Part 13

“What’s that?” he said, suddenly sitting up, his head on one side, listening. “On the roof--just now--didn’t you hear?”

She went swiftly to the window and looked out.

“Nothing at all,” she said, smiling at him as at a startled child. “What a crazy idea!”

The moment she had said the careless words, she regretted it.

“Crazy? You think I’m crazy?” he said, jerking around.

“Why, Mr. Dangerfield,” she said, distressed, “don’t look at me that way.”

“You think I’m crazy--you do?” He repeated his question, seizing her wrists, watching her closely with his sharp, short glances.

“No; you’re not crazy,” she said vehemently.

He continued to watch her, plainly unconvinced.

“I’m not crazy--no,” he said, at length, wearily, “but--I could be driven to it. Yes, yes; lots of times that’s happened. That’s what they counted on, and if they had got me--if I had waked up in a cell--a padded cell--” He shrank back, recoiling at the picture which rose before him, his fingers twisting in his hair. “God, what might not have happened! Now you know.”

“Yes; I’ve known that.”

“You have?” he said, surprised.

“I mean, I’ve known what you were afraid of,” she said solemnly.

“I am afraid, dreadfully afraid,” he said, in a whisper, “but that--that’s one thing will never happen,” he added in a tone of deep conviction; “no, never.”

“No; for I won’t let you,” she said firmly. “You shan’t lose your grasp. When things are straightened out, you’re going to begin a new life--a life of work.”

He looked at her nervously, doubting, but longing to be convinced.

“I mean it,” she said, and, as her eyes met his, the slow smile spread on her face, as she looked down upon him with deep compassion. He half yielded and then brusquely withdrew.

“Too late! Why didn’t I meet you ten years ago?” he said, with a shrug of his shoulders. He rose, turned, and faced her, with a return of the old authority. “Inga, don’t--what I’ve made up my mind to do--you can’t change. It’s got to be done--it shall be done!”

And in the tone with which he said this there was something so desperately resolved and hopeless that, for the first time, she felt a sinking sense of defeat.

Before she could rally, and while still Dangerfield’s glassy stare was fixed on her, there came a cautious knock at the door--a scraping, sliding tattoo.

“Who’s that?” he said hastily.

The knock was repeated.

“Better let me go,” she said, with a warning gesture. She went to the window first, for a survey of the roofs, and then to the bolted door. Suddenly she drew back with an exclamation. Outside, the tall, thin form of Drinkwater was standing.

XIX

She shut the door and locked it with a hasty movement and came back.

“Who was it?” he said, with rising excitement.

“Only Mr. Drinkwater.”

“Drinkwater! What can he want here?”

Neither had the slightest suspicion of the lawyer’s complicity in the events of the night before. The scraping knock began again.

“We’ll see him,” he said, all at once, his curiosity whetted, and, in obedience to his signal, she went to the door and opened it cautiously--far enough to permit Drinkwater’s slipping into the room. Dangerfield was at the further end, standing by the head of the table, where the light of two candlesticks lit up his round, shaggy head and deep eyes.

Drinkwater glided across the room until only the table separated them, before jerking his head backward to where Inga in the shadow stood guard at the door.

“Mr. Dangerfield,” he said, “I have come here with a message from some one--” he stopped, blew nervously through his nose, and continued--“some one you may guess--some one close to you. The message is strictly private.”

“Go on. I’ll hear it,” said Dangerfield, bending his brows down and playing with a paper-weight that happened to be near by. The whole attitude held so much threat that the lawyer’s eyes calculated the proportions of the table that served him as a barricade.

“But”--he glanced a second time toward Inga with a raising of his eyebrows--“do you wish any one to be a third to our conversation? It is, of course----”

“Inga, wait! I wish you to stay,” said Dangerfield, as he heard in the shadows the slight rustle of her dress. “There is nothing to show that he has anything of importance.”

“It is from your wife,” said Drinkwater, with a smile, and his glance went down to his fingers, which were pressed on the black, glossy surface of the table as though in the act of striking some resounding chord.

“Perhaps I had better--I can wait just outside,” she said hurriedly.

“No--no--if what he says is true,” said Dangerfield peremptorily, “all the more reason. I want you to hear what passes between this man and myself.”

“Very well.” She left the door and, seeing the excitement which had begun to work in him at the lawyer’s announcement, came to his side to control him.

