Part 8

"There are a great many who are equally pious with regard to them," said Mr. Sparhawk, "but at the same time the stairs leading to their den are wearing thinner and thinner under the tread of these same gentlemen's feet."

"I have merchandise to the value of eight thousand dollars," protested Mr. Stroude gloomily, "and with it I have a good name in business. But can I borrow two thousand dollars in a reputable way? I can't! Will any institution in the city take my note on any terms that correspond with my position as a merchant? They will not! And why?" demanded Mr. Stroude of the world, as he swept it with his eye. "Why not? It is because the law permits them but a fair interest, but if they can force me to go to their secret co-worker, Bulfinch, they can make me pay as many times that as my necessity compels."

"Bulfinch is, I know, much favored among some financial people," admitted Mr. Sparhawk, with the perky manner of a small bird. "He has at command any sum that can be reasonably asked of him. And, for an accommodation like that, he feels bound to make his demands."

"But my heart's blood!" said Mr. Stroude, his nose going a very deep blue, indeed. "Must he have that?"

"Perhaps," soothed Mr. Sparhawk, "he will not go so far. At any rate, here we are, and you shall soon know."

Off Dock, at Third Street, was a group of old buildings, none in very good repair; through these a brick-paved thoroughfare cut its way. This was Harmony Court, and here a second group of buildings crouched behind the first, as though to avoid the full glare of day. There were a number of shabby tin signs upon a shutter, and perhaps the shabbiest of all bore the inscription: "Amos Bulfinch, Broker."

"So it's here our gentleman keeps himself," grumbled Mr. Stroude. "I knew it was in this neighborhood, but I didn't think it would give quite so dirty a promise."

Mr. Sparhawk led the way into a dim passage which smelt musty, and the walls of which were greasy with the touch of generations. When the perky gentleman said the steps leading to the place of business of Amos Bulfinch had been thinned by the tread of his patrons, he spoke the truth; for thin they were, and very dirty as well. A dim oil lamp, on a landing, lighted the way; and at the top of the steps was a door upon which the money-lender's name occurred once more. They went in.

"Good morning," said Mr. Sparhawk, to a gangling-looking man who sat at a table upon which was spread a quantity of much-handled papers. "This is Mr. Nathaniel Bulfinch, son of Amos," to Stroude.

"Yes, I know," said Stroude. "Glad to see you."

Mr. Nathaniel Bulfinch smiled; his teeth were large, and there were wide spaces between them; his hands were enormous and covered with freckles; he had outstanding ears, an unruly thatch of coarse hair, and pale, watchful eyes.

"What name?" asked Mr. Nathaniel, as he shuffled eagerly among the dirty documents. "Is something due? Eh?"

"Not yet," said Stroude. "No, not yet."

"But," insinuated Mr. Sparhawk, "Mr. Stroude is hopeful."

Mr. Nathaniel laughed.

"They are always that," said he. "It's surprising how much hope is brought into this place."

"And very little is ever taken out again, I'll venture," mumbled Stroude, to himself. He looked about at the dirty walls, the worn furniture, the dusty files of papers hanging from hooks; the air of mean sordidness chilled him. "No," he thought, "no one ever took anything out of this place, unless it was a curse."

"I do not see your brother," said Mr. Sparhawk, of Nathaniel. "Where is Rehoboam?"

"He is going his rounds," said Nathaniel. "No one pays unless they're made to, and Rehoboam is apt at explaining the law. He knows its regulations very well," admiringly. "There are few solicitors who have a defter turn for it. He can tell to the breadth of a hair how much a man may delay in the matter of a debt before the prison keepers may put their hands upon him."

"A pretty talent!" said Stroude. Then, in his thoughts, he added, "I wonder what length of time a man must serve as the devil's acolyte before he reaches so much wisdom as that."

Sparhawk and Stroude sat down, and Nathaniel began thumbing his dirty papers with much the same enjoyment a gourmand shows in eating a dainty dish. There was a soothing voice lifted in an inner room, dimly heard, yet full of assuring sweetness.

"That," whispered Sparhawk to Stroude, "is old Amos."

"I know," nodded Stroude. "I've heard him before, though he's never had occasion to use his honey on me."

Answering the money-lender was a quavering voice, decidedly French in accent, and pitched to a note of anxiety.

