Chapter 4

Sophie pushed the door wide and stood upon the threshold. "Hilda's over in Stuyvesant Square," she said. "She thought you might be sick, so we came. But if you go to her, you must pretend you came by accident and didn't see me."

Mr. Feuerstein reflected, but not so deeply that he neglected to pose before Sophie as a tragedy-king. And it called for little pretense, so desperate and forlorn was he feeling. Should he go or should he send Sophie about her business? There was no hope that the rich brewer would take him in; there was every reason to suspect that Peter would arrange to have the marriage quietly annulled. At most he could get a few thousands, perhaps only hundreds, by threatening a scandal. Yes, it would be wise, on the whole, to keep little Hilda on the string.

"I am very ill," he said gloomily, "but I will go."

Sophie felt hopeful and energetic again. "I won't come up to her till you leave her."

"You are a good girl--a noble creature." Mr. Feuerstein took her hand and pretended to be profoundly moved by her friendship.

Sophie gave him a look of simplicity and warm-heartedness. Her talent for acting had not been spoiled by a stage experience. "Hilda's my friend," she said earnestly. "And I want to see her happy."

"Noble creature!" exclaimed Mr. Feuerstein. "May God reward you!" And he dashed his hand across his eyes.

He went to the mirror on his bureau, carefully arranged the yellow aureole, carefully adjusted the soft light hat. Then with feeble step he descended the stairs. As he moved down the street his face was mournful and his shoulders were drooped--a stage invalid. When Hilda saw him coming she started up and gave a little cry of delight; but as she noted his woebegone appearance, a very real paleness came to her cheeks and very real tears to her great dark eyes.

Mr. Feuerstein sank slowly into the seat beside her. "Soul's wife," he murmured. "Ah--but I have been near to death. The strain of the interview with your father--the anguish--the hope--oh, what a curse it is to have a sensitive soul! And my old trouble"--he laid his hand upon his heart and slowly shook his head--"returned. It will end me some day."

Hilda was trembling with sympathy. She put her hand upon his. "If you had only sent word, dear," she said reproachfully, "I would have come. Oh--I do love you so, Carl! I could hardly eat or sleep--and--"

"The truth would have been worse than silence," he said in a hollow voice. He did not intend the double meaning of his remark; the Gansers were for the moment out of his mind, which was absorbed in his acting. "But it is over for the present--yes, over, my priceless pearl. I can come to see you soon. If I am worse I shall send you word."

"But can't I come to see you?"

"No, bride of my dreams. It would not be--suitable. We must respect the little conventions. You must wait until I come."

His tone was decided. She felt that he knew best. In a few minutes he rose. "I must return to my room," he said wearily. "Ah, heart's delight, it is terrible for a strong man to find himself thus weak. Pity me. Pray for me."

He noted with satisfaction her look of love and anxiety. It was some slight salve to his cruelly wounded vanity. He walked feebly away, but it was pure acting, as he no longer felt so downcast. He had soon put Hilda into the background and was busy with his plans for revenge upon Ganser--"a vulgar animal who insulted me when I honored him by marrying his ugly gosling." Before he fell asleep that night he had himself wrought up to a state of righteous indignation. Ganser had cheated, had outraged him--him, the great, the noble, the eminent.

Early the next morning he went down to a dingy frame building that cowered meanly in the shadow of the Criminal Court House. He mounted a creaking flight of stairs and went in at a low door on which "Loeb, Lynn, Levy and McCafferty" was painted in black letters. In the narrow entrance he brushed against a man on the way out, a man with a hangdog look and short bristling hair and the pastily-pallid skin that comes from living long away from the sunlight. Feuerstein shivered slightly--was it at the touch of such a creature or at the suggestions his appearance started? In front of him was a ground-glass partition with five doors in it. At a dirty greasy pine table sat a boy--one of those child veterans the big city develops. He had a long and extremely narrow head. His eyes were close together, sharp and shifty. His expression was sophisticated and cynical. "Well, sir!" he said with curt impudence, giving Feuerstein a gimlet-glance.

"I want to see Mr. Loeb." Feuerstein produced a card--it was one of his last remaining half-dozen and was pocket-worn.

