CHAPTER XI.

BERT JACKSON TO THE RESCUE.

The tragedy of the “vitriol patient’s” death was almost a tragedy of two cities—the great city of New York, where crime is conceived and fostered and the smaller city on Blackwell’s Island, where crime is punished and ended.

A few hours after that sad death in the Prison Hospital, the lawyer, Augustus Atherton, stood on the steps of his office waiting for his typewriter, Dollie Marlowe, to join him.

As he stood there waiting he twisted his gray mustache idly. His hands were neatly gloved and his attire stylish and spotless.

“Not a bad looking chap for fifty,” said a man who was passing, “and do you know, Dare, he is a great masher—a regular sport with the ladies.”

“I have heard that his wife left him years ago,” was the low answer, “and that his daughter, the one that married young Ray while he was in college, was quick in striking the old man’s pace and kept it up until she went plumb to the devil.”

“Where is she now?” asked the first speaker, glancing back to see if the lawyer was still waiting.

“The last I heard she was seen fighting on the street. I believe her husband or some friend of his happened to see her, and for the sake of the family kept the thing quiet.”

As the two men passed on, Dollie Marlowe came tripping down the steps. She was dressed in a natty blue cloth suit and looked more bewitching than ever.

“You are sure I will get home early?” she said to the lawyer, plaintively.

“Certainly, little one,” was the smiling answer as he helped her into a carriage.

“Marion Marlowe would be furious if she knew I was going out with you after all,” she said after they had started, “and, of course, my chaperon, Miss Allyn, will think she has to tell her. Oh, I must manage to get home early so they will not know anything about it.”

“Any one would think I was an ogre or a monster of some sort,” said the lawyer, smiling down at her, “when really all I am doing is just giving you a little pleasure. Certainly there is no harm in a supper in a private room together.”

“Can’t we go to a regular restaurant?” asked Dollie, shyly. “I think I would prefer it very much, if you please, Mr. Atherton.”

The wily old lawyer leaned over and smiled at her before he answered. As he gazed into her eyes, he took her hand and pressed it gently.

“My dear child, you are as safe with me as you would be with your own father,” he said, purringly. “Do, Dollie, raise those sweet eyes and tell me that you trust me.”

“Oh, I do trust you, of course,” said the girl, a little more bravely, “but I keep thinking of Ralph, and it makes me nervous.”

“Ralph is the young man whom you are engaged to, is he not?” he asked, suavely. “Well, can Ralph give you nice dinners and take you to theatres, and can he buy you pretty dresses and jewelry, Dollie?”

“No, he can’t—not now,” said Dolly, a little sadly. “Ralph is only a book-keeper on fifteen dollars a week. We mean to be married as soon as he gets twenty.”

“And I can give you twenty dollars a week for your own self,” said the lawyer, quickly, “and I will do it, too, Dollie, if you will give up this fellow.”

“Oh, I couldn’t give Ralph up. Why, I love him!” cried the girl, sharply. “And I don’t know why it is that I have come out with you, Mr. Atherton. I know Ralph would not like it. Oh, I am sure it is wicked!”

Poor, weak, little Dollie was growing hysterical now, and the next moment she found her head resting on her employer’s shoulder.

As the lawyer leaned over to pull down the carriage blind he became suddenly aware that some one was looking in at the window.

“The impudence of that fellow,” he muttered between his teeth. “It is a chap on horseback, and he was trying to peep,” he explained to Dollie. The next instant he bent boldly and pressed a kiss on her forehead.

“Oh, Mr. Atherton, you mustn’t,” cried Dollie in genuine alarm, but as she tried to draw herself away from him he only held her tighter.

“Let go of me this minute,” she gasped, stamping her foot in anger. Her cheeks were like roses now and her eyes like purple pansies. As her lips trembled with anger they seemed more tempting than ever, and Augustus Atherton, unable to resist her beauty, made another attempt to draw her head to his bosom.

With the frenzy of despair Dollie tore herself away and as quick as a flash uncovered the tiny window.

One glance through the pane made her almost shout for joy, for there, still riding his mount as close to the carriage as possible, was Bert Jackson, in all the glory of his lately acquired finery.

“Oh, Bert, save me!” shrieked Dollie, and that second the horses were stopped.

Bert Jackson sprang to the ground and threw the carriage door open.

“Come out here, you old sinner, and let me lick you!” he roared as he almost lifted Dollie to the roadway beside him.

“Go on, driver!” yelled the lawyer, shrinking back in his seat.

“Not by a darn sight!” bawled Bert, making a dive into the carriage.

“Quick, Bert! Let him go,” cried Dollie in dismay. “Oh, stop quick! There’s a lot of people staring at us already.”

Bert dropped back to the street with a groan of rage. As the carriage rolled away he shook his fist at it vigorously.

“I’ll take this car, Bert, and go right home,” said Dollie, penitently, as Bert was looking about wondering what to do with her.

“All right, if you will,” said Bert, very coolly, “my horse won’t lead very well in the street. I’ll be up this evening to see you, Dollie.”

“Oh, Bert, I am so ashamed,” said Dollie as he signaled a car. “You won’t tell Marion or Ralph or Miss Allyn, will you?”

“Not a word,” said Bert with a little grin. “But I’ll punch that old duffer yet—you see if I don’t! The idea of his making love to my future sister!”