Part 17

Here was the prime scandal of the town, naked in all its horror. The quarrymen had, with their blasting, robbed the hill inch by inch, foot by foot and acre by acre. Already a whole city block had disappeared, caving gradually away to tumble to the talus of gravel at the foot of the steep slope. For years, the neighborhood had been terrorized by this irresistible, ever-approaching fate. The edge of the precipice drew nearer and nearer the houses, bit off a corner of the garden here, ate away a piece of fence there, till the danger-line approached the habitations themselves. Nor did it stop there; it crept below the floors, it sapped the foundations till the house had to be abandoned. Then with a crash, some afternoon, the whole structure would fall into the hollow. House after house had disappeared, family after family had been ruined. The crime was rank and outrageous, but it had not been stopped.

As Granthope walked, he saw bits of such deserted residences. Here a flight of stone steps on the verge of the height, there fences running giddily off into the air or drain-pipes, broken, sticking over the edge. The hazardous margin was now fenced off--at any moment a huge mass might slip away and slide thundering below. At the foot of the cliff stood the lead-colored building housing the stone-crusher, whose insatiate appetite had caused this sacrifice of property. It was ready to feed again on the morrow.

He walked to the edge and looked down a sharp incline, a few rods away from the most dangerous part of the cliff. He was outside the fence, now, with nothing between him and the slope. As he stood there, a dog barked suddenly behind him. He turned--his foot slipped upon a stone, twisted under him, and he fell outward. He clutched at the loose dirt, but could not save himself and rolled over and over down the slope. Forty feet down his head struck a boulder and he lost consciousness.

He came to himself with a blinding, splitting pain in his head; his body was stiff and cold in the night air. He lay half-way down the slope, his hands and face were scratched and bleeding, his clothes were torn. He was motionless for some time, endeavoring to collect his senses, wondering vaguely what to do. Then he stirred feebly, tried his limbs to see what damage had been done and found he had broken no bones. His ankle, however, was badly strained, and it ached severely. As he sank back again, far down the hill towards the crusher building, a voice came up to him:

"Francis! Francis!"

It penetrated his consciousness slowly. Still a little dazed, he rolled over and looked down to the deserted street below. He tried to rise and his ankle crumpled under him. He answered as loud as he could cry, then lay there watching.

Sansome Street lay bare in the moonlight. On the near side the hill sloped up to him from the rock crusher. On the other side was a row of gaunt buildings--a pickle factory, a fruit-canning works, and so on, to the dock. An electric car flashed by and, as it passed, he saw a woman moving to and fro at the foot of the talus.

He sat up as well as he could on the slope and again shouted down to her. She stopped instantly. Then, waving her hand, she started to scramble up the slippery gravel of the hill.

As she ascended, she had to zigzag this way and that to avoid sliding back. Part of the time, she was forced to go almost on hands and knees. The moon was behind her, throwing her face into shadow. She climbed steadily without calling to him again. When she was a few yards away, he cried to her:

"Miss Payson! Is that you?"

"Yes! Don't try to move, I'm coming."

She reached him at last and knelt before him anxiously. Her tawny, silken hair was loosened under her hat and streamed down into her eyes. She had on a red cloth opera cloak with an ermine collar; this was partly open, showing, underneath, a white silk evening dress cut low in the neck. Her hands were covered with white suede gloves to the elbow--they were grimy and torn into ribbons. Her white skirt, too, was ripped and soiled. She put her hand to her hair and tossed it back, then took his hands in hers.

"Are you hurt?" she asked anxiously.

"Not much. I believe I was stunned. I have no idea how long I've been here. What time is it?"

"It is almost eleven. Oh, I'm so glad I found you! I'm going to help you down." She stooped lower to assist him.

"But I don't understand," he said in astonishment. "How in the world did you happen to come? What does it all mean?" His bewilderment was comic enough to draw forth her flashing smile.

"We'll talk about that afterwards. We must get down this hill first. Oh, I hope there are no bones broken."