The office boy took it with unveiled sarcasm in his eyes and in the corners of his mouth. He disappeared through one of the five doors, almost immediately reappeared at another, closed it mysteriously behind him and went to a third door. He threw it open and stood aside. "At the end of the hall," he said. "The door with Mr. Loeb's name on it. Knock and walk right in."

Feuerstein followed the directions and found himself in a dingy little room, smelling of mustiness and stale tobacco, and lined with law books, almost all on crime and divorce. Loeb, Lynn, Levy and McCafferty were lawyers to the lower grades of the criminal and shady only. They defended thieves and murderers; they prosecuted or defended scandalous divorce cases; they packed juries and suborned perjury and they tutored false witnesses in the way to withstand cross-examination. In private life they were four home-loving, law-abiding citizens.

Loeb looked up from his writing and said with contemptuous cordiality: "Oh--Mr. Feuerstein. Glad to see you--AGAIN. What's the trouble--NOW?"

At "again" and "now" Feuerstein winced slightly. He looked nervously at Loeb.

"It's been--let me see--at least seven years since I saw you," continued Loeb, who was proud of his amazing memory. He was a squat, fat man, with a coarse brown skin and heavy features. He was carefully groomed and villainously perfumed and his clothes were in the extreme of the loudest fashion. A diamond of great size was in his bright-blue scarf; another, its match, loaded down his fat little finger. Both could be unscrewed and set in a hair ornament which his wife wore at first nights or when they dined in state at Delmonico's. As he studied Feuerstein, his face had its famous smile, made by shutting his teeth together and drawing his puffy lips back tightly from them.

"That is all past and gone," said Feuerstein. "As a lad I was saved by you from the consequences of boyish folly. And now, a man grown, I come to you to enlist your aid in avenging an insult to my honor, an--"

"Be as brief as possible," cut in Loeb. "My time is much occupied. The bald facts, please--FACTS, and BALD."

Feuerstein settled himself and prepared to relate his story as if he were on the stage, with the orchestra playing low and sweet. "I met a woman and loved her," he began in a deep, intense voice with a passionate tremolo.

"A bad start," interrupted Loeb. "If you go on that way, we'll never get anywhere. You're a frightful fakir and liar, Feuerstein. You were, seven years ago; of course, the habit's grown on you. Speak out! What do you want? As your lawyer, I must know things exactly as they are."

"I ran away with a girl--the daughter of the brewer, Peter Ganser," said Feuerstein, sullen but terse. "And her father wouldn't receive me--shut her up--put me out."

"And you want your wife?"

"I want revenge."

"Of course--cash. Well, Ganser's a rich man. I should say he'd give up a good deal to get rid of YOU." Loeb gave that mirthless and mirth-strangling smile as he accented the "you."

"He's got to give up!" said Feuerstein fiercely.

"Slowly! Slowly!" Loeb leaned forward and looked into Feuerstein's face. "You mustn't forget."

Feuerstein's eyes shifted rapidly as he said in a false voice: "She got a divorce years ago."

"M-m-m," said Loeb.

"Anyhow, she's away off in Russia."

"I don't want you to confess a crime you haven't come to me about," said Loeb, adding with peculiar emphasis: "Of course, if we KNEW you were still married to the Mrs. Feuerstein of seven years ago we couldn't take the present case. As it is--the best way is to bluff the old brewer. He doesn't want publicity; neither do you. But you know he doesn't, and he doesn't know that you love quiet."

"Ganser treated me infamously. He must sweat for it. I'm nothing if not a good hater."

"No doubt," said Loeb dryly. "And you have rights which the law safeguards."

"What shall I do?"

"Leave that to us. How much do you want--how much damages?"

"He ought to pay at least twenty-five thousand."

Loeb shrugged his shoulders. "Ridiculous!" he said. "Possibly the five without the twenty. And how do you expect to pay us?"

"I'm somewhat pressed just at the moment. But I thought"--Feuerstein halted.

"That we'd take the case as a speculation? Well, to oblige an old client, we will. But you must agree to give us all we can get over and above five thousand--half what we get if it's below that."

"Those are hard terms," remonstrated Feuerstein. The more he had thought on his case, the larger his expectations had become.

"Very generous terms, in the circumstances. You can take it or leave it."

"I can't do anything without you. I accept."

