Part 12

“Tie him up!” shouted O’Leary to Flick. “Never mind his head. Watch out he isn’t faking! Here--take this!” He flung them an end of the rope trailing on the floor, and hurried over anxiously to where, by the sofa, Dangerfield was lying, surrounded by a gaping crowd.

“Here, air--give the man air!” he cried, pushing them back. “What is it, Inga?”

“Chloroform,” she said, looking up.

“Nothing else--no black-jacking?”

“No; I’m sure.”

“How the devil did they get him?” he said, kneeling and running his fingers over Dangerfield’s head to assure himself that there were no contusions.

Inga shook her head.

“Some came through the door, and some over the roofs, I think,” she said. “When I saw them struggling, I didn’t wait.”

The room was in a fearful state. One tapestry had been half torn from the walls; a picture-frame lay smashed across the floor; a chair had been shattered, while the great Florentine table lay on its side with candlesticks, books, and platters showered over the rugs.

O’Leary cleared the room of all but Flick, Tootles, and Belle Shaler, who stayed to help Inga.

“Suppose we ought to notify the police,” he said, after Tootles had returned with the information that the party had driven away in an ambulance which had been waiting below.

“Perhaps--though I am not sure,” she said doubtfully, gazing at Dangerfield, who had not come out of his stupor.

“It’s a plain case--”

“I think I’d wait a while, if I were you,” said a voice that startled them.

They peered at the sound, and found their captive looking at them maliciously, a hard smile over the strong lines of his mouth under the close-cropped mustache.

O’Leary went up to him and examined carefully the sturdy figure, neatly dressed, though, in the struggle, a rent had been torn in the coat where a pocket had been wrenched.

“I think I’d find out what the person you call ‘Dangerfield’ has to say about that,” he said coolly.

Inga joined O’Leary, and together they stood, undecided, gazing down at the man who lay on the floor propped up against a great armchair.

“Nice business for a man like you to be in!” said O’Leary scornfully. “Well, you’ll get time enough to think it over--up the river.”

“Perhaps,” he said, with a shrug. “Have you any objection to my sitting in a chair while you make up your mind?”

“What’ll we do?” said O’Leary, turning to Inga in perplexity.

“Wait,” she said, after a moment.

“You know best,” said O’Leary, and, leaning down, he caught the man by the shoulders and lifted him to a chair. A splotch of blood showed on his head just back of the ear, where he had crashed against a corner of the chest.

“You might as well tie up my head,” he said surlily, “for the sake of the carpet, if nothing else.”

Inga took a basin, sponged the wound, which was slight, and placed a bandage. The man watched her intently, and at the end said gruffly:

“Thanks. You did that well enough. Suppose I have to thank you, young lady, for breaking up this little party?”

She paid no attention to his remarks, and, her work being finished, went back to Dangerfield, saying to O’Leary:

“Better make sure he’s tied fast.”

The man laughed outright, and, suddenly extending his hands, which he had somehow managed to slip from their fastenings, said:

“Do it better this time.”

His feet being bound would have sufficed to hold him; nevertheless O’Leary took several hitches so vigorously that the prisoner protested.

At this moment Dangerfield, on the sofa, groaned.

“He’s coming out of it!” said Inga.

“Well, if I’ve got to wait,” said the man suddenly, in a sharp, professional manner, “might as well tell you what to do. He’s had a good dose of it, that’s certain. Lay him flat on his back and work the stuff out of his lungs. Raise up the arms and press down on the diaphragm regularly and slowly. Open up the skylight and get some cold air in here. He’ll come around in no time.”

“Oh, a doctor!” said O’Leary.

“Perhaps.”

Under these directions, Dangerfield began to gasp and mutter, and finally, as they waited, opened his eyes and glared out of them with his characteristic stare of a frightened animal. Presently he rose to a sitting position, clutching the arm of Inga, who was supporting him, his glance set directly on the man with the cropped mustache, who faced him with a confident, indifferent smile.

“Who’s that?” he cried, almost in terror, and the grip on her arm sunk painfully into her flesh.

“It’s I, Dan--Jim Fortier,” said the prisoner, with a sudden rough authority in his voice, as though he were indeed the master of the scene.

Whether the fumes of the chloroform had not yet left his faculties free, or whether he did not perceive the true position of Fortier, to their amazement Dangerfield seemed suddenly shaken with an unreasoning fear. He cried out: “Doctor Jim! Doctor Jim!” and covered his face with his hands.

