Chapter 9

"Oh, yes, I remember now, you did have that," said Brassfield. "Well, that was fairly well done. Come up and figure with me, and I believe we can make a deal."

"Thank ye kindly, Mr. Brassfield," said Conlon, all his obsequiousness returning. "Thank ye! Annything new in politics, Mr. Brassfield?"

"I don't know a thing," said Brassfield. "I'm so busy with other things, you know----"

"It'll be a great honor," said Conlon, "or so I should take it, to be the mare of the city, an' the master of the fine new house an' all that'll be in it, all this same spring!"

"Yes, Conlon, yes--but as to the office--I don't know about that."

"They can't bate you," asseverated Conlon promptly.

"Oh, I don't know," demurred Brassfield. "You can't always tell."

"We're wid ye, to a man," asserted Conlon unhesitatingly, growing warmer. "The common people are wid ye!"

"I'm glad to hear that," said Brassfield, "very glad. But business first; and this pipe-line is business. Of course, if the people demand it----"

"They will!"

"--why, I may---- I'll see, Conlon. Anyhow, I appreciate your friendship. Come up and see me."

And the candidate for mayor walked away, wondering how he could have offended Conlon, and rejoiced that he had "fixed" him in time.

"Where's the telegram?" he asked, as he entered his private office. "Why, Stevens might have attended to this. Where's Mr. Stevens? Miss Strong, send Mr. Stevens in!"

"Mr. Stevens!" gasped Miss Strong. "Mr. Stevens--why----"

"Oh, I mean where does he live now? I heard he was moving. And by sending him in, I mean, if you happen to meet him," hastily amended Mr. Brassfield, noting some error. "I want to see him. And show me his account, please; and kindly ring for a boy to take this message."

The books showed the discharge of Mr. Stevens, and the closing of his account. Brassfield frowned over it, but resumed his smile at Miss Strong's re-entrance.

"Let's see," said he. "What have we for this afternoon? These unanswered--Why, Miss Strong, these must be attended to at once! Please take some letters for me."

He had dropped into his rut. For an hour or more Miss Strong's fingers flew as she noted down his dictation, and at the end of that time the letters were answered, and the communications which had so perplexed Amidon were filed away among other things done. The office force breathed freely once more, with the freedom of returning efficiency in management.

The man who had brought this relief to his employees now looked at his watch, rose, went out, and walking briskly down the main street, nodding to an acquaintance here, and speaking to another there, made his way out among the homes of the town.

Here his brisk walk gradually slowed down to a saunter. He was strolling toward the house with the white columns. Suddenly coming into view, as she turned a corner and walked on before him, appeared a young lady. Not much ability in the detective line would be necessary for the recognition of her by any of this girl's acquaintances, within any ordinary range of vision. If there were no certain revelation in the short, smartly-attired, quick-moving figure, there could be no mistake concerning the vividly brilliant hair, which glowed under the saucily-turned fabric of felt, feathers and velvet which crowned it, like a brilliant cloud display over a red sunset. Mr. Brassfield seemed to recognize her, for he quickened his pace so as to overtake her before she could come to a gateway, into which her glance and movements indicated that she was about to turn. He walked up by her side, and manifested to her his presence by falling into step and lightly pinching her shapely elbow.

"How-de-do, Daisy-daise!" said he, with the utmost assurance. "When did you bring the town the blessing of your presence?"

The lady gave a little scream.

"'Gene Brassfield!" she ejaculated; and then, with a little quivering emphasis, "You! How you frightened me!"

"I know, I know!" replied Brassfield, peeping under the big hat into her eyes. "Almost scared to death, as is quite proper. But, to my question: how long, how long hast been here?"

"Oh, several days--before you came back. Aunty wanted me to be here when her sister, my Aunt Hunter from Hazelhurst--that's up in Wisconsin--visits her. There's to be a reception. Of course you'll be there, and----"

"Of course," responded Brassfield. "Did I ever absent myself from any social affair in which your charming aunt, Mrs. Pumphrey, is interested? Nay, nay; but don't dodge. Why this throw-down? Why didn't you let me know----"

"'Gene," said the girl, "you can't deceive me. I'm ashamed that I wrote the note, and your telling a fib about getting it won't make it any better. But it was wicked of you not to answer. I only wanted you to come to me and--and talk it all over, and say good-by for ever. It wasn't necessary to----"

"I have never received any note," said Brassfield, totally unconscious of the missive which Amidon had promptly waste-basketed. "What was it?"