"Very well." Loeb took up his pen, as if he were done with Feuerstein, but went on: "And you're SURE that the--the FORMER Mrs. Feuerstein is divorced--and won't turn up?"

"Absolutely. She swore she'd never enter any country where I was."

"Has she any friends who are likely to hear of this?"

"She knew no one here."

"All right. Go into the room to the left there. Mr. Travis or Mr. Gordon will take your statement of the facts--names, dates, all details. Good morning."

Feuerstein went to Travis, small and sleek, smooth and sly. When Travis had done with him, he showed him out. "Call day after to-morrow," he said, "and when you come, ask for me. Mr. Loeb never bothers with these small cases."

Travis reported to Loeb half an hour later, when Feuerstein's statement had been typewritten. Loeb read the statement through twice with great care.

"Most complete, Mr. Travis," was his comment. "You've done a good piece of work." He sat silent, drumming noiselessly on the table with his stumpy, hairy, fat fingers. At last he began: "It ought to be worth at least twenty thousand. Do you know Ganser?"

"Just a speaking acquaintance."

"Excellent. What kind of a man is he?"

"Stupid and ignorant, but not without a certain cunning. We can get at him all right, though. He's deadly afraid of social scandal. Wants to get into the German Club and become a howling swell. But he don't stand a chance, though he don't know it."

"You'd better go to see him yourself," said Loeb.

"I'll be glad to do it, Mr. Loeb. Isn't your man--this Feuerstein--a good bit to the queer?"

"A dead beat--one of the worst kind--the born gentleman. You've noticed, perhaps, that where a man or woman has been brought up to live without work, to live off other people's work, there's nothing they wouldn't stoop to, to keep on living that way. As for this chap, if he had got started right, he'd be operating up in the Fifth Avenue district. He used to have a wife. He SAYS he's divorced."

Loeb and Travis looked each at the other significantly. "I see," said Travis.

"Neither side wants scandal. Still, I think you're right, that Ganser's good for twenty thousand."

"You can judge better after you've felt him," replied Loeb. "You'd better go at once. Give him the tip that Feuerstein's about to force him to produce his daughter in court. But you understand. Try to induce him to go to Beck." Travis grinned and Loeb's eyes twinkled. "You might lay it on strong about Feuerstein's actor-craze for getting into the papers."

"That's a grand idea," exclaimed Travis. "I don't think I'll suggest any sum if he agrees to go to Beck. Beck can get at least five thousand more out of him than any other lawyer in town."

"Beck's the wonder," said Loeb.

"LOEB and Beck," corrected Travis in a flattering tone.

Loeb waved his hot, fat head gently to and fro as if a pleasant cooling stream were being played upon it. "I think I have got a 'pretty good nut on me,' as John L. used to say," he replied. "I think I do know a little about the law. And now hustle yourself, my boy. This case must be pushed. The less time Ganser has to look about, the better for--our client."

Travis found Ganser in his office at the brewery. The old man's face was red and troubled.

"I've come on very unpleasant business, Mr. Ganser," said Travis with deference. "As you know, I am with Loeb, Lynn, Levy and McCafferty. Our client, Mr. Feuerstein--"

Ganser leaped to his feet, apoplectic.

"Get out!" he shouted, "I don't speak with you!"

"As an officer of the court, Mr. Ganser," said Travis suavely, "it is my painful duty to insist upon a hearing. We lawyers can't select our clients. We must do our best for all comers. Our firm has sent me out of kindly feeling for you. We are all men of family, like yourself, and, when the case was forced on us, we at once tried to think how we could be of service to you--of course, while doing our full legal duty by our client. I've come in the hope of helping you to avoid the disgrace of publicity."

"Get out!" growled Peter. "I know lawyers--they're all thieves. Get out!" But Travis knew that Peter wished him to stay.

"I needn't enlarge on our client--Mr. Feuerstein. You know he's an actor. You know how they crave notoriety. You know how eager the newspapers are to take up and make a noise about matters of this kind."

Peter was sweating profusely, and had to seat himself. "It's outrageous!" he groaned in German.