Inga took him hurriedly in her arms, crying:

“Mr. Dangerfield, nothing’s happened--you’re here. It’s Inga--O’Leary’s here--we’re all here!”

“Inga,” he said slowly, and, already half returned to the land of confused dreams, he dropped his hands and turned his face toward her voice, a clouded, perplexed look in his eyes. She dropped on one knee and met his glance, smiling.

“It’s all right; nothing’s happened. You’re in your studio, safe,” she said, as though she were talking to a child.

“Safe enough for the time being,” said Doctor Fortier, breaking in in quick, staccato tones.

Dangerfield shot around, gazed in the direction of his enemy, and putting out his hands as though to ward him off, collapsed.

Every one was impressed by the effect Doctor Fortier’s voice had produced.

“Take him away, quick--to your room; keep him there!” said Inga, hastily.

“Come along, you!” said O’Leary, with a sudden tightening hold on the other man’s throat, for he had begun to divine his maneuver. “And no tricks, or I might get to squeezing. Loosen up his feet--that’s it! Come on!”

Tootles was stationed in the hall to watch the passage over the roofs, to guard against the possibility of a return attack, and only Belle Shaler remained, at Inga’s direction seating herself in a further corner to give an instant alarm.

The fumes of the chloroform seemed to have closed over Dangerfield’s consciousness once more. He moved and stretched out his fingers, seeking the glass of water she held to them to ease the heat of his throat. The cool draft seemed momentarily to bring pleasant intervals in his dream, for he began to laugh and to hum to himself, calling out names unfamiliar to her--brother artists, perhaps, of youthful days--the whole intermixed with snatches of French.

“Give me the brush--Violet socks with white polka dots. _A toi, mon coco! En charrette!_ Quinny, get to work. _A nous, les anciens!_ What a float, eh? Where do we rendezvous? Café Procopé? Every one there--Café Procopé, eight sharp! Du Bois and De Monvel, go first. _Parfaitement!_ Gogo, _tu es épatant_.” He began to rock with laughter. “Look at Gogo! Isn’t he a wonder! _Garçon, des bocks!_ All together, now--

“_C’est les quatz’ arts, C’est les quatz’ arts, C’est les quatz’ arts qui passent, C’est les quatz’ arts passés._”

In his excitement he rose to a sitting position and began to beat time, listening to the volume of an indistinguishable orchestra in crowded halls. Then the air seemed to be shaken with frantic applause, for he began to bow to gay, whirling throngs, and all at once called out triumphantly, “_L’atelier Julian--premier prix!_” After which, reason seemed to flow back into his eyes, and he turned to her and said quite rationally:

“Water--more water.”

“Lie down--rest quietly, Mr. Dangerfield,” she said, serving him. “It will pass in a moment.”

His eyes dwelt on her fixedly, seeming to grow larger and deeper as the consciousness faded. He smiled contentedly.

“Always you,” he said quietly. In a moment he added: “I know everything that is passing; I hear everything.” But already he was back in the delirium, in a jumble of painful, rapid reflections of the past, crying:

“Every one in the house dines with me to-night! Valentin, give me the bank. I take the bank for a thousand louis. Who plays? Baccarat!” And again. “Louise, Louise Fortier! Thank you--yes, it’s my hat. Fortier? I know that name--from the south. That’s my route--if you will allow me.... Once more; a bank of a thousand louis! Gentlemen, your turn’s come. No, no; win or lose to the end! Well, a clean sweep. I take one card--as usual, baccarat! What color--Italy--see Italy and die.... _Bon jour, les copins!_ I am back again--cleaned out!” He stopped suddenly and lifted his hand to his head, saying with a ceremonious bow to the glittering room of frantic gamblers which rose in his vision: “Gentlemen, I thank you. You have restored me to my art! _Cocher, Rue Bonaparte!_” Immediately a frown succeeded, and he said rapidly, in a hard voice: “No, no, and _no_! I permit you to love another--that is your right. I do not admit of vulgar deception. You will do as I say. You will do it, or I--”

“Mr. Dangerfield,” cried Inga, laying her hand over his, which was whipping back and forth in uncontrolled excitement, “hush!”

There was a slight noise in the back of the room and the door clicked. Belle Shaler, fearing to overhear too much, had slipped away.