"Really? Didn't you?" she queried, pouting her red lips most kissably. "A little note, unsigned, with some--some verses? No? Then I'll forgive you--for that. But--go on, 'Gene, up to the house yonder--go on!"

"You oughtn't to be permitted to run at large," said he, "with that hat, and those lips. I wonder if any one's looking?"

"You mustn't talk that way," she said, "nor look at me like that! Go on, or I shall cry--or something quite as bad! Or, maybe you'll come in? Billy Cox is in there waiting for me, and watching, I dare say."

"Some other time," replied Brassfield, "I shall be delighted. But Miss Waldron has just been driven out into the street, and if she comes this way, I must exhibit myself to her, and maybe she'll pick me up. She's turning this way---- Billy, eh? Happy Billy; nice boy, too, since he stopped drinking. By-by, Daisy-daise!"

Elizabeth came driving down the road, and walking up it came Aaron, sable messenger of the anxious Madame le Claire, who had enlisted Aaron in her service to bring Brassfield again within her magic realm. He reached the object of his search before the carriage passed, and delivered a note.

"Tell Madame le Claire," said Brassfield, whose ideas with reference to that person must have been very hazy, "that such an invitation is a command. I'll be with her immediately."

He stood smiling, hat in hand, at the crossing, as Elizabeth drove by. She halted, and looked questioningly at him. This smile, this confident aspect--all these were so different from his recent bearing that she was surprised, and not more than half pleased. The element of assurance in his attitude toward the other girl was not seen in his treatment of Elizabeth, to whom it would have been offensive. Perhaps the cunning of the consciously abnormal intellect was the cause of this; or it may have been some emanation of dignity from the woman herself acting on a mind in a state chronically hypnotic. Be the cause what it may, to Elizabeth, with all his confidence and ardor, he was most deferential and correct in manners, and, to her, these manners had undergone no change. Confidently, as if no shadow had ever come over their relations, he put his foot upon the step of the carriage.

"Won't you give me a lift," said he, "and put me down at my home?"

She made room for him with scarcely more than a word. "To the Bellevale House," said she to the coachman.

Brassfield looked at her, so grave, so _distinguee_, so coolly sweet, and forgot apparently that there was any one else in the world. He slipped his hand under the lap-robe, and gave hers a gentle pressure.

"Dearest!" he half-whispered, caring very little whether he was overheard or not.

She returned the caress by the slightest possible compression, and put her hand outside the robe. Whether the one action was incited by a desire to avoid complete unresponsiveness, and from a sense of duty only, the other left undecided.

The circumscribed mind of Brassfield which, with the intensity of observation rendered necessary and inevitable by its narrow field, had noted, as he stepped out in the street, the intangible shifting of relations in his surroundings incident to the mere passage of time in the few days of his obliteration, now felt, as a blind man feels the mountain in his approach, or as the steersman in a Newfoundland fog apprehends the nearing of the iceberg, some subtle alteration in the attitude toward him of the young woman by his side. Instantly he was on guard and keenly alert.

"This is a case," said he, "of the prophet coming to the mountain. I was on my way to you, and lo, I met you coming my way--let me hope coming to me--after seeing me!"

"The mountain is at liberty to draw his own conclusions," said Miss Waldron. "One may be reasonably charged with the design of meeting every one in Bellevale when one goes out."

"The mountain, then," said he, "must be content with its place as a portion of the landscape--happy if it pleases the prophet's eye."

"The prophet did not foresee--but let's have mercy on the poor hunted figure. I was about to say that your occupation--or preoccupation--as I drove down the street brought to my attention a new phase of our scenery--a brilliant one. Is this the girl I used to know as Daisy Scarlett?"

"It must be," said Brassfield, "and it surprises me that you speak of knowing her as of the past. How does it happen?"

"The exile of school," she answered, "and the fact that her visits to Bellevale have not been during such vacations as the girls would let me spend with Auntie. It's my loss--I have lived too tame a life."