"Feuerstein has ordered us to have your daughter brought into court at once--to-morrow. He's your daughter's lawful husband and she's well beyond the legal age. Of course, he can't compel her to live with him or you to support him. But he can force the courts to inquire publicly. And I'm sorry to say we'll not be able to restrain him or the press, once he gets the ball to rolling."

Peter felt it rolling over him, tons heavy. "What you talk about?" he said, on his guard but eager.

"It's an outrage that honest men should be thus laid open to attack," continued Travis in a sympathetic tone. "But if the law permits these outrages, it also provides remedies. Your daughter's mistake may cost you a little something, but there need be no scandal."

"What do you mean by that?" asked Ganser.

"Really, I've talked too much already, Mr. Ganser. I almost forgot, for the moment, that I'm representing Mr. Feuerstein. But, as between friends, I'd advise you to go to some good divorce lawyers--a firm that is reputable but understands the ins and outs of the business, some firm like Beck and Brown. They can tell you exactly what to do."

Ganser regarded his "friend" suspiciously but credulously. "I'll see," he said. "But I won't pay a cent."

"Right you are, sir! And there may be a way out of it without paying. But Beck can tell you." Travis made a motion toward the inside pocket of his coat, then pretended to change his mind. "I came here to serve the papers on you," he said apologetically. "But I'll take the responsibility of delaying--it can't make Feuerstein any less married, and your daughter's certainly safe in her father's care. I'll wait in the hope that YOU'LL take the first step."

Ganser lost no time in going to his own lawyers--Fisher, Windisch and Carteret, in the Postal Telegraph Building. He told Windisch the whole story. "And," he ended, "I've got a detective looking up the rascal. He's a wretch--a black wretch."

"We can't take your case, Mr. Ganser," said Windisch. "It's wholly out of our line. We don't do that kind of work. I should say Beck and Brown were your people. They stand well, and at the same time they know all the tricks."

"But they may play me the tricks."

"I think not. They stand well at the bar."

"Yes, yes," sneered Peter, who was never polite, was always insultingly frank to any one who served him for pay. "I know that bar."

"Well, Mr. Ganser," replied Windisch, angry but willing to take almost anything from a rich client, "I guess you can look out for yourself. Of course there's always danger, once you get outside the straight course of justice. As I understand it, your main point is no publicity?"

"That's right," replied Ganser. "No newspapers--no trial."

"Then Beck and Brown. Drive as close a bargain as you can. But you'll have to give up a few thousands, I'm afraid."

Ganser went over into Nassau Street and found Beck in his office. He gazed with melancholy misgivings at this lean man with hair and whiskers of a lifeless black. Beck suggested a starved black spider, especially when you were looking into his cold, amused, malignant black eyes. He made short work of the guileless brewer, who was dazed and frightened by the meshes in which he was enveloped. Staring at the horrid specter of publicity which these men of craft kept before him, he could not vigorously protest against extortion. Beck discovered that twenty thousand was his fighting limit.

"Leave the matter entirely in our hands," said Beck. "We'll make the best bargain we can. But Feuerstein has shrewd lawyers--none better. That man Loeb--" Beck threw up his arms. "Of course," he continued, "I had to know your limit. I'll try to make the business as cheap for you as possible."

"Put 'em off," said Ganser. "My Lena's sick."

His real reason was his hopes from the reports on Feuerstein's past, which his detective would make. But he thought it was not necessary to tell Beck about the detective.

VI

TRAGEDY IN TOMPKINS SQUARE

After another talk with Travis, Feuerstein decided that he must give up Hilda entirely until this affair with the Gansers was settled. Afterward--well, there would be time to decide when he had his five thousand. He sent her a note, asking her to meet him in Tompkins Square on Friday evening. That afternoon he carefully prepared himself. He resolved that the scene between her and him should be, so far as his part was concerned, a masterpiece of that art of which he knew himself to be one of the greatest living exponents. Only his own elegant languor had prevented the universal recognition of this and his triumph over the envy of professionals and the venality of critics.

It was a concert night in Tompkins Square, and Hilda, off from her work for an hour, came alone through the crowds to meet him. She made no effort to control the delight in her eyes and in her voice. She loved him; he loved her. Why suppress and deny? Why not glory in the glorious truth? She loved him, not because he was her conquest, but because she was his.