“Click!” said Dangerfield, snatching his hand away from the clutch of her fingers and shuddering. “Got me! No, no; it’s not true! I know what you’re trying to make me believe! But it’s not true--_not true_!” he shouted vehemently. Then, as the echoes seemed to return to him on the silences of the night, he repeated in a whisper, “not true!”

“Water,” Inga said.

He frowned, took the glass eagerly, and stared at her.

“Who’s that?”

“Inga.”

“You’re sure?” His hand came creeping toward her and up over her hair, groping for her features. “The eyes--the eyes--strange eyes! Inga--Inga Sonderson--sounds like the sea rolling in. Only, you mustn’t--mustn’t get to caring what becomes of me--it’s no use.”

“But I do care,” she said, in her deep voice.

The mist that was wavering in his brain seemed to vanish at the sound of her words.

“What’s happened?” he said slowly, frowning as though to bring back all his faculties. “Where am I?”

“You’re here, in your studio,” she said quickly, “quite safe.”

“What’s the matter with me, then?” he said helplessly.

“They tried to chloroform you--but that’s passing away now.”

“Tell me all.”

“Do you think I had better?”

“Yes, yes; don’t let me go back to sleep,” he said desperately. “I remember something over my head, stifling me--the room full of people--darkness----”

“That’s true; they were trying to get you out of the window and over the roof when we broke in.”

“They? Who? Doctor--” He hesitated, watching her sharply.

“Yes; Doctor Fortier.”

“He’s here!” he said, sitting up and staring about the room.

“Not now; there’s no one here.”

“Jim Fortier!” he repeated angrily. “Then it was what I thought. Who saved me--you?”

“No, no, I only got the others--O’Leary and the rest.”

“They almost had me,” he said slowly. A great weakness seemed to overcome him, for an unusual gentleness came into his voice, the quiet tone of weak convalescence. “You can tell me the rest--I can stand it. What happened?”

“Don’t you think you had better be quiet?” she said anxiously. “It has been a shock.”

“Yes,” he said with a shudder, and his hand clutched her shoulder as though clinging desperately to it, while in the subdued torment on his face there was a sudden flickering passage of absolute terror that caused her to cry:

“Mr. Dangerfield, Mr. Dangerfield, don’t look that way! I can’t bear it.”

Her face was so close to his, flushed with compassion and tenderness, that this imminence of youth and affection brought back into his eyes a touch of quiet and gratitude.

“Why do you care so much?” he said greedily.

“I do; I do,” she said, gazing at him earnestly. “When you suffer, it just tears my heart.”

He closed his eyes and smiled, and she was afraid that the tyranny of the chloroform was asserting itself again; but suddenly he opened his eyes and said, raising one finger as though in warning:

“You don’t know what I am afraid of?”

Again there came into the intensity of his gaze the characteristic touch of the startled animal seeking to comprehend. It was a mood which she had learned to fear and avoid. She took his hands in hers, pressing them firmly, as though by the act transferring to him some of her abundant strength and courage.

“Some time you can tell me--not now. I want you to rest.”

“Fortier was here, in this room, wasn’t he?” he said at length.

“Yes.”

“And now?”

“I had O’Leary take him into the studio until you could decide----”

“Decide what?”

“Whether to let him go or to send for the police,” she said, after some hesitation.

“They’ve got him--Doctor Fortier--a prisoner?” he said slowly.

“O’Leary was going to have the police in and turn him over to them, but I thought it was better to let you decide.”

He turned and looked at her gratefully.

“It’s queer; you always seem to know instinctively the right thing to do. No; not the police--never that. Whatever happens to me--never that.”

“I am glad I was right,” she said, smiling. “Will you follow my advice?”

“What would you advise?”

“Don’t see him at all--let him go.”

To her surprise, he acquiesced immediately. In fact, the night’s experience seemed to have shaken him profoundly. He seemed mentally as well as physically exhausted, as though prostrated by the shock. He looked up at her as a patient at the attending nurse and said:

“Do what you think best.”

The reply was scarcely more than a whisper, and immediately his glance wandered, as though the decision had passed from his mind. She watched him a moment as he stared past her, indecision, trouble, and perplexity written on his clouded look; and then, making up her mind, stepped to the door and beckoned Belle Shaler.

“Tell O’Leary to keep him until daylight, and then let him go,” she said in a whisper.