"I am not known here," said the quavering voice, "except by Rufus Stevens' Sons. With them I have moneys invested. But there are reasons why I should ask no favors of them."

"To get a name upon the back of a note is no favor," explained the sweet voice. "No favor at all. It is a matter of business."

"There is no one but them; and to them I will not go," said the quavering voice, with a deal of native decision. "I am sorry to have intruded upon you, monsieur, and taken your time."

There was a scraping of chair-legs upon the floor; then the money-lender was heard to say:

"Wait! do not be in haste, Monsieur Lafargue. Let us consider. Mr. Tarrant sent you here, and Mr. Tarrant is my very good friend. I would go greatly out of my way to oblige him. Of course, to have Rufus Stevens' Sons upon your note would be desirable; but as this is an exceptional case we'll say no more about it. What sum did you say you required?"

Nathaniel paused in his thumbing of his documents; his wide mouth hung open, surprisedly, as he listened.

"What?" whispered Stroude. "What? Old Bulfinch lend money without a sponsor?"

But Sparhawk, whose perky manner seemed suddenly frozen into one of interest, motioned him to be still.

"One thousand dollars," said Monsieur Lafargue, "for six months."

"It is a good sum," said the money-lender. "It's a round sum. But, as Mr. Tarrant speaks for you--"

"Wait," said the old Frenchman. "Let it be understood, sir, that Mr. Tarrant does not vouch for me. My acquaintance with him has been quite brief."

"Mr. Tarrant _vouch_ for you!" the money-lender was heard to laugh; and his gangling son, outside, giggled, and winked his pale eyes in great enjoyment. "No, I understand that, monsieur. But I have heard that you were this nation's friend when it needed a friend in France during our days of struggle; also it's been said that you helped forward the cause of the people in your own country; and these things mean a deal to a republican like me."

Stroude seemed stupefied by these virtuous sentiments; Sparhawk pursed up his lips and closed his eyes reflectively. The jaw of Nathaniel once more hung open in surprise.

"Sign your name to that," resumed the money-lender, "and you shall have the money in hand."

There was a sound of some one getting up, the snapping back of locks, and the groaning of heavy hinges. Papers rustled and gold chinked on a table. Then the strong box was closed and the bolts were re-shot into their sockets.

"Well, now," said the soothing voice, "that is done with. There I have your note of hand, monsieur, and you have my money."

"With the conditions what they are," said Monsieur Lafargue, "I am astonished at your generous treatment of me. We do not transact business upon such principles in France."

"No more do we here," said the money-lender, "except upon such occasions as this. But we must do our best by our French friends, more especially when they, in turn, are friends of so distinguished a patriot as Citizen Genêt." Sparhawk, who had continued to sit with closed eyes, now opened them, narrowly; his breath all but stopped. "You are a friend of the citizen's, are you not?" asked the money-lender in his sweetest voice.

"We have known each other many years," said Lafargue.

"To know a patriot like that must give a deal of satisfaction," said the money-lender. "A great deal of satisfaction, indeed."

A few moments later the door of the inner room opened, and Monsieur Lafargue, infirm but holding his white head up with his customary air, came out. Following him was Amos Bulfinch.

"Mr. Sparhawk," said the latter with a little bow, "I'm pleased to see you here. And you, sir," urbanely, to the frowning Stroude. Then turning to Nathaniel, he added, "My son, the stairs are dark and not quite safe for a gentleman of Monsieur Lafargue's years. Will you go with him, down into the court?"

Monsieur Lafargue protested; but Nathaniel reared himself up to his gangling height and took one of the old Frenchman's arms in his clutch.

"It's no trouble," grinned he, showing his large teeth, with the spaces between. "I'll have you down in a moment."

Their steps were still sounding upon the stairs when Amos Bulfinch turned his mild look upon Mr. Sparhawk and then upon Stroude; and a close observer would have noticed that it rested longer and with greater interest upon Stroude.

"A trifling matter of business," explained Mr. Sparhawk. "Mr. Stroude desired me to introduce him. You've heard of him, maybe."

"Often," said Amos in his sweet voice. "Glass, and crockery, and imported ware in Mulberry Street. A fine, profitable business, very active, and not overcrowded."

Stroude was about to answer this, but Sparhawk stopped him.