Mr. Feuerstein was so absorbed in his impending "act" that he barely noted how pretty she was and how utterly in love--what was there remarkable in a woman being in love with him? "The women are all crazy about me," was his inward comment whenever a woman chanced to glance at him. As he took Hilda's hand he gave her a look of intense, yearning melancholy. He sighed deeply. "Let us go apart," he said. Then he glanced gloomily round and sighed again.

They seated themselves on a bench far away from the music and the crowds. He did not speak but repeated his deep sigh.

"Has it made you worse to come, dear?" Hilda asked anxiously. "Are you sick?"

"Sick?" he said in a hollow voice. "My soul is sick--dying. My God! My God!" An impressive pause. "Ah, child, you do not know what suffering is--you who have lived only in these simple, humble surroundings."

Hilda was trembling with apprehension. "What is it, Carl? You can tell me. Let me help you bear it."

"No! no! I must bear it alone. I must take my dark shadow from your young life. I ought not to have come. I should have fled. But love makes me a coward."

"But I love you, Carl," she said gently.

"And I have missed you--dreadfully, dreadfully!"

He rolled his eyes wildly. "You torture me!" he exclaimed, seizing her hand in a dead man's clutch. "How CAN I speak?"

Hilda's heart seemed to stand still. She was pale to the lips, and he could see, even in the darkness, her eyes grow and startle.

"What is it?" she murmured. "You know I--can bear anything for you."

"Not that tone," he groaned. "Reproach me! Revile me! Be harsh, scornful--but not those tender accents."

He felt her hand become cold and he saw terror in her eyes. "Forgive me," she said humbly. "I don't know what to say or do. I--you look so strange. It makes me feel all queer inside. Won't you tell me, please?"

He noted with artistic satisfaction that the band was playing passionate love-music with sobs and sad ecstasies of farewell embraces in it. He kissed her, then drew back. "No," he groaned. "Those lips are not for me, accursed that I am."

She was no longer looking at him, but sat gazing straight ahead, her shoulders bent as if she were crouching to receive a blow. He began in a low voice, and, as he spoke, it rose or fell as his words and the distant music prompted him. "Mine has been a luckless life," he said. "I have been a football of destiny, kicked and flung about, hither and yon. Again and again I have thought in my despair to lay me down and die. But something has urged me on, on, on. And at last I met you."

He paused and groaned--partly because it was the proper place, partly with vexation. Here was a speech to thrill, yet she sat there inert, her face a stupid blank. He was not even sure that she had heard.

"Are you listening?" he asked in a stern aside, a curious mingling of the actor and the stage manager.

"I--I don't know," she answered, startling. "I feel so--so--queer. I don't seem to be able to pay attention." She looked at him timidly and her chin quivered. "Don't you love me any more?"

"Love you? Would that I did not! But I must on--my time is short. How can you say I do not love you when my soul is like a raging fire?"

She shook her head slowly. "Your voice don't feel like it," she said. "What is it? What are you going to say?"

He sighed and looked away from her with an irritated expression. "Little stupid!" he muttered--she didn't appreciate him and he was a fool to expect it. But "art for art's sake"; and he went on in tones of gentle melancholy. "I love you, but fate has again caught me up. I am being whirled away. I stretch out my arms to you--in vain. Do you understand?" It exasperated him for her to be so still--why didn't she weep?

She shook her head and replied quietly:

"No--what is it? Don't you love me any more?"

"Love has nothing to do with it," he said, as gently as he could in the irritating circumstances. "My mysterious destiny has--"

"You said that before," she interrupted. "What is it? Can't you tell me so that I can understand?"

"You never loved me!" he cried bitterly.

"You know that isn't so," she answered. "Won't you tell me, Carl?"

"A specter has risen from my past--I must leave you--I may never return--"

She gave a low, wailing cry--it seemed like an echo of the music. Then she began to sob--not loudly, but in a subdued, despairing way. She was not conscious of her grief, but only of his words--of the dream vanished, the hopes shattered.

"Never?" she said brokenly.

"Never!" he replied in a hoarse whisper.

Mr. Feuerstein looked down at Hilda's quivering shoulders with satisfaction. "I thought I could make even her feel," he said to himself complacently. Then to her in the hoarse undertone: "And my heart is breaking."