The day was struggling through the curtains of the night as she came back. Dangerfield was waiting, his hand running nervously over the shawl she had thrown over him. When she came to his side he seized her hand instantly with a sigh of content and turned and looked at her with distraught eyes.

“Keep me quiet,” he said, and his hand closed over hers in a tighter dependence. “Try to keep me quiet.”

She looked down at him with her slow-breaking smile and, though the strain of the night had left her worn with fatigue, never had she felt such a complete sensation of happiness.

XVIII

At daybreak, King O’Leary loosened the ropes which held Doctor Fortier and signed to him to follow.

“Not to the police-station, I presume,” said the other, smiling.

“If I had my way you would,” said O’Leary, with bad grace, for the doctor’s cool assurance had not ceased to irritate him.

“Doubtless; but you see there are certain cases which have to be settled in the family. You’ll know more of this later.”

“Next time, look out,” said O’Leary grimly.

“There’ll be no next time,” said Doctor Fortier, with a shrug of his shoulders. “You may not believe me, but it is so. You can have that satisfaction. You can tell that to my precious brother-in-law.”

With which he went off surlily enough under all his assumption of indifference. The knowledge of Fortier’s relationship to Dangerfield was but small surprise to King O’Leary. In his own mind he had long arrived at a shrewd suspicion of the crisis through which his neighbor was passing. He called up Sassafras and put him on watch for any new attempt, improbable though it might be. Upstairs he held a consultation with Inga, who slipped into the hall for a brief moment, at the end of which it was decided to secure the aid of Flick’s two friends in the pugilistic profession.

“The fellow claimed to be his brother-in-law,” said O’Leary. “Do you think that’s true?”

She nodded.

“I’m quite sure.”

“Then that _was_ his wife who was here, and she’s at the bottom of it all,” he said thoughtfully. “But why should they try to carry him off like this? What the deuce was their object? Have you any idea?”

He had been speaking his thoughts aloud. Now, as he looked at her, each saw in the other’s eyes that the same supposition dominated them.

“You think so, too,” he said, surprised.

“But there is no truth in it,” she said, frowning, angry to have had her thoughts divined. “Whatever you do, O’Leary, don’t say to any one what--what you believe. That mustn’t be talked about.”

“I sometimes wonder--” he said slowly, looking toward the corner studio.

“You are wrong,” she said impatiently, “absolutely wrong.”

He shrugged his shoulders unconvinced, influenced a little, too, by his jealousy. “I’m not so sure--anyhow, Inga, what’s to come of it? We can’t go on forever like this. If he won’t turn it over to the police, sooner or later they’ll get him--that’s certain.”

“It’s not going to last,” she said decidedly. “He keeps talking about the twentieth all the time. I have an idea that something is bound to happen then. I think this was a last desperate attempt on her part.”

“The twentieth, that’s day after to-morrow,” he said thoughtfully. “I guess we can hold the fort for two nights.”

As he was going she stopped him.

“Mind,” she said anxiously; “be careful what you say. Think all you wish, but don’t get the others talking. It’s not their affair and--it might do harm.”

“Aren’t you sometimes a bit afraid?” he said abruptly.

She laughed.

“Never; what an idea!”

“I believe you can manage him,” he said, watching her as she stood lightly, her head thrown a little back, and her eyes softened by a touch of amusement. “Say, take an hour’s nap. Let me relieve you.”

“No, no,” she said; “I am the only one who can quiet him.” And, conscious of the understanding that now lay between them, she added solemnly: “O’Leary, he is in a bad way. That’s a fact.”

It was not until well into the afternoon, after Flick had returned with the pugilists, that the memory of Drinkwater suddenly returned to King O’Leary. He gave forth an exclamation with such suddenness that Tootles bounded across the rug, saying angrily:

“For the love of Mike, man, don’t do that--don’t do it! My nerves won’t stand it!”

“What the deuce are you going to do?” said Flick, observing him to rise, make for the door, and as abruptly return. The pugilists, who were being utilized as models for heroic bodies in the monumental decoration of Tootles, shifted and watched him hopefully as though scenting a call to arms.

O’Leary sat down and began to stare at the one-eyed bear on the floor with such impressive mental concentration that they watched him in silence.

“By George, I believe the whole thing was planned!” he said, striking his leg.

“Planned? Of course it was planned,” said Flick.

“No, no; I mean our being away--out of sight and hearing. The more I think about it--why, if Millie hadn’t got the creeps and run away, Inga never would have known where we were.”