"I, too; let's take the trail for sensations."

"Let me begin with a mild one," said Elizabeth. "Estelle writes me that she has been away from New York for the past month. So you are not a convicted criminal, at least."

Brassfield scanned her face to get the revelation of every turn of expression, as an aid to this mysterious reference to Estelle as related to his visit to New York.

"That's good," said he promptly, and with marvelous luck, "even a verdict of 'not proven' is a glad surprise on returning from New York. By the way, Bessie dear, won't you drive over by that gang of men? The foreman seems to want to speak to me."

Entirely oblivious of this dexterous turn, Miss Waldron complied, and drew up to the place where Barney Conlon's gang still labored in the trench.

"What is it, Conlon?" asked Brassfield.

"I was wonderin', sir," said Conlon, hat in hand, "if I could see you at your office in a half-hour or so. I'd not ask it, sir, if it wasn't important. It's about the business you was speakin' to me about this marnin'."

"Ah, yes: the pipe-line," said Brassfield. "Be at the office in half an hour, Conlon. Drive to the top of the hill, William. So goes our search for new thrills--road runs slap into pipe-lines and business, dearie."

"Well, we mustn't find fault with it for that," said she. "I've wanted to say to you--since the other evening--that I can see widening vistas showing oceans of good things I never reckoned on in the least. And when I get unreasonable and generally brutal and abusive, I am not really and fundamentally so any more than I am now!"

"I know, dearest; I know, Bessie. And, now, don't give yourself a minute's uneasiness about anything that took place. I apologize for everything out of the proper which I said----"

"Which you _said_?"

"Yes--yes! You were quite right, and I never loved you more than then--except now. Let's not allude to it again, but just go on as before."

"Not quite as before," said she. "I'll not ask you why you kept back so many of your--your _my_--qualities from me--_must_ you get down here at this old counting-room?--and I'll only ask you two questions--cramp the carriage a little more, William! One is, where can I get a copy of the first edition of Child's _Scottish Ballads_--wasn't that the name of the 'Dark Tower' book?"

"You may search me, Bessie," said he, standing by the curb in front of his office. "Don't think I ever heard of it."

"Oh, Eugene!" cried Elizabeth, "don't take that attitude again! But bring it up to me when you come to begin our readings in _Pippa Passes_!"

"Ah! Now you are joking! Good-by, Bess. Unless I'm run over between now and eight-thirty, you may look for me. By-by!"

Not quite so fortunate, this last five minutes of conversation. But all unaware of that fact, Brassfield went back into the private office, and found Conlon awaiting him. Brassfield opened a drawer and drew out a roll of drawings and typewritten specifications.

"Now as to this contract, Conlon----" he began.

"Ixcuse me, Misther Brassfield," interrupted Conlon, "but the contract may wait: some things won't. What's the matther with Edgington?"

"Edgington? The matter? What do you mean?"

Conlon leaned over the shelf of the roll-top desk, and pressed upon a paper-weight with his knobby thumb.

"Thin ye don't know," said he impressively, "that he's out pluggin' up a dale to bate you an' nominate McCorkle!"

Brassfield faced him smilingly.

"Oh, that notion of Edgington's!" said he. "That amounts to nothing! If you and my other strong friends stay by me, there's nothing to fear. I'm glad you know of that little whim of Edgington's. But about this contract. Now, I usually look after these things myself, and do them by days' work. But if I am forced to take this office of mayor, I sha'n't be able to do this--won't have the time; and I'll want you to do it. Perhaps I'd better give you a check on account now--say on the terms of the Rogers' job? All right, there's five hundred. That settles the contract. Now with that off our minds, let's talk of the political situation. You can see that, being forced into this, I don't want to be skinned. Now, what can you do, Conlon?"

"Do?" said Conlon. "Ask anny of the byes that've got things in the past! Wait till the carkuses an' ye'll see. But mind, Misther Brassfield, don't be too unconscious. Edgington an' McCorkle, startin' in on the run the day of carkuses, may have good cards. Watch thim!"

