Her Forbidden Knight (14 page)

He hastened his step. At the subway station on Twenty-third Street he boarded a downtown train.

Fifteen minutes later he was seated in the outer office of a dingy suite whose windows looked out on that curious labyrinth south of the Brooklyn Bridge, and beyond, the East River.

An attendant approached.

“He will see you now, sir.”

Sherman rose and followed him to an inner room.

The room was uncarpeted and bare save for two wooden chairs, a massive steel safe, and a roll-top desk. On one of the chairs, placed in front of the desk, was seated a heavy, red-faced man with carroty hair. He dismissed the attendant with a curt nod before he spoke to Sherman.

“What’s up now, Billy?”

Sherman, knowing that he had to deal with a busy man, told him in as few words as possible what the reader already knows concerning Knowlton. The other listened to the end with an impassive face.

“You say he was seen with Red Tim last night?” he asked, when Sherman had finished.

“Yes. At Manx’s café on Twenty-eighth Street and Broadway.”

“And Red Tim had a bundle! Who was the idiot that saw him? Why didn’t he arrest him?”

“Private. He was working for me. He didn’t want to put Knowlton next.”

“Ah! This is personal, then?”

“What if it is?” Sherman returned. “Does that make any difference?”

“No-o,” said the other slowly. “But I don’t see how we can get him. What evidence have we got? Red Tim can’t be found. You say Knowlton refused a bundle last night. Of course, if he had taken that, and had it on him—”

“That isn’t necessary,” Sherman interrupted. “Why didn’t he take that last night? Because he already had all he could handle. He’s stuffed with it. Look here.” He drew forth a wallet and took from it a stack of bills. “This was his. I got it—never mind how.”

“All tens, eh?” said the other, taking the bills. “And beauties!” He examined them curiously. “But how can we prove they were found on him?”

“I can swear to it,” said Sherman. “And that isn’t all. He’s sure to have more on him now. And he’s sure to have a bunch stowed away in his rooms. If you get him there, unexpected, you’ll have all the evidence you need and more, too.”

The man at the desk appeared to be lost in thought.

“What is the address of his rooms?” he asked finally.

Sherman gave him the number of the house on West Thirtieth Street.

“What floor?”

“Second.”

“Do you know anything of his habits? When will he be there?”

“Between seven o’clock and a quarter to eight in the evening.”

“Anyone living with him?”

“No.”

“Flat in his name?”

“Yes. John Knowlton.”

The man at the desk had taken a fountain pen from his pocket and was writing on a pad of paper. He tore off the sheet he had written on, placed it in a drawer of the desk, returned the pen to his pocket, and gazed thoughtfully out of the window for some time.

Then he turned to Sherman, saying:

“We’ll get Mr. Knowlton tonight.”

S
HERMAN HAD LEFT THE ERRING KNIGHTS IN THE
billiard room of the Lamartine in a state of unrestrained delight.

At last they were to triumph over Knowlton. And it would be, so Jennings declared, a bloodless and well-deserved victory. Dougherty alone appeared to wear an expression of dissatisfaction, and he was urged to explain it.

“I don’t like it,” declared the ex-prizefighter. “That’s no way to fight a guy. Oh, I’ll stick, all right, and I’ll hand it to him straight, but I don’t like it.”

“Nobody expects to see you satisfied,” Booth observed.

Dougherty, disregarding him, continued:

“And another thing. Why does Sherman want us to hold off till tomorrow? It looks funny. You can’t tell what that guy will do.”

Dumain put in:

“He said something about zee defective.”

“Well, and what about that? He said he wanted time to call off his detective. What sense is there in that? I don’t see how it could make any difference when we tell him. It looks funny.”

“But what other motive could Sherman have?” Booth demanded.

Dougherty looked at him.

“You know a lot,” he observed contemptuously. “You know how wrong Sherman was to have us peach. Well, when he found out we wouldn’t, what if he decided to do it himself? And then, to give him time for action, he gets us to promise not to put Knowlton next till tomorrow.