"You are quite right," said Mr. Sparhawk. "It's an excellent business, and prospering. But there come times in mercantile life," with a little gesture of regret, "when ready money must be reckoned with."

"That is true, Mr. Sparhawk," said Amos soothingly. "Not a day passes but that is brought home to me."

"What would you say," added Mr. Sparhawk, "to loaning Mr. Stroude a matter of three thousand dollars--gold?"

"How soon?" asked Amos Bulfinch, looking at Stroude in a most beneficent manner.

"To-day," said the merchant.

"To-day? Impossible! That is the way with all of them," to Mr. Sparhawk. "They think I have only to pick the money up. What security is there?"

Mr. Stroude displayed some documents, which Amos studied minutely. Nathaniel reëntered just then; and he also gave the matter the closest attention.

"And what names?" asked the money-lender. "Of course, they must be good ones."

Stroude grudgingly mentioned one or two; and father and son shook their heads at each other.

"We have them already," said Amos.

"A half-dozen times," said Nathaniel. "They won't do."

"My people object to the same name so often," said Amos. "They are very strict. And when they object the rate goes up."

Stroude writhed at this, and Sparhawk asked:

"How high?"

The money-lender, who still had Stroude's paper in his hand, folded it one third.

"Oh, no," said Sparhawk. "Oh, dear, no!"

"There are, besides, interests, costs, and other things," said Amos in his honeyed way. "It is too bad. Maybe your friend had better go somewhere else."

"They may treat him better," suggested Nathaniel with disbelief.

Stroude's blue nose paled.

"But a charge like that!" protested he. "It's monstrous!"

"Added to it," said Amos, still fingering the paper, "there are apt to be brokerage charges, besides, there is my small portion to be fixed upon it finally."

He folded the paper in two and stood creasing it between thumb and forefinger while Stroude began to choke and to pull at his neck-cloth feebly.

"Perhaps you'd better not favor us," said Amos. "We never advise anything."

"Terms are always plainly stated," said Nathaniel; "and patrons are left to use their own judgment."

"Well?" asked Mr. Sparhawk of Stroude.

"Can I get the money to-day?" asked the merchant, his trembling hand still fumbling with the neck-cloth. "To-day, without fail?"

"It will be at your office in one hour," said Amos Bulfinch, soothingly. "I will send for it at once." Under his father's directions, Nathaniel sat down at his table and made out the note; when it was ready, it was passed over to Stroude, who read and buttoned it up in his breast pocket.

"My son, Rehoboam, will pay the money over to you," said the leech; "and I would ask, Mr. Stroude, that you have the necessary signatures ready affixed, to avoid delay."

Stroude stumbled a little as he went down the stairs; and the perky little Mr. Sparhawk carried a wrinkle of interrogation between his eyes as he went with him.

XIII

In the window at Christopher Dent's, among the gray dried herbs, the crooked, moisture-seeking roots, the barks and flowers, there had stood for a long time a small board upon which had been carefully lettered the information that upon the second floor desirable lodgings were to be had.

"Clean and roomy," Christopher described them in his talk. "And not of too great cost. The furnishings are not sumptuous, but are adequate to a modest taste; and any one inclined to occupy the premises must be so adjusted as to see no harm in occasional fumes resulting from the distilling, simmering, fermenting, or otherwise compounding of curative drugs, medicines, or chemicals. Any one of such a habit of mind will find themselves reasonably well bestowed." The board, however, had now disappeared from the window; this hinted at the second floor's being occupied; and a glance upward carried the hint to the border of certainty. The shutters were all open; and lights were seen behind trim white curtains. Water Street was quiet of an evening; the drays had ceased to trundle over the stones; porters, clerks, and merchants, who had all day been matching themselves against the mounds of goods that grew before the warehouses, the bills and figures and entries that crowded the desks of the counting-rooms, and the wits and wants of buyers, sellers, and agents, had all melted from view, into their homes, or into the bars or eating-rooms of favorite taverns.

Christopher Dent sat in his back room, his spectacles upon his nose, and a big book in Latin text upon his knee. A cheery fire crackled in the stove; two candles burned upon the table; and a number of other books, each as big as the one Christopher held, lay beside them. Outside the yellow flare lurked the retorts, the rows of bottles and jars full of pent-up possibilities, still and waiting. Tom Horn sat upon a bench near the stove; he rubbed his knees in the warmth, as the little apothecary looked at him over the edge of his spectacles.