XVI

THE OFFICE GOES IN QUEST OF THE MAN

Victory brings peace without; Amity conquers within. How can my thought hide a doubt? Doubt in the mighty is sin! Yet, as I watch from my height, Rearing his spears like a wood, On swarms the dun Muscovite-- Slavish, inebriate, rude! Dim-seen, within the profound, Shapeless, insensate, malign, Fold within dragon-fold wound, Opes the dread Mongol his eyne! _One waking, one in the field-- Foe after foe still I see. Last of them all, half-revealed Prophecy's eye rests on--Me!_ --_A Racial Reverie_.

Mr. Brassfield sat alone, listening to Barney Conlon's retreating footsteps. A few years ago I could have described the solitude of the deserted counting-house, and made a really effective scene of it. Now, however, telephones exist to deny us the boon. No sooner do we find ourselves a moment alone, than we think of some one to whom we imagine we have something to say, and call him up over the wire; or, conversely, he thinks of us with like results. Conlon's back was scarcely turned before Brassfield took down the receiver and asked for Alvord's residence.

"Jim," said he, "I've just found out that Sheol is popping about town. . . . Yes, it's Edgington. Conlon tells me he's out for McCorkle and against me. . . . Well, maybe not, but Conlon generally knows. You must go out and run it down. We can't have McCorkle nominated--you can see why. . . . All right. I'll wait for you somewhere out of sight. . . . In the Turkish room at Tony's? . . . Very well: I had another engagement, but I must call that off. Thanks, old man. I shall rely on you! Good-by!"

Up went the receiver, and then, almost at once was lifted to Brassfield's ear again as he sent in a call for Miss Waldron's residence.

"Is this 758? Is Miss Waldron at home? . . . Yes, if you please. . . . This you, Bess? Well, I'm in the hardest of hard luck. Things have come up which will keep me cooped up all the evening. . . . You're awfully good to say so! Good night, dearest!"

The lock clicked behind him, and he was out on the street once more. Came into view a figure which was clearly that of a stranger to Bellevale, and yet had an oddly familiar air to Brassfield, as it moved uncertainly along the darkening highway. It came to the point of meeting and halted, facing Brassfield squarely.

"I peg bardon," it said, "but haf I the honor of attressing Herr Brassfield, or Herr Amidon?"

"My name is Brassfield," was the reply. "What can I do for you?"

"I am stopping at the Bellevale House," said the professor. "Blatherwick is my name. I hat hoped that you might rekonice me, as----"

"I am sorry to dispel your hope," said Brassfield. "What do you want with me?"

"I should pe klad to haf you aggompany me to my rooms," said the professor, "vere I shouldt esdeem it a brifiliche to bresent you to my daughter, and show you some dests in occult phenomena. As the shief citizen of the city----"

"My good man," said Brassfield, "whatever would be my attitude ordinarily toward your very kind, if rather unlooked-for, invitation, permit me now to decline on account of pressure of business. Ordinarily I should be curious to know just what kind of game you've got, as I haven't enough in my pockets to be worth your while to flimflam me. Pardon me, if I seem abrupt."

And he hurried down the street, leaving the professor drifting aimlessly in his wake, vibrating between anger and perplexity.

"I wonder where I've seen that man?" thought Brassfield. Dim reminiscences of such a figure sitting in shadowy background, while a glorious tigrine woman ruled over some realm only half-cognized, vexed the crepuscular and terror-breeding reaches of his mind. He met a policeman, who respectfully saluted him. Brassfield stopped as if for a chat with the officer.

"A fine evening, Mallory," said he.

"Fine, indeed, sir," said the officer.

"Who is the old gentleman whom you just passed?" asked Brassfield. "The one with the glasses."

"That?" asked the policeman. "Why, didn't you recognize him? That's your friend the hypnotist, up at the hotel--Professor Blatherwick."

"Oh," said Brassfield as he walked on, "I didn't know him in the dusk. We'll have to have better street lighting, eh, Mallory?"

"No bad idea!" said Mallory. "Well, it'll be for you to say, I'm thinking."

"You don't think there's anything in this new movement, do you?" asked Brassfield.

"Oh, no, sir," said the officer. "And yet, in politics you never know. But I feel sure it'll be all right. They can't do much this evening and to-morrow. Time's too short."

Brassfield hurried on with an air of anxiety. The policeman's words were not reassuring. He turned down a side street and entered a restaurant, the proprietor of which at once placed himself and his establishment at Mr. Brassfield's command.