“I don’t say that’s his game, but it looks suspicious. That guff about his detective is silly. He probably knew it himself, but he didn’t have time to think up a better reason.”

“Well,” put in Driscoll, “it’s easy enough to fix it. All you have to do is to see Knowlton today.”

“And the sooner the better,” said Jennings. “Beat Mr. Sherman at his own game, if that is his game.”

“I agree,” said little Dumain pompously.

Dougherty slid down from the billiard table on which he was sitting and glanced at his watch, saying:

“Ten minutes to twelve. I wonder if he’d be at home now.”

“Probably he’s in bed,” said Driscoll.

Dougherty appeared to consider.

“I’ll go right after lunch,” he said finally. “That’s settled.”

They wandered into the lobby, which by this time was pretty well filled. Dougherty and Jennings stopped in front of a racing bulletin and sighed for the good old days at Sheepshead Bay and Brighton; Driscoll strolled over to the leather lounge in the corner with a morning paper.

Dumain and Booth, joined a group at the cigar stand who were politely but firmly endeavoring to make the Venus admit that she had attempted to improve on nature in the matter of hair. She took it all in fun and good humor and kept them off with a flow of witty evasions. And, incidentally, they bought many cigars.

Driscoll, seated in the corner with his paper, was reading a certain article for the sixth time with an angry frown. The night before he had substituted for the leading man, who had suddenly been taken ill. And this article was not exactly complimentary to the substitute.

He told himself, also for the sixth time, that it was written by an idiot, a Philistine, a man who had no appreciation of true art. Then he threw down the paper, yawning, and glanced round the lobby.

Suddenly he sat bolt upright, staring in the direction of the telegraph desk. Then he looked round the lobby, saw Dougherty standing by the racing bulletin, and ran over to him.

“Look!” he said, laying one hand on Dougherty’s shoulder and pointing with the other.

The ex-prizefighter, turning and gazing in the direction indicated, saw Knowlton standing by Lila’s desk, helping her on with her coat.

“Now’s your chance,” said Driscoll.

When Knowlton heard his name called, and, turning, found Dougherty at his side, he uttered an involuntary exclamation of impatience, while Lila looked up in uneasy surprise.

She feared a scene, remembering what Dumain had said to her an hour or so before. But Dougherty seemed calm enough as he said:

“I want a word with you. Will you step aside a minute?”

Knowlton was inclined to refuse, and would have done so had the request come from any other than Dougherty.

After a moment of hesitation he excused himself to Lila, telling her he would return in a moment, and accompanied Dougherty over to the leather lounge in the corner.

The ex-prizefighter began with a recapitulation of the events of the preceding three months, while Knowlton restrained his impatience with difficulty.

They were seated side by side on the lounge. Across the lobby Lila was seen seated at her desk, drumming on it absently with her fingers. Driscoll and Jennings had joined Dumain and Booth at the cigar stand, and the four were pretending to talk, with occasional furtive glances of ill-concealed curiosity at the two men seated in the corner.

The lobby was full of men smoking and laughing and talking, oblivious of the fact that a near tragedy was being enacted scarcely a dozen feet away.

“And then,” Dougherty was saying, “we let you alone. It wasn’t my fault, but Dumain and Driscoll wouldn’t stand with us. Now they’ve got to. We’ve got you marked, and the game’s up.”

“What is it—another prize-ring entertainment?” asked Knowlton.

“No. I wish it was. I don’t like this thing any better than you do. It ain’t the right kind of a deal.”

Dougherty spoke slowly and with some hesitation as he continued:

“But I promised to stick, so here goes. It’s this way: you leave New York today and give us your word to let Miss Williams alone, or in you go. We’re on. You’re shoving the queer.”

Knowlton didn’t blink an eyelash. He sat gazing across the lobby at Lila’s profile in silence, without a sign even that he had heard. Then he turned his head and met Dougherty’s eyes, saying in an even tone:

“That’s pretty bad, Tom. Couldn’t you think up anything better? You’ve been having bad dreams.”

