tide sets late tonight.”
Here a coach, with a sweet-faced girl, drew up along side us. I could see her happy smile, her air of busy interest, as she bent her head to catch a glimpse of the steamer upon which she was perhaps about to take her first voyage abroad. I could even hear her laugh. The sensation was poignant. Wrapt up in the thought of Hope, whom I had not forgotten for one moment during this wild ride, the sight of joy which might never again be hers came like a glimpse into another sphere, so far removed did I feel from everything bespeaking the ordinary interests of life, much less its extraordinary pleasures and anticipations.
Mr. Gryce in the meantime was fuming over the delay.
“We might better have come up —— Street,” he said. “Ah! that’s better. We will arrive at our destination now in less than ten minutes.”
We had passed the Cunarder’s wharf, and were now rolling rapidly northward,.
Suddenly the cab stopped.
“Again?” I cried.
Mr. Gryce replied by stepping out upon the side walk.
“We alight here,” said he.
I rapidly followed him.
The rain dashing in my face blinded me for a moment; then I perceived that we were standing on a corner in front of a saloon, and that Mr. Gryce was talking very earnestly to two men who seemed to have sprung up from nowhere. When he had finished with what he had to say to them, he turned to me.
“Sorry, sir, but we shall have to walk the rest of the way. There are alleys to explore, and a cab attracts attention.”
“It’s all one to me,” I muttered; and it was.
He turned east and I followed him. At the first crossing, a man glided into our wake; at the second, another. Soon there were three men sauntering behind us at a convenient distance apart. Each held a policeman’s club under his coat; and walked as if the rain had no power to wet him. Suddenly I felt myself wheeled into an alley-way.
It was pouring now, and even the street lamps shone through a veil of mist, which made them all look like stars. The alley was dark, for there were no lamps there; only at the remote end a distant glimmer shone. It came from the murky panes of some shop or saloon.
Towards this light we moved.
XXVII. Rain
SUDDENLY the figure of a man stepped out before us. It was too dark to see his face, but his voice had a familiar sound as he said:
“It’s all right. He’s there. I saw him go in a half-hour ago.”
“Very good. My man, Sweetwater,” explained Mr. Gryce, turning for an instant towards me; then, in hurried tones to the other, “Do you know on which floor he is to be found; and whether the man at the bar suspects what’s up?”
“If he does, he’s pretty quiet about it. All looks natural inside. But you can’t tell what whispers have gone about. As for him, he’s chosen his place with his usual indifference to consequences. He’s in one of the attic rooms, sir, well back, and can be reached from the outside by means of a shed that slopes up almost to the window-ledge. If he wanted to escape, he could easily do so by a drop of only four feet. But I have left a man on watch there and our young gentleman would fall into arms that wouldn’t let him go in a hurry. Will you come around that way? There’s a light in the window and there’s neither curtain nor shade to hinder a man’s looking in. If you wish, I can crawl up on the roof I spoke of and take a peep at our doves before we venture upon disturbing them.”
“It can do no harm,” rejoined the older detective; “and if the girl is where she can be seen, this gentleman can go up afterwards and identify her. It will mean surer and quieter work than approaching them by the stairway. The house is full, I suppose?”
“Chuck.” And with this characteristic word Sweetwater melted from before us as if he had been caught up in one of the swirls of wind and rain that ever and anon swept through the alley, dashing our faces with wet and making our feet unsteady on the slippery pavement.
I began to feel strange and unlike myself. The night, the storm, the uncongenial place, our more than uncongenial errand, were having their effect, lending to that dark entrance into one of the worst corners of our great city a sense of mysterious awe which has caused it to remain in my memory as something quite out of the ordinary experiences of life. It was not a long alley, and we soon reached the light I have mentioned. W
e could hear voices now, loud voices raised one moment in contention, the next in drunken cheer; and, thrilling through it all, a woman’s tones singing some bewildering melody. It was not the voice of Mille-fleurs. I could never have mistaken that—but it was a young voice, and did not lack sweetness in the low notes. As I was listening to it, something flew flapping into my face. It was a piece of damp paper peeled from some bill board by a wandering gust and sent scurrying through the air. I tore it away from my eyes, drawing a deep breath like a person suddenly released from suffocation; but I shall not soon forget the effect of that cold slap in the face at the moment when my every nerve was on tension. Mr. Gryce, who had seen nothing,—it was hardly possible to see in the deluge which now swept down upon us,—gave me a pull which drew me from before the swinging door I was unconsciously making for, into a corner where I found myself more or less shielded from the wind if not from the rain. The alley had an L, and leading down from this L was a narrow passage, within which we now stood, surrounded by reeking walls and facing (whenever the fury of the storm abated sufficiently for us to look up) an opening into what might be called a labyrinth of back-yards. As I was bracing myself to meet all alarms, real or imaginary, associated with this noisome place, I beheld a sudden figure emerge from the opening and hastily approach us. It was Sweetwater again. He had just descended from his clamber over the roofs, where he seemed to be as much at home as a cat.
“Lucky that it rains so,” he panted; “keeps the kids in. Otherwise some of us would have been spotted long ago. There are about fifty of them in this one house.” Then I heard him whisper in the ear that was necessarily very near mine:
“It’s all right up there. I can see his figure plainly. He’s sitting with his back to the window, but there’s no mistaking Leighton Gillespie. He’s in dinner dress, just as he came from his own table in Fifth Avenue. The girl—”
“Well, what of the girl?”
“Is in one of her heavy sleeps. I could not see her face, only her hair, which hung all about her—”