Drinkwater’s glance rose from the table and rested on them with a certain malicious enjoyment.

“First, I have a surprise, an agreeable surprise, for you,” he said, with a flicker of a smile, and his manner of accenting his phrase made them feel that he had referred to them both. “Mr. Dangerfield, you are a free man; your divorce was granted this afternoon.”

Of the two, Inga showed the more emotion. She started and drew away from Dangerfield as though suddenly conscious of the intimacy of their attitude, while her companion received the announcement with a shrug.

“That can’t be true. And it is impossible for you to know it.”

“It is true,” said Drinkwater. “And to show that I have ways of knowing that may surprise you, the action was held in Rhode Island under a referee appointed by Judge Chough, of the----”

“You know this!” exclaimed Dangerfield, in amazement.

“Don’t worry--no one else will know,” said Drinkwater suavely. “I know, because I made it my business to know.”

“So you have been spying on me all this while,” said Dangerfield, with a sudden contraction of the eyes that brought the brows down into a lowering, menacing line.

“I have been fulfilling my duties,” said Drinkwater coolly enough, though he stopped to puff through his thin, hooked nose; “duties as an attorney retained by the interests of your wife--Mrs. Daniel Garford.”

At this mention of his real name, Dangerfield’s anger, curiously enough, seemed to subside. Indeed, in the succeeding quiet and the mildness of his voice, there was almost a premeditated cunning.

“Well, it is quite evident that you are well-informed,” he said. “You say that the divorce was pronounced this afternoon--may I ask how you should be the one to inform me, instead of my own lawyer?”

“Because I received the news by telephone twenty minutes ago.”

“And you have communicated the news to my--to Mrs. Garford?”

“I have not.”

“You said you had a message to me from her,” said Dangerfield slowly. “What is it?”

“That is not quite correct,” said Drinkwater, and, for the first time, he displayed a touch of nervousness, for he did not answer directly. “First, I believe I have rendered you a service in giving this information.”

“How so?”

“You have now, of course, nothing further to fear from any attempt on your wife’s part to shut you up under plea of medical necessity,” said Drinkwater rapidly, “an attempt that had a certain legal plausibility under order of a court for your committal for examination.”

“What, there was such an order?” said Dangerfield, trembling with excitement “They went that far?”

“I have reason to believe so,” said Drinkwater, smiling. “Nothing more easy to obtain. You, of course, realize that the object was to prevent the granting of the divorce. As I say, much as Mrs. Garford or _others_”--he paused and glanced at them significantly--“or others might desire to have you out of the way, any attempt now would be a most serious offense. It will not be made. Therefore, you may be assured that you can now circulate without danger.”

“Very probably,” said Dangerfield, with a contemptuous smile, “it would please Doctor Fortier to have me make the attempt--to-night?”

“You do not believe me?” said Drinkwater, shrugging his shoulders. “You will be convinced to-morrow.”

“What is your message from Mrs. Garford?” said Inga suddenly. She had been watching the lawyer with a growing apprehension, which had showed itself in her frequent strained listenings to sounds from the hall.

Drinkwater pursed his lips, studied solemnly the Winged Victory in the dark corner, frowned, and looked point-blank at Dangerfield.

“Mr. Garford, haven’t I said enough to convince you of my familiarity with your affairs? I really must ask you to hear what I have to say without the presence of witnesses.”

To his surprise, it was Inga herself who opposed him.

“I don’t trust him,” she said emphatically. “Don’t see him alone.”

“Quite right,” said Dangerfield. “If you have anything to say to me, say it now.”

This was plainly not to the other’s liking, for he drew back and jerked nervously at his cuff, with an evil glance at the girl who, alert and watchful, kept her deep eyes on his every movement.

“The agreement was,” he said slowly, “that your wife should marry--” He paused and looked at Dangerfield. “Shall I go on?”

“Go on!” said Dangerfield roughly, though he was plainly startled at the extent of the lawyer’s knowledge.

“Should marry a certain party--a certain Mr. Bowden--you see I am informed--within forty-eight hours after the granting of the decree.”

Dangerfield gazed at him in astonishment. Twice he started to speak and twice he stopped; finally he managed to say:

“You have come from my wife, that’s evident. It must be some dirty work or she would not have sent you. What is it?”