"In none of the elder tongues," said Christopher, "is there much to do with the sea. As you say, the ancients were wise; they had a knowledge of many strange things; but they seldom ventured far from land, and so the sea as we know it was a darkened thing to them. So, knowing nothing of its secrets, they could scarcely agree with you. Bear in mind," said Christopher earnestly, "I am not denying; I only announce a lack of authority in the ancients."

"The sea," said Tom Horn in his hushed voice, "has a meaning. It is more than a mass of water, washing around in the hollows of the world."

"I grant you that," said Christopher readily. "I grant you that much active principle is in the sea; it holds many vital elements, crystallized or in solution. Soda, for example, is the cinder of sea-plants; and without this friendly alkali we'd many times be brought to a stand. The ocean gives rare and agreeable substances to materia medica, and in time, as we plumb its depths, it will give more."

But Tom Horn shook his head at this conception.

"I have watched the sea with the sun on it," he said; "and I've watched it running through the night. Hurricanes blow over it and make it leap and rave; but hurricanes die down, and the sea goes on. It is always muttering," said Tom Horn. "I've listened to it, hour after hour; it's always muttering over something it has hidden. But it never tells; it keeps its secrets well."

"The moon guides the ocean's tides," said Christopher. "And the wind ruffles or smooths its surface. It does nothing of itself."

"That is a common error," said Tom Horn, "and held to by men who have not watched, and seen, and listened. The sea slips around the world in a circle. It touches and knows all things. And inside the great circle there are many smaller ones, all moving the same way." He leaned forward in his chair so that his face was close to Christopher. "The world moves that way, too--does it not?--round and round. And so do the stars, and the moon, and the wind." There was a little pause, and then Tom Horn's hushed voice grew more whisper-like than ever. "Who ever saw a circle begin?" said he. "Did you?"

The little apothecary looked perplexed, and regarded his questioner seriously over the lenses of his spectacles.

"No one ever did," said Tom Horn, "because they begin outside the world's rim. The circle of your life, now, began ages before you were born, and in the emptiness of space. It grew narrower as it neared the earth, and the day it touched its surface you began to live. And so it went around and around, and so it continues to go around and around; it keeps growing narrower and narrower, as it has done from the first; it gets tighter and tighter about you. And one day it will close, and so disappear, upon a little spot of ground, in a quiet place. And there you will lie."

"Thankfully, I hope, and untroubled," said Christopher Dent soberly. "And with the little that's been given me to do well accomplished."

The street door opened, and Christopher went into the store.

"Good evening, Mr. Sparhawk," said he.

"Good evening," said Mr. Sparhawk in his perky little way. "I hope I find you very well, Christopher."

"Quite," said Christopher. "Never better, indeed."

"And prosperous, too, I trust."

The little apothecary moved his hand toward his store of dried plants.

"The fields," said he, "and the roadsides and thickets and stream margins have never in my day given themselves so completely to medicinal production. During the spring and summer the earth teemed with curative power, and I harvested abundantly."

Mr. Sparhawk rubbed his hands with satisfaction.

"Excellent," said he. "I am delighted to hear it. And, I think," said he, wisely, "I see the law of compensation at work in what you say; if nature brings us a sickly season such as we've seen of late she makes up for it in her lavish gifts of healing agents. Nature is remarkable," and Mr. Sparhawk wagged his head, "and the more minutely she is studied, the more remarkable she becomes."

The apothecary agreed to this readily enough, and advanced testimony containing instances proving how really remarkable she was.

"And that you are prospering, Christopher," said Mr. Sparhawk, halting the testimony at the first opportunity, "is gratifying. But," and he looked about with his lips pursed primly, "to have fat stores is one thing, and custom is another. I hope trade is active with you." Christopher nodded, and Mr. Sparhawk, much pleased, nodded in return. "Excellent!" said he. "That is good. Of course, in a profession such as yours,--and a most interesting and necessary profession,--custom must be active if one's income is to retain a proper level."

"Usually that is true," said Christopher. "But," and he beamed through his spectacles, "just now I am not forced to depend upon my trade alone."