"Oh, no, I'm all right," he insisted, "but it's like a dream! Let me think--I was up on Telegraph Hill, and I slipped and fell over--then I must have been unconscious until you came.--How did you happen to come? I don't understand. It's so mysterious."

"You must get up now. See if you can walk." She gently urged him. "I'll explain it all when you're safe down there where we can get help."

With her assistance he raised himself slowly, but the pain in his ankle was too great for him to support his own weight. He dropped limply down again and smiled up at her.

"I think I might make it if I had a crutch of some kind--any stick would do."

"Wait, I'll see if I can find one."

She left him, to go down, slipping dangerously at times, using her hands to save herself. Part-way down she found an old broom--the straw was worn to a mere stub, and this she brought back.

With its aid and that of her steady arm, he hobbled down foot by foot. He slid and fell with a suppressed groan more than once, but she was always ready to lift him and support his weight in the steeper descents. The lower part of the hill fanned out to a more gradual slope, where it was easier going. They reached the sidewalk at last and he sat down upon a large rock almost exhausted.

Just then an electric car came humming down Sansome Street. In an instant she was out on the track signaling for it to stop.

"If you pass a cab or a policeman, please send them down here!" she commanded. "This gentleman has met with an accident and we must have help to take him home."

The conductor nodded, staring at her, as she stood in her disheveled finery, splendidly bold in the moonlight, like a dismounted Valkyr. The car plowed on and left them. Calmly she stripped off her slashed gloves and repaired the disorder of her hair. A long double necklace of pearls caught the moonlight, and in the front breadth of her gown, a rent showed a pale blue silken skirt beneath. Granthope, bedraggled and smeared with blood and dust, was as grotesque a figure. The humor of the picture struck them at once, and they burst into laughter.

Then, "How did you know?" he said.

She became serious immediately. "It was very strange. I was at a reception with Mr. Cayley. I happened to be sitting on a couch by myself, when--I don't know how to describe the sensation--but I saw you, or felt you, lying somewhere, on your back. I was so frightened I didn't know what to do. I knew something had happened, yet I didn't know where to find you. I gave it up and tried to forget about it, but I couldn't--it was like a steady pain--then I knew I had to come. It seemed so foolish and vague that I didn't want to ask Mr. Cayley to go on such a wild-goose chase with me. Father understands me better and if he'd been there I would have brought him along. So I slipped out alone, put on my things and took a car down-town. I seemed to know by instinct where to get off--you should have seen the way the conductors stared at me!--and I turned right down this way, trusting to my intuitions. I seemed to be led directly to the foot of the cliff here where I first called you."

"Yes, you called 'Francis,' didn't you?" he said, looking up at her in wonder.

"Did I? I don't know what I said--if I did it was as instinctively done as all the rest. We'll have to go into business together." Her laugh was nervous and excited.

He frowned. "Miss Payson, I don't know how to thank you--it was a splendid thing to do."

"Oh, it has been a real adventure--almost my first. But it's not over yet. I must take you home now. What a sight I am! You, too! Wait--let me clean you off a little."

She stooped over him and, with a lace handkerchief, lightly brushed his face free of the dust, wiped the blood away, then, with gentle fingers, smoothed his black hair. Both trembled slightly at the contact. She stopped, embarrassed at her own boldness, then stood more constrained and self-conscious, till the rattling wheels of a carriage were heard. A hack came clattering up over the cobble-stones and drew up at the curb. The driver jumped down from his seat.

There were a few words of explanation and direction, then the man and Clytie, one on either side, helped Granthope into the vehicle. She followed and the cab drove off up-town. For a few moments the two sat in silence, side by side. An electric lamp illuminated her face for an instant as the carriage whirled past a corner. Her eyes were shining, her lips half open, as she looked at him.

The sight of her, and the excitement of her romantic intervention, made him forget his pain. He felt her spell again, and now with this appearance how much more strongly! There was no denying her magic after such a bewildering manifestation. The event had, also, brought her humanly more near to him--he had felt the strong touch of her hand, her breath on his face--the very disorder of her attire seemed to increase their intimacy. He leaned back to enjoy the full flavor of her charm. He was suddenly aroused by her placid, even voice:

"Mr. Granthope, there's one thing you didn't tell me the other day, when you described that scene at Madam Grant's."