"Give me the Turkish room, Tony," said Brassfield.

"Yes, sir, the Turkish room: and Charles to wait?"

"Yes," said Brassfield. "Cook me a tenderloin; and don't let any one come into the room."

"Certainly, Mr. Brassfield! The Turkish room, and a steak, and no one admitted----"

"Except such people as Mr. Alvord may bring. We shall want some good cigars, and a few bottles of that blue seal."

"Yes, sir," said Tony. "Will you speak to this gentleman before you go up, sir?"

Brassfield turned and confronted an elderly man of florid countenance, whose white mustache and frock-coat presented a most respectable appearance. Mr. Brassfield bent on him a piercing look, and strove mentally to account for the impression that he had met this man before, wondering again at that hazy association with the mystical, dreamy region of the woman in yellow and black. It was as if he saw everything that evening through some medium capable of imparting this mystic coloring. The stranger faced him steadily.

"I presume you remember me, Mr. Brassfield," said he. "Blodgett of Hazelhurst."

"Of course it's unpardonable in me," said Brassfield, "but I don't remember you, and I fear I've never heard of the place."

"Well," said Judge Blodgett, "it's entirely immaterial. I merely wanted to say that I've some matters of very great importance to communicate to you, if you'll just step up to my rooms at the Bellevale House."

"I can hardly conceive of anything you may have to say," said Brassfield guardedly, "which can not be as well said here. We are quite alone."

"I--the fact is," said the judge, floundering, "what I have to say must be communicated in the presence of a person who is there, a person----"

"May I ask whom?"

"A lady--Madame--Miss Blatherwick."

The cunning of mental limitation again served Brassfield. He recognized the name as the one mentioned by the professor on the street. Why this conspiracy to bring him to this strange woman at the hotel? Was it a plot? Was it blackmail or political trickery, or what?

"I am very much engaged to-night," said he. "Whatever you have to say, say here, and at once."

The judge felt like seizing his man forcibly, and taking him to Madame le Claire for restoration. The Brassfield cunning was an impenetrable defense. Bellevale's chief business man seemed to be himself again, a keen, cool man of affairs, to whom Judge Blodgett, Professor Blatherwick and Clara were, except for the brief and troubled intervals during which the Amidon personality had been brought uppermost, strangers,--until she could once more bring him within the magic ring of her occult power. Brought within it he must be, but how? The judge felt beaten and baffled. Yet he would try one more device.

"The matter can hardly be discussed here," said he, "but I may say that it relates to the evidence you lack in the Bunn's Ferry well cases. I happen to know of your desire for proof of certain facts in the spring of 1896, and----"

Mr. Brassfield started and changed color.

"You know--this woman knows," he said, "something to my advantage in the matter?"

Judge Blodgett nodded. Brassfield looked at his watch, paced back and forth, and made as if to follow Blodgett to the door. Blodgett's heart beat stiflingly.

"You are coming?" said he.

Something in the tone betrayed his anxiety. Again suspicion rose to dominance in the mind of Brassfield; and entering at the door came Jim Alvord, and one or two hulking, mustachioed citizens of the ward-heeler type. He turned on the judge.

"No," said he, "it is impossible for me to go now. But I am much interested in what you say, and to-morrow---- No, not to-morrow, for I shall be very busy; but the day after we will take it up with you, if quite convenient to you. In the meantime, if you will be so kind as to call on my lawyer, Mr. Edgington, I shall be very glad. He is authorized to make terms--anything reasonable, you know. Good night, Mr. Blodgett. I hope we shall meet again!"

"Your old friend Blodgett seems agitated to-night," said Alvord, as they sat alone in the Turkish room. "He's got to be quite a fellow here on the strength of your friendship. Wish he was a voter. We could use him. Maybe he can help in a quiet, way. Anything wrong with him? Seemed worked up."

Smilingly, as if Alvord's remarks had been as plain to him as they were charged with mystery, Brassfield replied that so far as he knew Blodgett was all right, and that he might be of use further along in the campaign.

"And now," said he, "tell me what on earth has sent Edgington off on this tangent. He's the man who first suggested to me that I ought to run. It was his scheme. He's my lawyer and my friend. What does it mean?"