Drinkwater, as though fairly in, took this remark without offense and said, in a businesslike voice quite different from the affectation of his former manner.

“Your wife does not desire this marriage. That is not news to you; but if you will relinquish your purpose, she agrees to forego all the settlements you have made on her and in addition----”

“What! She sent you here to bribe me!” exclaimed Dangerfield, in such a voice that the other drew back instinctively.

“Mr. Garford, I haven’t told you the truth,” he said hastily. “I represent Mr. David Macklin.”

“Who?” said Dangerfield, drawing back in turn.

“Mr. David Macklin!”

“Not a word--not a word!” said Dangerfield, in whom the name roused a sudden fury. “Don’t you dare----”

“My client offers you one hundred thousand dollars if you will not insist on this marriage to Mr. Bowden.”

Dangerfield’s anger, which for a moment had threatened to burst into a rage, turned all at once into something cold and ominously calm.

“My answer to your client--not Mr. David Macklin, but Mrs. Garford, is No! Mrs. Garford will marry Mr. Bowden within the limit I have set, or----”

“Listen, Mr. Garford,” said Drinkwater desperately, his eyes flashing greedily with the thought of escaping commissions. “Take my advice--refuse!”

“What do you mean?” said Dangerfield sharply. “You tell me to refuse?”

“Refuse! Refuse!” said the lawyer excitedly. “You have stripped yourself; you have made yourself a beggar for a ridiculous point of honor--refuse all offers, put yourself in my hands. I’ll show you how to get revenge and mulct them, too. Then Mr. Macklin will pay not one hundred but three--four times that much--half a mill----”

“Ah, you vermin!”

Dangerfield, with a cry, had taken a frame from the table and brought it down on the greedy head, and as the lawyer struggled back, he caught him by the throat in a frenzy of rage and disgust.

Inga, terrified at what he might do, clung to him, striving to drag him from his grip. At the noise of the scuffle, O’Leary and the others came precipitately in from the studio, believing that another assault was on.

“Tear him away--oh, get him away--he’ll kill him,” Inga shouted, as they burst in.

“Hands off!” said Dangerfield, in a voice like a thunder-clap. “I know what I’m doing! Killing’s too good for this scum. Make way there!” Still with his hand on the other’s throat, he dragged him down the hall to the top of the stairs. “Go back to your clients and let them know what I’ll do if they fail me by one hour!”

With which, as though the man had been an old shoe, he flung him down the stairs and returned like a stalking fury through the group which watched him breathlessly.

XX

Despite the probability that the lawyer had told the truth, the night passed in vigilant waiting. The two pugilists curled upon the sofa; O’Leary dozed in the big chair, while Dangerfield, at the great Florentine table, his chin sunk in his palms, stared ahead of him, the long periods of immobility broken only by brief nervous resorting to the cards. Inga, by his side, sought to occupy her mind with a novel. From the moment she had learned from the lawyer of the divorce, her attitude toward Dangerfield had taken on an unwonted reserve. It was long after midnight when he turned and looked at her. She raised her eyes--she had not been reading for some time--and met his.

“What is it?” she said, smiling.

“You had better go to bed.”

She shook her head. “I couldn’t sleep.”

“But you are not reading.”

“No; I was thinking.”

He started to question her further and then stopped.

“You knew all along who I was,” he said at last.

“Yes--from the first.”

“And that made no difference?”

She shook her head, smiling a little, but not looking at him.

“A precious fine reputation I’ve got,” he said bitterly. “Wait till you see what the papers will make of Dan Garford’s latest escapade!”

She shrugged her shoulder impatiently, and checked a reply with a quick frown and a glance at the others, as though conscious of their sleeping intrusion.

“I think he told the truth,” he said disjointedly, after a moment.

“Who? Drinkwater?”

“Yes; I’m sure of it.” He pressed his knuckles against his lips and said, frowning, “Well, that leaves only one more thing to do.” He said it quietly, but with an accent of deep finality. When she thought him quite lost in this mood, he surprised her by saying, “Why does it make a difference to you?” He turned, caught the look of astonishment on her face, and added: “Why would you rather that I should be married?”

“Why do you say that?” she said, genuinely amazed at his intuition.

“You are different--you are not the same--I feel it.”

She waited a moment, and then said hurriedly, in a low voice:

“If I told you, you wouldn’t understand!”

