Part 11

"The man I refer to is John Steadman. Do you know where he is?"

The girl slowly lifted her head and looked at him rather impudently. She seemed more like a large doll than a girl.

"I haven't the pleasure of your acquaintance, Mr. Ralston, if that is your name, and I don't know your friend Steadman."

There was something about her manner that convinced Ralston that she knew more than she admitted, but it was obvious that for purposes of her own she had made up her mind to treat him with the scant courtesy usually extended by show girls to people who are not worth while, and to people it is worth while to keep for a time at a distance.

"I'm very sorry," said Ralston. "I believed that you were the one person in New York who could tell me where he was. Of course, you might know him under some other name."

"Why are you so interested in finding this Mr.--Steadman?" asked the partridge, studiously inserting her foot in a shoe that seemed all toe.

"Simply for his own sake."

"Don't you ever come behind for yours?" she inquired abstractedly. Ralston suppressed a smile.

"See here, young lady--" he began, changing his tactics.

"All on for the second!" shouted a big man in a Derby hat. "Here you, Hudson, stop fooling and get into your place! Clear the wings."

From behind the wall of curtain came the distant crash of the contending chords of the overture. "Port Arthur" with its rocks was in place, the Japanese flag flying defiantly in a strong current of air, generated by a frenzied electric fan held by a "super" in the moat. The chorus trooped from the flies, and came tumbling down fire escapes and staircases.

The partridge knocked her heels together and jumped lightly to her feet.

"Peep-peep!" she said. "See you later, old man. Stage door about eleven-thirty."

She nodded at him and started hopping toward the stage. The other partridges were forming in long lines, with much jostling of tail feathers and fluttering of pinions.

"Hurry up there!" shouted the assistant "stage" in Miss Hudson's direction, and then turned hastily toward the opposite flies where some mix-up had attracted his attention.

Ralston saw his last clew hopping away from him. A bell rang loudly, and the orchestra struck up the first few bars of the opening chorus. Hardly conscious of what he was doing Ralston strode quickly after the partridge and, grasping her firmly by the wings, drew her back into the flies.

"Let me go!" she gasped, struggling to free herself. "Let me go! What are you trying to do? Do you want to get me fined?"

"Keep quiet," whispered Ralston, "I've got to speak to you. Do you understand? I can't let you go on. I'll stand for any fine, and square you into the bargain. It's too late, anyway! The curtain's up already."

"Let me go!" she cried, the tears starting into her eyes. "You're hurting me, you brute! I'll lose my job. The management don't stand for this kind of thing. You're a fine gentleman, _you_ are! Oh, what shall I do?"

Ralston's heart smote him. He knew well the hideous uncertainty which being out of a job means to the chorus girl, and its more hideous possibilities.

"I'm sorry," he said humbly. "I had to do it, and I promise you shall lose nothing by it. Now, quick, where can we talk? Not here? The manager would see you."

The partridge wiped her eyes.

"Do you promise to square the management?"

"I certainly do--on my honor as a gentleman."

"Then come!" Hudson darted quickly back among the scenery, and Ralston followed her down a flight of iron steps which led beneath the stage. Pipes ran in all directions, and great heaps of old flies and useless properties reached toward the low ceiling, between which narrow alleys led off into the darkness. A smell of mold and of paint filled the air. Even the scant gas jets seemed to burn with a peculiar dimness in the damp atmosphere.

"Come along!" whistled the partridge.

Beyond a pile of lumber in a sort of catacomb she stopped. A bead of gas showed blue against some whitewashed brickwork.

"Turn it up," said Hudson, and Ralston did so.

"Hungry?" she continued. "_I_ could eat anything that 'didn't bite me first!'"

Ralston laughed.

"Were you in that show?" he asked. "It was a good one. No, I'm not hungry. Suppose I were?"

"This is our rathskeller," she laughed. "Are you thirsty?"

Ralston admitted to a certain degree of dryness.

"Certainly," he said, "I should like nothing better than a large schooner of dark, imported beer. What will you have?" he continued, carrying on the jest.