He caught the name with surprise, remembering that he had never spoken it to her. In her mention of it he felt a vague alarm.

"What?" He heard his voice betray him.

"That there was a little boy with her, that day." Clytie turned to him, and for the first time he felt a sudden fear that she would find him out.

"Was there a little boy there? How do you know?"

She kept looking at him, and away, as she spoke. In the drifting of her glances, however, her eyes seemed to seek his continuously, rather than continually to escape. "Quite by accident--never mind now. But this is what is most strange of all--I didn't tell you, before--while I was there, that time, so many years ago--you know what strange fancies children have--you know how, if one is at all sensitive to psychic influence, how much stronger and how natural it seems when one is young--well, all the while, I seemed to feel there was some one else there--some one I couldn't see!"

She was too much for him, with such intuition. His one hope was, now, that she would not plumb the whole depth of his deceit. He managed his expression, drawing back into the shadow.

"Did you know who it was, there?"

"No--only that I was drawn secretly to some one who was there, near me, out of sight. Of course, I've forgotten much of the impression, but now, as I remember it, it almost seems to me as if this little boy--whoever he was--must be related to me in some vague way--as if we had something in common. I wish I could find out about it. You know better the rationale of these things--they come to me only in flashes of intuition, suddenly, when I least expect them."

He sought desperately to divert her from the subject, summoning to his aid the tricks experience had taught him. First to his hand came the ruse of personality.

"You called me 'Francis' before--that was strange, for few people call me that or Frank nowadays--only one or two who have known me a long time."

"Ah, I didn't know what I was saying. It was strange, wasn't it? But you won't accuse me of coquetry at such a time, will you? You were in danger--I thought only of that."

"Oh, I don't mind," he said playfully.

"Nor do I."

"You'll call me Francis?"

She smiled. "Every time I rescue you."

There was evidently no lead for him there. He had to laugh, and give it up. Clytie's mood grew more serious.

"Mr. Cayley was telling me how interesting you were after the ladies had left; really, he was quite complimentary. He told me all about that absurd Bennett affair you talked about."

"Yes, it was an extraordinary case." He wondered what was coming.

"I mean the story was absurd to hear, but I can't help wondering what sort of people they were who would deceive an old man like that. It seems pitiful to me that any one could have the heart to do it--and for money, too."

Granthope cursed his indiscretion. Must she find this out, too? Was no part of his life, past or present, safe from her? If so, he might as well give her up now. It seemed impossible to conceal anything from her clear vision. But he still strove to put her off.

"Oh, these people were weak and ignorant--we haven't all the same advantages or the same sensitiveness to honor and truth. They were used to this sort of thing, hardened to it, and perhaps unconscious of their baseness by a constant association with such deceptions."

"But didn't Mr. Bennett have any friends to warn him--to show these people up in their true light?"

"Oh, that was no use. It was tried, yes; that is, he was shown his carriage, for instance, after it was sold, but he refused to believe it was the same one. He confessed that it was just like it, but he knew that his was then on the planet Jupiter. I don't think the mediums themselves could have convinced him."

"Think of it! It makes their swindling even worse. If he had doubted, if he had tried to trap them, it wouldn't be quite so bad, it would have been a battle of brains--but to impose on such credulity, to make a living by it--oh, it's unthinkable!"

"Well, after all, they made him happy. In a way, they were telling him only pleasant lies, as a parent might tell a child about Santa Claus and the fairies."

He could not keep it up much longer. It was too perilous; and he played for her sympathy. "After all, I suppose my business is about as undignified."

"But it's really a science, isn't it? Mr. Cayley gave me to understand that you had a convincing theory to explain all personal physical characteristics."

"There's a little more to palmistry than that, I think--an instinctive feeling for character."

"Of course. You must have felt my personality intuitively, or you would never have been able to get it so well. But it was most extraordinary of all, I think, the way you got my name. How do you account for that?"