At this moment, O’Leary, probably disturbed at the sound of voices, moved heavily in his chair. Dangerfield waited a moment to assure himself that the sleep was still profound, before saying:

“I am not so sure I don’t understand now.” He looked at her keenly, albeit with gentleness, for there was a softness in his eyes and the smile that came to his lips was one of comprehension. He laid his hand over hers and said: “Isn’t it because--before nothing bound you--you were free to go any moment. There’s something wild in you--untamed.”

“I don’t know--I really don’t know,” she said, looking away.

“I’ve never misunderstood you, child,” he said, nodding as though satisfied. “Don’t worry. Men like me don’t bruise--” he hesitated a moment, patted her hand, and said softly, “guardian angels.”

“Oh, I never was afraid of that!” she said swiftly, turning impulsively toward him.

“I’m not going to put a cloud over your life,” he said doggedly.

He rose, left her, and went to the window. She extinguished the light and came softly over to his side until her hand slipped through his arm.

“Why did you do that?” he said, feeling the sudden drop of darkness about them and then, answering his question, he added, “There is nothing to fear now--I feel that.”

She stood silently beside him looking out, and the touch on his arm seemed gradually to grow heavier until her body drew close to his side. In the black night, one window flamed out, feverishly alive against a distant tenement.

“Wonder what’s going on there, too?” he said moodily. “I wonder what poor devil’s fighting out his fight there?”

She did not answer, and then all at once her hands closed about his arm, and she said,

“Mr. Dan, don’t go away.”

“What makes you say that?” he said, startled.

“Don’t go away from me,” she said, in her deep voice. “Promise me that.”

“No; I can’t promise that,” he said, between his teeth.

“But you’ll tell me first--just promise that,” she insisted. He shook his head. “Oh, I don’t know why I am like this to-night,” she said impulsively, “but I know if you went away--” She stopped and something caught in her throat.

He gave an exclamation and caught her in his arms in a close clasp.

“Inga, Inga, don’t; it’s more than I can bear.”

“Promise, promise,” she said incoherently, and her hands fastened to his coat as she hid her head against his shoulder.

“I promise not to--to go without telling you why,” he said, at last. “Will that satisfy you?”

She caught his hand swiftly and pressed it against her heart. Then she went back hastily to the table and lit the light. O’Leary suddenly aroused, started up. It was almost four o’clock.

The next morning came Dangerfield’s lawyer, Judge Brangman, with his clerk, to confirm the news that Drinkwater had brought. The interview was private, even the clerk presently reappearing in the hall and departing. Judge Brangman was closeted a full two hours, and that the meeting was not without dissension was obvious, not only from the prolongation of the discussion but by the frequent rise of angry voices. Finally, the door opened on an evidently complete disagreement, for Dangerfield’s voice was heard saying:

“Judge, this is not a question of law; it is something--permit me--that you don’t seem to understand.”

“I only understand,” said the voice of the visitor, in high-pitched exasperation, “that you are beggaring yourself for a quixotic idea, and that I, as your legal adviser, have a right to protest.”

“Possibly. But my mind’s set. I like to _buy_ the cur. See that the information is sent to me this afternoon--time and place.”

“Dan--a last time--won’t anything shake you?”

“Nothing.”

“But we’re not living in the Middle Ages. Men don’t do such things.”

“I do,” said Dangerfield, with cold harshness, “and they know it.”

“I give up,” said the judge, with something like a break in his voice. “Go on; do what you want.”

“Call me anything you want,” said Dangerfield, with the same ominous calm. “Probably I am a fool; possibly I always have been one, but that’s why I’m going to carry my point.”

The judge put up his hands in helpless rage and went stumbling down the hall, while those in O’Leary’s room heard him exclaim,

“Mad--perfectly mad!”

By this time, the Three Arts, so to speak, had come to the same conclusion.

“Wish the devil he’d get it over with,” said Flick wearily, “whatever he’s going to do. I’ve seen some sporting life, but, holy cats! this being on the jump all hours of the night and day is getting into my constitution.”

“I say, Music,” said Tootles, equally distressed, “why don’t you loosen up and tell what you know. We’ve stood enough, don’t you think?”

Thus confronted, O’Leary said cautiously:

“Well, what’s puzzling you?”