Hudson, who had seated herself on a low seat by the wall, got up and struck sharply on the wooden partition with a stick.

"What's that?" asked Ralston.

"Perhaps some beer will come out!" remarked the partridge. "Moses was not the only one."

A rattling followed, and a square opening appeared in the wall, in which the shaggy tow-head of a young man was visible.

He grinned at sight of Miss Hudson.

"How vas de shootink?" he inquired. "Does de bartridges vant more vet? Ha! Ha! You _vas_ a bird!"

"Ya, Fritz. Two schooners and a hot dog. Hustle 'em up."

Fritz closed the slide which covered the opening and the partridge turned gayly toward Ralston.

"What do you think of that? Pretty good, eh?"

"I don't understand," he replied. "Where did he come from? What is in there?"

"I'll tell you. When 'Abe' Erlanger built this house there was a row of old tenements on the side street. Well, Jo Bimberger tore 'em down and built a rathskeller. While he was doing it one of the girls tipped off the boss carpenter to leave this place. Ain't it grand? Say, you get almost dead jumping around on the boards. It looks easy enough, but I tell you sometimes you're ready to scream."

"Just the thing," answered our friend. "Do the management object?"

"Not a bit. 'Abe' gets a rake-off from the saloon. It's good business."

The slide opened and two dripping glasses made their appearance. Ralston received them and handed one to Miss Hudson. Then Fritz passed in a frankfurter about the size of a policeman's night stick.

Ralston drew half a dollar from his pocket and exchanged it for the sausage.

"That's all right, keep the change," he remarked.

"My, you must have it to throw away!" said Hudson. "Twenty-three for you, Fritz. Shut the slide."

Ralston took a deep draught of the beer. He could not help smiling as he thought of the picture he would present could any one of his associates see him at the moment. What, for instance, would the President have said? And the Secretary of War! Underneath the stage of a theater, drinking beer with a chorus girl! He put down the glass and pulled himself together.

"Now to business!" he exclaimed. "This is jolly good fun, but I've a long night in front of me, and I've got work to do in it. Where is Steadman?"

The partridge looked at him inquiringly.

"You don't mean you really are trying to find anyone?"

"Certainly I do."

"Steadman?"

"Yes."

She shrugged her shoulders. It was clear, even to Ralston, that she was disappointed.

"I can't help you."

"You _know_ him?" Ralston's gaze penetrated her feathers.

"Yes. But I don't know where he is--and what is more, I don't care. He's a cad."

"Well, let it go at that. But I've got to find him. How long is it since you've seen him?"

"Three weeks."

"What was he up to?"

"Oh, the usual business. He's badly in. Let him go; he's not worth your while."

"I didn't say he was. But he must be turned up. Was he drinking?"

"Yes!"

"Ah!" Ralston scowled.

"He's a bad one," continued the partridge. "He began at the bottom and worked down."

"You must help me to find him. Who is he running with?"

"I don't know anything about him. I've heard he knows a girl named Florence Davenport. If you can find her she might help you."

"Where does she live?"

"On Forty-sixth Street," and she gave him a number.

Ralston arose and put his hand in his pocket.

"I am very much indebted to you," he said courteously. "You won't mind if I make good your fine?"

He drew out a bill and placed it in her hand. She raised her eyebrows at sight of its denomination.

"No," she said, "I haven't done anything for you. I don't want the money."

"But your fine?"

"That's all right," she replied, shrugging her shoulders. "I could have gone on--if I'd wanted to. I was merely bluffing. You couldn't have held me. You're a gentleman, and I don't want the money." She spoke quietly, and looked him full in the face. Ralston wavered.

"Please don't," said the girl, and held out the bill. Ralston took it and returned it to his pocket.

"Miss Hudson," said he, "you have placed me under a great obligation, one that money cannot repay. If I can ever help you in any way let me know."

The partridge got up and led the way toward the staircase. At the top she held out her hand and Ralston took it in his.

"He's not worth it," she repeated. "Let him go."

"_Noblesse oblige_," he smiled, looking down at her.

The chorus had filed off the stage and were standing on the other side.