He felt the net closing about him.

"Oh, I'm sometimes clairaudient."

She took it up with animation. "Are you? I must try to send you a message!"

"Haven't you?" he said, still attempting to keep the talk less serious. "All day I have heard you saying, 'You must learn.' But learn what?"

"It seems so queer to me that you shouldn't know, yourself."

"Then tell me. Explain."

"No, you'll find out, I think."

He waited a while, for a twinge of pain gave him all he could do to control himself. Somehow it sobered him. "I wish I dared to be friends with you."

She gave him her hand simply and he returned its cordial pressure. He was sincere enough, now. He was not afraid of mere generalities.

"I'm not worthy of your friendship," he said. "I'd hate to have you know how little I am worth it. If you knew how I have lived--what few chances I have had to know any one really worth while. I've never yet had a friend who was able to understand me."

"I have given you my hand," she replied, "and I shall not withdraw it. It is my intuition, you see, and not my reason, that makes me trust you."

They relapsed for a while into silence. Then, as the cab turned up into Geary Street, past the electric lights, she went on as if she had been thinking it out to herself.

"You know what I said the other day about its being easier to say real things at the first meeting. I am afraid I said too much then. But I was impatient. I felt that I might never see you again and I wanted to give you the message. Now, when I feel sure that we're going to be friends, I am quite willing to wait and let it all come about naturally. The only thing I demand is honesty."

"Is that all?" he asked, with a touch of sarcasm.

She laughed unaffectedly. "Are you finding it so hard?"

The cab drew up to the curb at the door of his rooms. Immediately she became solicitous, helping him to alight. He used the broom for a crutch, and, scratched and torn, his clothes still stained with clay, she in her harlequin of dirt and rags, they presented an extraordinary spectacle under the electric light, to a man on the sidewalk who was approaching leisurely, swinging his stick. As they reached the entrance he drew nearer, making as if to speak to them; instead, he lifted his hat, stared at them and passed on. It was Blanchard Cayley.

Clytie's face went red. Cayley turned for an instant to look at them again and then proceeded on his way. Granthope did not notice him.

Clytie disregarded his protest, and, saying that she would see him safely to his room, at least, accompanied him up-stairs.

As he fumbled for his key in his pocket, the office door was suddenly opened and Fancy Gray appeared upon the threshold.

Her eyebrows went up and Granthope's went down. Her eyes had flown past him to stare at Clytie. The two women confronted each other for a tense moment without a word.

Fancy had taken off her jacket; her hair was braided down her back. She wore an embroidered linen blouse turned away at the neck, and pinned over her heart was a little silver chatelaine watch with a blue dial. It rose and fell as she drew breath suddenly.

"Mr. Granthope has met with an accident," Clytie announced, the first to recover from the shock of surprise.

"I should say he had," was her comment, "and you, too?" Then she laughed nervously. "It must have been a draw."

Clytie did not catch the allusion. "I happened to find him and brought him back," she explained. "He had fallen down the cliff on Telegraph Hill."

As Granthope limped in, Fancy put a few more wondering inquiries, which he answered in monosyllables. Seeing Fancy so disconcerted, Clytie left Granthope in a chair and turned directly to her with a conciliatory gesture.

"We always seem to meet in queer circumstances, Miss Gray, don't we?" she said kindly. "It's really most fortunate that you happened to be here at work. I don't quite know what I should have done, all alone, but I'm sure you will do all that's necessary for Mr. Granthope, better than I. I must hurry home; father will be expecting me."

During this speech, Fancy's eyes had filled, and now they shone soft with gratitude.

"Oh," she said, "I can fix him up all right. It's only a bad strain, I guess."

Granthope watched the two women in silence.

"Well, then, I'll go." Clytie walked to the mirror, smiled with Fancy at the image she saw there, touched her hat and rubbed her face with her handkerchief. Then she held out her hand with a charming simplicity.

"I do wish you'd come and see me sometime, Miss Gray!" she said.

Fancy choked down something in her throat before she replied.