“Puzzling us! That’s good!” said Flick, with a loud laugh. “What we want to know is what’s all this mystery-game--and, most important, when do we settle down and sleep?”

“Why, I don’t see why I shouldn’t tell you what I know,” said O’Leary frankly, “specially as you must have guessed the same. From all I can figure, it’s a family affair; friend in corner has forced a divorce; leastwise it must be so, for, from all we can put together, that’s what brought the woman here that night to try and get him to give up the idea. Likewise, when that failed, looks as though they tried to get him jugged for a loony and put away.”

“But why should she care about preventing the divorce?” said Flick.

“Question of money, I suppose,” said O’Leary thoughtfully.

“But, then, Drinkwater?” said Tootles. “How was he in it? I know that he must have been spying around and carrying information and that he was in the plot to get us out the way--yes, yes--but this last business--what the deuce did he say that started Dangerfield off like a wild bull?”

O’Leary shook his head.

“Some dirty business--the fellow was double-crossing some one, perhaps.”

“Well, when is it going to stop?” said Flick querulously. “That’s the only thing interests me.”

“I imagine it’s over now,” said O’Leary, who knew of the granting of the divorce but was ignorant of any further complications; “in fact, I’m positive.”

“You are, eh?” said Flick incredulously.

“I’d take my oath on it.”

At this moment, there came a sharp, rattling knock; the door opened, and Dangerfield walked in.

“Am I interrupting?”

“No.”

There had come a change in the man which struck them at once; the indecision and groping weariness of the last days had lifted. He seemed alive with energy and action, and yet, as he stood there looking about the room, there was about him momentarily the same expression which had startled them on his first appearance.

“What can we do for you?” asked O’Leary naturally and heartily.

Dangerfield looked down abruptly, his face cleared, and he said in a matter-of-fact tone:

“O’Leary, will you do me one more service?”

“Sure.”

“Will you accompany me this afternoon for about an hour to a place I am going? I shall know in a short while.”

“Nothing easier,” said O’Leary; but, under the ease of his manner, he was watching Dangerfield closely.

“Thanks.” He started to go and stopped. “There’ll be no trouble--and yet you might as well be prepared.”

“I get you!” said O’Leary, with a nod.

Dangerfield returned to his room, leaving consternation behind. Tootles was so overcome that he upset a box of charcoal, while Flick gave vent to a prolonged whistle, adding sarcastically,

“Peace and calm descendeth!”

“What the deuce is up?” said O’Leary, scratching his ear. “I don’t get this at all!”

“Well, I know one thing,” said Flick vehemently; “I think you’re a bigger fool than I took you for if you start out on any gunman visit without knowing into what little pocket you’re walking.”

O’Leary evidently thought as much, for presently he wandered up the hall in search of Inga, but the girl was away, and before she had returned something else had happened. A messenger arrived with a letter for Dangerfield, which he read with evident satisfaction, for he came down to the studio and said briskly:

“O’Leary, can you be ready to start in an hour?”

“I don’t see why not,” said O’Leary.

“Four o’clock, then.”

A few minutes before that hour, O’Leary, ready for the street, made a last attempt to find Inga, in the hope that she could throw some light on the errand on which he was embarked. But the girl was not in her room, and as he was turning away, Dangerfield came out alone. King O’Leary could not suppress an exclamation of surprise. The man stood before him in top-hat, a cutaway revealed through the folds of his fur coat. By the slender gray-silk cravat, caught in an old-fashioned ring, and the light gloves in his hand, he might have been mistaken for a bridegroom.

“I say, are we going to a wedding?” said O’Leary facetiously.

“Yes,” said Dangerfield, rather taken back. “Just that, a wedding.”

“A wedding!” said O’Leary, in blank astonishment.

“Now you know,” said Dangerfield, who didn’t seem particularly pleased at the disclosure.

“I don’t know anything at all,” said O’Leary, who followed him, grumbling and shaking his head, his imagination filled with the eccentric possibilities this might portend. “Wonder if he’s going to be married himself!” he thought, gazing at him suspiciously. But the depression and moodiness on Dangerfield’s face belied the surmise. The elevator came up, and in it was Inga. The moment she saw the two standing there, an expression of great alarm came into her face.

“What--you are going out!” she stammered, looking from one to the other. “It is for this afternoon, then?”