"Here you, Hudson! Where have you been?" whispered the manager hoarsely, grasping her roughly by the shoulder. "Get over there."

"Leave me alone!" she cried sharply, shaking off his arm. Then, turning to Ralston:

"Good night, sir," she said.

VI

Outside the Moonshine Ralston found the usual congestion of cabs, landaus, and wagons. He had delayed to exchange a few reminiscences with old Vincent, and it was fully ten minutes before he could find his cabby in the tangle of vehicles. As he stepped into the street, to save the time requisite for the man to draw to the curb, an omnibus was vainly trying to force its way through the side street. It had paused for an instant in front of the stage entrance, and Ralston had caught a glimpse of Ellen's face inside.

A momentary impulse had seized him to stop the coach and tell her of the hopelessness of the task upon which she had sent him, but in the instant of his uncertainty the way had cleared and they had driven on. He had climbed into his own hansom, little the wiser for his experience at the Moonshine.

The sidewalks were jammed with the usual after-theater crowd hurrying either to get home as quickly as possible or to secure seats in restaurants which pandered less to the taste of the _gourmet_ than to those of the _roué_. For a solid mile on either side of Broadway stretched house after house of entertainment, any one of which could harbor a hundred Steadmans, and for a quarter of a mile on either hand lay twenty streets, lined with places of a character vastly more likely to do so. He followed the crowd slowly northward, wondering why so few of them walked in the opposite direction. Whenever he came to a well-known hostelry he went in and eagerly scanned the tables, but, although he recognized many he knew and who knew him, he found naught of Steadman.

Having visited five "chophouses," a "rathskeller," two "hofbraus," and several more pretentious places, he abandoned the idea of trying to stumble upon his man, and returned to his original belief that only by following some sort of a clew could he succeed. Somewhere in the hot clasp of the city lay the miserable youth he had promised to find. For a moment he regretted the answer which he had just sent to Ellen's apartment--the four words that had pledged him to a fool's errand, the absurdity of which was now apparent. Then came a realizing sense of the importance to Ellen of his mission, and a grim determination to find this man wherever he might be.

He had now reached Forty-second Street, and the crowd divided into two streams, one moving eastward and the other northward, a part of the latter to plunge beneath the Times Building into the subway, and the remainder to add to the already existing congestion in front of the Hotel Astor, Rector's, Shanley's, and the New York Theater. Longacre Square boiled with life--a life garish, tawdry, sensual and vulgar, unlike that of any other city or generation.

The restaurants could seat no more, and a bejeweled, scented throng stood in the doorways and struggled for the vacant tables. The night hawks lining the curb peered eagerly at every passer-by to note signs of intoxication or indecision. Tiny newsboys thrust their bundles of papers against dress waistcoats and felt for loose watches, ready to dart into the throng at the first move of suspicion on the part of their victims. Clerks with their best girls pointed out these and made witticisms upon them, hoping thus to divert attention from the attractions of the restaurants, for whose splendors they intended later to substitute the more substantial, if more economical, pleasures of the dairy lunch. Automobiles, in which sat supercilious foreign chauffeurs, blocked the entrances of the pleasure palaces. Streams of country folk poured in and out of hotels which made a specialty of rural trade, promising to their patrons, in widely distributed circulars, easy access to everything "worth seeing." These came, were relieved of their money, and, after fervid correspondence on the hotel stationery, went home to poison the minds of their townfolk with descriptions of scenes which existed only in their imaginations.

For every person on Longacre Square after midnight who is there for an honest purpose, there are three who are there either to do that which they should not do or to see that which they should not see. It is the white light in which the New York moth plays before he plunges into the withering flame. It was here Steadman had begun, and like enough he was not far off.

The electric clock above the roof tops moved to a quarter before one as Ralston turned into Forty-sixth Street, and he looked both ways before springing from his hansom and dashing up the steps of the number to which he had been directed. After some time a mulatto maid opened the door and asked his business. Miss Davenport was out, she said. Ralston stretched the truth far enough to say that he was a friend. The girl had no idea where she could be found. Then Ralston also volunteered that he was a friend of Mr. Steadman's. Still the maid remained imperturbable. The sight of a bill, however, led to an immediate change of demeanor.