“That’s right.”

“It was Millie who told Inga,” said Flick, with conviction.

“King, I do believe you’re right,” said Tootles. “It _was_ planned; the whole floor was cleared out on purpose.”

“But who did it?” said Flick. “Not Madame Probasco?”

“How about your friend, the lawyer!”

“Drinkwater!” said Tootles, rising in fury. “By Jove, of course--no doubt about it!”

“No; I don’t think there is much doubt,” said O’Leary. “Hold on there; you can’t go out and demolish him single-handed.”

“He had the door locked,” said Flick reflecting, “and he tried to throw the lights off--Why, the low-down little pup!”

“Yes; I guess that’s all true,” said O’Leary slowly. “That’s been his game for a long while. Well, suppose we find out a little more.” He started toward the door again and stopped. “No, no; that wouldn’t work. We must find some way to get him in here and try a little third-degree treatment. We might get him in to pose for Tootles--only he’d see through that. Best plan is to have Schneibel ask him into his place, and that won’t be easy either. The fellow’s no fool....”

But as they were studying over ways and means, Myrtle Popper came in with fresh information by way of Sassafras. The lawyer had decamped during the night, for a messenger-boy had been sent up with a note calling for a valise which was in his room. This last bit of evidence was conclusive to their minds, already strongly prejudiced. Likewise, it made them fear a new attack, and, with this in mind, they prepared anxiously for the coming of the night.

* * * * *

When Inga had told O’Leary of her anxiety, she had not overstated the situation. Dangerfield had found a few hours’ rest in the morning, a rest broken by scurrying, baneful dreams. When he awoke, though he seemed physically refreshed, the mind remained in a lethargy. Instead of the rapid change of moods with sudden outbursts of irritation to which she had grown accustomed, she found him all at once pensive, subdued, and given to long, staring silences.

“To-day is the eighteenth?” he said to her, without turning his head.

“Yes, the eighteenth,” she answered cheerily.

“That’s what I thought.”

An hour later, he repeated the question without noticing the repetition. Later in the afternoon, he took up his interminable solitaire; but the movements of the cards were made mechanically, and he made many mistakes without noticing them.

“They’re running very badly,” he said querulously.

“Try again,” she said, ensconcing herself on the arm of the great chair. “Here, I’ll cut for luck.”

He allowed her to take the pack and to spread it in deft lines. When the layout was completed, she clapped her hands.

“There you see--the six on the seven, and you have a space the first thing! Let’s see the next card.”

They began to play, and, leaning against him, she drew her arm over his shoulder, bending forward alertly to watch the shifting of the cards. But the luck which had been favorable suddenly changed, and after a moment, impatiently, he put out his hand and brushed the cards away, saying:

“No use.” He stared blankly at the table and then brought his knuckles up against his teeth with a deep breath. “Wish I could get out--out of this--anywhere!”

“You will soon--in two days.”

“Two days--yes, of course,” he said, nodding. “I must hold on until then.”

The hand which lay on the table opened and closed and opened again in helpless indecision. In all his brooding, the effort seemed directed against some internal danger, some struggle of the soul. She felt this, as she felt the trembling of the balance of fate, and all her reserve vanished before the needs of the man who, on his part, sought nothing from her.

“Mr. Dan,” she said, passing her cool hand over the furrowed brow and bending over him, “Mr. Dan, can’t I help? Won’t you let me?”

“You can’t--no one can,” he said, shaking his head.

“I must tell you one thing: There’s nothing to fear. We’ll watch for you to-night--O’Leary’s arranged that,” she said rapidly, misunderstanding him. “He’s got two men to spend the night--the men who were here that night.”

“You did that,” he said, and he patted her hand gently, while a smile came to his face for the first time.

“Would you like them in to-night? Wouldn’t it be easier to have a party?” she said, looking at him anxiously, longing to stir him out of himself. “Wouldn’t that occupy you?”

“No, no,” he said, shrinking at the thought; “to-morrow, not to-night. You don’t understand--it’s quiet I want now, to stop this thing beating in here.” His hand went to his forehead and his fingers strained there as though in the effort to seize some throbbing torment underneath and crush it. Instinctively her arm drew tight about his body, pressing him close to her, and she said impressively, tears rising to her eyes:

“Oh, Mr. Dan, why can’t I help you? I would give anything--anything to be of some good.”