"Ah!" Mr. Sparhawk looked both surprised and expectant. "I see. You have other sources of revenue, then?"

"Yes," said Christopher. "Lodgers."

"Lodgers!" Mr. Sparhawk now looked more surprised than ever. "So you have taken in lodgers?"

Christopher pointed toward the ceiling.

"Two of them," he said. "French people."

"Two Frenchmen," said Mr. Sparhawk. "Well, well!"

"One Frenchman, and his daughter," Christopher informed him. "The name is Lafargue."

"I have heard of them," nodded Mr. Sparhawk. "Quite genteel people, I think; and the father is engaged in a commercial way with some one in the city. So they are lodged in your house? Well, well, I am glad to hear it. You have been too much alone this long time, Christopher; and that is not good for a man. Now, these people will not only add to your income, but they'll give you someone to chat with. That will be a pleasure. For I suppose," and Mr. Sparhawk smiled agreeably at the little apothecary, "you do chat together?"

"I have spoken with them," said Christopher.

"Of course you have. That is quite right. They are very presentable people, as I have said, and are well circumstanced in their own country. I suppose they have come to America upon matters of pressing importance."

"I don't know," said Christopher Dent.

"Surely," said Mr. Sparhawk persuasively, "they have at some time or other asked you for some small item of information that would give you an idea of their mission."

"Why, no," said the little apothecary. "They have not. They are people who keep themselves to themselves a great deal."

"I see," said Mr. Sparhawk. "Yes, yes, I see."

He then changed the subject and talked of trade in general, the coming winter, of the lighting of the streets, of the watch. And then of crime.

"Time was," said he, "when actual crime of any sort was rare among us. But, now, we've reached a point where even those of violence cause no more than a flurry. Take that affair of Magruder, now--an honest, thriving man. Someone enters his place while he is engaged with his work, and in an instant stops his life. The coroner's jury speaks harshly against the criminals and invites all law-abiding people to bring them to justice. But it will take more than a declaration of indignation and a summons to civic reprisal to effect any good. The persons guilty of this action are still at large and, from all appearances, are likely to remain so."

The little apothecary shook his head and looked perturbed.

"Dear, dear," said he. "A pretty pass, indeed. I suspect the safety of the streets, for all they are so well lit, and so told Monsieur Lafargue, as he went out to-night."

"He has gone out, then?" said Mr. Sparhawk, and there was interest in his face.

"A half-hour or more ago," replied Christopher. "And he seemed quite infirm, and made much use of his cane."

Mr. Sparhawk now made some trifling purchase and left the shop. Christopher returned to the back room. Tom was staring at the blaze through the open door of the stove; without turning his head, or shifting his eyes, he said:

"That was Sparhawk."

"Yes," said Christopher. "An agreeable person. He's considerate of everything and every one."

There was a little pause, and then Tom Horn said:

"Why did he ask about your lodgers?"

"He didn't," stated the apothecary mildly. "I mentioned them."

"He made you do it," said Tom Horn. "I heard him."

Christopher Dent blinked at his friend in surprise and rubbed his bald head.

"Last night," said Tom, "I went to the Boatswain-and-Call after I left the counting-room. I always go there for my supper. Mr. Sparhawk was in the bar."

"Of the Boatswain-and-Call?" said Christopher. "What was he doing there?"

"He had a mug of ale, a thick cut of bread, and the leg of a fowl. But, for all he ate with good appetite, he wasn't there for that. No, it was to talk with me."

"Did he tell you so?" asked the apothecary.

"No," said Tom Horn. "He didn't need to."

Just then the subdued _rat-tat-tat_ of a knocker sounded.

"Listen!" said Tom, though he never moved and never took his gaze from the fire.

"It's at the side door," exclaimed Christopher. "A visitor for my lodgers."

"Sparhawk," said Tom Horn. And while Christopher gazed at his friend, astonished, steps were heard descending a stairway; there was a murmur of voices, and then the stairs creaked under a double burden. "He knew last night they were lodged here," said Tom Horn. "I told him so."

"Do you think," said Christopher incredulously, "that was what he wanted to talk about?"

"It was partly that," nodded Tom. "But mainly it was about what they were doing in this country. He made me tell what I knew, without asking, just as he made you a few moments ago."

Christopher Dent looked completely mystified.