Yes, Miss Davenport had gone out with a gentleman--not Mr. Steadman--early in the evening. Did she know Mr. Steadman? Yes, she thought she knew Mr. Steadman--a dark gentleman. She seemed anxious to help Ralston, but doubtful of success.

As was not unreasonable, Ralston was beginning to be quite disgusted at the position in which he found himself, a condition which was by no means relieved by the fact that, as he reached the bottom of the steps, he found himself face to face with Colonel Duer and a somewhat elderly lady companion. The new Assistant Secretary felt distinctly uncomfortable. Another man might have turned away his face, but Ralston looked steadily into the colonel's under the full light of the street lamp. Simultaneously he raised his hand to his hat, then crossed the sidewalk and jumped into the hansom. The cabby lifted the manhole and looked down the air shaft.

"Huh?" said he. "Where'll I go now?"

"I don't know," said Ralston.

The cabby chuckled. He was satisfied one way quite as well as another. From his seat of vantage he was able to look down critically upon mankind in general, and had learned to distinguish "the real thing" when he saw it. He had no doubts as to Ralston, and no misgivings at all as to the latter's ability to pay and pay well, and he was as confident that his tip would be in accordance with the most advanced ideas of liberality as he was that this same fare of his was quite out of the ordinary. He had sized Ralston for a thoroughbred from the moment that he had come downstairs. For one thing he did not waste words, for another he neither looked at his watch nor inquired the price; for another--and you could always tell by that--he knew just what he was doing. Moreover, he was perfectly sober. He belonged to that small and distinguished body of midnight travelers who realize that they are in a cab and not in a hammock. Hence Ralston's admission that he did not know where to go to next struck upon the cabby intelligence in the light of a joke.

"Huh?" said he again, removing his cigar.

"I said I didn't know," repeated Ralston.

"Up against it!" said cabby with divination.

"Exactly," returned his fare with a slight laugh. "You are a man of perspicacity."

"Huh?" repeated the cabby.

"I said you were a mind reader," answered Ralston.

"I guess I can see furder'n most," admitted cabby complacently.

Ralston had struck a match and lit a fresh cigar. He was feeling very, very tired. His watch showed that there were exactly six hours left before the Twelfth would start--not a minute more.

The cabby was still peering down the manhole and dropping an occasional sympathetic ash on Ralston's silk hat. His fare interested him--he was beginning to have a notion that Ralston was somebody. Maybe a big military gun. He had that clean, hard look those fellers have.

Suddenly the fare spoke again, in an even more amiable tone than before.

"My friend, how long have you been in this business?"

The cabby hesitated while he made an accurate mathematical computation.

"Five years on a percentage--ten years on my own--fifteen years, sir."

"You know the town pretty well, eh?"

"Fairly well, sir."

"Is there a _café_ somewhere a bit out of the way--something quiet, you know?"

"Sure, across the square. Shall I drive you there?"

"Yes."

The cabby clucked to his horse, and they wheeled about and crossed the White Way again. The pedestrians were thinning out. The rain had ceased, the clouds had parted, and the sky was sprinkled with brightly burning stars. Up in the Times Tower the afternoon before one of the editorial writers had polished up a "war-whoop" such as, he had said to himself, would make the Japanese emperor scratch his head. It was a half-column "drip" in the nature of a "Godspeed" to the first volunteer regiment to start for the front. He liked the Twelfth, and had been in it himself under Ralston. The thought had reminded him that he ought to give his old captain a bit of a send-off as well, and he had penned a dozen lines to be inserted after the other, and headed "A Wise Appointment," ending his short paragraph with the words: "The nation is to be sincerely congratulated on the wisdom of the Executive's selection."

Twenty-five stories below, the subject of his encomium was now entering the side door of a shabby _café_, followed by his cabby. They seated themselves at a table in the corner of the sawdust-covered floor.