"I will--sometime--sure. If you _really_ want to see me."

"Yes, I really do." Clytie smiled again. Then she went up to Granthope. "Good night, Mr. Granthope, I'm sure I'm leaving you in kind hands. I hope it won't prove a serious injury. And--remember!" Then, bowing to both, she left the room and went down to her cab.

Two vertical lines were furrowed in Granthope's brow. He turned to Fancy with a look that barely escaped being angry.

"God! I'm sorry you were here!"

"Yes? That's easily remedied; you only have to say the word."

"Too late, now!" His tone was sad rather than cruel.

"I hardly expected you to bring home company--" she began.

"I'm sure it was as much a surprise to me--"

"I'm sorry, Frank, but I had to see you--Vixley was here after you left."

He groaned with the pain his ankle gave him and she flew to him and knelt before his chair.

"Oh, Frank, I'm so sorry. What can I do for you? First, let me take off your shoe and attend to your foot. I can run out and get something to put on it. It was awkward, my being here--but I don't mind on my own account, so much. If it embarrassed you, forgive me."

"It's worse than that," he said.

"You mean--that you _care_ for her?"

"I don't know what I do mean--but you'll have to go."

She looked up at him for a moment, searching his drawn face.

"I will, just as soon as I've bound up your ankle and got your couch ready. It won't take long."

"No, I can attend to that myself. I'll telephone for a doctor and have him fix me up. You must go now."

"All right. Just wait till I put on my jacket and do up my hair."

Walking off, proudly, she opened the door of the closet and stood before the mirror there, while he, a limp, relaxed figure in the arm-chair, watched her as she unbraided her hair and combed it out in a magnificent coppery cascade to her waist. Tossing her head, she said:

"Vixley's laying for you, Frank! You'd better watch out for him. It's something shady about the old man's past, I believe. Anyway, I hope you'll fool 'em, Frank!"

With this complication of his position, he bent his head on his hand as if he were weary. "I don't know what I'm going to do," he said. "It's too much for me, I'm afraid."

"What's the matter?" said Fancy solicitously. "Didn't I work it right? Honest, Frank, I didn't give you away a bit--I didn't tell him a word. You know my work isn't lumpy--I just pumped him. I beat him at his own game, and it didn't taste so good, either. Oh, I'm so sorry if I did anything to hurt you. I'd die first!"

As he did not answer her she came over to him and knelt on the floor, seizing his hand. Her tears fell upon it.

"You've been mighty good to me, Frank, you sure have! You took me off the streets when I was starving. I don't know whatever would have become of me. I suppose I'd gone right down the line, if it hadn't been for you. You're the only friend I've got, and I only wish I could do something to prove how grateful I am. Honest, I thought I was helping you out when I kept Vixley here. You don't think--you don't think I _like_ him--do you? Don't say _that_, Frank!"

She was speaking in gasps now; her tears were unrestrained. Her hand clutched his so fiercely that he could scarcely bear the pain. He did not dare to look at her.

"I've always been square with you, Frank, haven't I?"

He patted her hand softly.

"We've kept to the compact, haven't we? The compact we made at Alma? You trust me, don't you?"

"Of course! You're all right--you're true blue. I couldn't distrust you. You'll always be the Maid of Alma. It was a game thing you did for me. Nobody else would have done it. You have helped me, but I can't tell you what a corner I'm in." He paused and looked at her intensely. "Fancy--you haven't forgotten--have you?"

She forced a trembling smile, as she said bravely:

"'No fair falling in love'?"

"Yes."

She shook out a laugh and stroked his hand, looking up at him through her tears. "Oh, no danger of that, Frank. You don't know me. I'm all right, sure! Only--and I owe you so much! You've taught me everything. If I could only do something to prove that I'm worth it."

"You can--that's the trouble. I believe I'm almost cur enough to ask it of you."

"What is it? Tell me, quick! You know I'd black your boots for you. I'd do anything."

"Did you notice Miss Payson's face when she saw you?"

"Yes." Fancy dropped her head.

"I'd hate to have her suspect--if she thought--"