"The situation is this," began Ralston, after the waiter had picked up his tip and retired. "I must, inside of six hours, turn up a man who is somewhere in the city. He doesn't know enough to want to be found. He must be located without outside help--quietly. The only clew I have to his whereabouts is that he knows a young woman named Florence Davenport. She lives in that house we stopped at. She has gone out with a man named Sullivan. I don't know the fellow, but the chances are he won't help me. But whether he will or not, I don't know where he is, and I must find him in order to find her."

He looked at the cabby inquiringly.

"I know him, all right," said the cabby. "A big 'harp' with a sandy mustache. I know her, too. I took 'em both out this very night."

"Took them out!" exclaimed Ralston. "Why, in Heaven's name, didn't you say so before!" Then he remembered and laughed at the absurdity of his question. The fatigue of a severe day was dissipated in a moment.

"Sure," continued the cabby, "I took 'em out just before I answered your call. She uses the same stable."

"Where did they go?"

"Proctor's."

"Where do you suppose they are now?"

"You can search me!" responded the cabby, now thoroughly interested. "The chances are about even between Shanley's and the Martin, but you tried Shanley's. Better hike right down to the other place."

Ralston started swiftly to his feet, made his way to the cab, and in a moment more they were galloping down Broadway.

The electric timepiece on the roofs marked four minutes past one as they rattled past. What people were still awake were most of them inside the shining windows of the restaurants, and the big porters were leaning sleepily against the doorposts of their hostelries. In the cab Ralston wondered what the President would say if he could see him then, chasing all over the town after a young woman and her male escort. He was dreadfully sleepy, and the cushions of the cab were so soft--soft--sof----

He pulled himself together as the cab reined up sharply at the Twenty-sixth Street entrance of the Café Martin. His driver did not need to be told to wait, and Ralston hurriedly pushed his way through the revolving doors into the hot, scented air of the waiting hall. If it was late on Broadway, it was early enough inside the Martin.

On the right, in a crowded _café_, two hundred soldier boys and civilians with their sweethearts sat noisily discussing broiled lobsters, Welsh rarebits, caviare sandwiches, and such less important matters as were suggested by the last news from Washington. The air reeked with the fumes of hot food, cigarette smoke, and steam heat. When the side door opened, and the draught pulled through from the main dining room, one caught a whiff of rice powder and violets. The chatter and clatter were deafening.

To Ralston the chances seemed in favor of the other and more conspicuous company in the front room, so he turned back and crossed the hall. At the door of the main dining room he paused. At fully eighteen out of the twenty-five tables which were presented to his view sat an equal number of young women who might have qualified as Miss Florence Davenport. There was more room here, the music was louder, and the men had on either uniforms or evening dress. The confusion was even greater than in the _café_, due to the greater amount of light and music and the variation of color. Here and there at the larger tables sat groups of officers, indulging in pompous patriotic toasts.

Ralston moved toward the center of the room, eagerly scanning the tables in search of a blond man with a light mustache, but he saw none to correspond with the cabby's description. Then from behind him he heard his name called, and he turned to be greeted by a chorus of congratulatory welcome from a party of his old comrades of the Twelfth, who crowded around him, drew him into a chair and ordered more bottles.

Ralston protested but feebly. He was out of sorts with the whole miserable business.

"Here's to you, old man!" exclaimed Peyton, one of Duer's lieutenants. "Boys, here's to the next Secretary of the Navy, and then, who knows--well, here's to Dick Ralston, the best ever--bumpers!"

"Fellows," answered Ralston, "it's very good of you. It's very good of the President. I hope I'll do him credit, but the best any of us can do is the right way as each of us sees it at the moment--and no one knows where it may lead us. Here's to being on the level--here's to the right way and the _white_ way!" He started to drink off the toast when a man's head and shoulders arose behind Peyton, and a thick voice cried:

"That for mine! Th' White Way--th' Great White Way!" and he raised a goblet and drained it. The men in the group laughed, and the laugh was echoed from several of the tables. As the fellow stumbled back into his seat Ralston realized suddenly that he had found his man. A red face and a blond mustache! The elusive Sullivan at last!