But Dougherty shook his head.

“It’s no use, Knowlton. We know. No matter how, but it ought to be enough to tell you that you shouldn’t have trusted Red Tim. We’ve got enough on you right now to hold you tight. The game’s up.”

Knowlton was regarding his companion keenly, and he saw the truth in his unwavering gaze and air of half commiseration. Subterfuge was useless. The game was up.

For a long minute he sat trying to collect his thoughts. Dougherty’s untroubled calmness, the careless attitude of Lila seated but a few feet away, the gaiety of the lobby, all combined to give the thing an appearance of triviality. He could hardly realize the fact that the earth was falling away under his feet.

He turned to Dougherty:

“All right, then. You’ve got it on me. But you can’t do this, Tom. It’s not like you. Do you mean to say you’d actually peach on me?”

“Perhaps not,” the ex-prizefighter admitted. “But I’m not the only one. There’s no use talking, you’re up against it, and the only way out is to beat it.

“It’s a dirty trick, and I don’t like it any better than you do, but the fact is I’m doing you a favor. The others all know about it, and they’re dead sore, and they’d do it anyway if I didn’t.”

Knowlton’s face was expressionless. His eyes stared straight into his companion’s, and they held no anger nor resentment nor appeal. But his hand held the arm of the lounge with a grip of steel and the muscles of his jaw were set tensely in his effort to control himself.

Dougherty continued to speak. He explained the conditions under which they would leave Knowlton unmolested—he must leave New York at once and give them his word not to communicate with Miss Williams. And the sooner he left the better, since there was one member of the gang who could not be trusted. It was unnecessary, said the ex-prizefighter, to mention his name.

In the end Knowlton agreed, observing calmly that he was at the end of his rope and had no alternative. In spite of his effort at control, a lifelessness and despair crept into his tone that made Dougherty curse the part he had played. Knowlton gave his promise not to see Lila and said that he would leave New York at once.

He finished:

“Of course, she will know. That’s the worst of it, Dougherty. I don’t hold any grudge against you; I suppose you couldn’t help it. But you were all blithering idiots to imagine that she could ever do anything wrong. She never did and never will.

“I was going to lunch with her today. When I think of—but that’s useless, I suppose if I wanted to see her—but I don’t want to. It would do no good.

“There’s a lot I could tell you, Dougherty, but that, too, would be useless. You’ve called the turn on me, and I certainly don’t intend to whine. Tell Dumain good-by; he was all right. He’s a good fellow, that little Frenchman.”

Knowlton rose to his feet.

“Is—is she waiting for you now?” stammered Dougherty, glancing across at Lila.

“Yes. When I’m gone, tell her not to wait any longer.”

Knowlton hesitated as though about to speak further, then, changing his mind, turned abruptly and without another word passed down the lobby and out into the street. As he passed the cigar stand he heard his name called. He recognized Dumain’s voice, but did not halt.

On the sidewalk he stopped and glanced to either side as though undecided which way to turn. Then he started at a rapid stride uptown.

His mind was still a chaos of mingled thoughts. Curiously enough, he felt little surprise.

“I am paying,” he kept muttering to himself over and over. “I am paying.”

For two hours he walked the streets, unconscious of direction or surroundings, his brain in a turmoil of regret and despair.

Rarely had he so given way to his emotions, but fate had struck him a blow that left him weak and helpless in their grasp. He called it fate. So do we all.

At the end of the two hours he found himself far uptown, on the Drive. It was a clear, crisp February day. Up from the Hudson came a damp, chilling breeze, with the faintest subtle suggestion of the spring about to come; it brought with it the shrieks of tugs and the more resonant calls of ferryboats. Above the factories and piers across the river slanted the descending sun, disclosing the melancholy barrenness of the slope below the Drive.

Knowlton faced about suddenly and retraced his steps downtown. He was fighting the hardest of all fights, and he had had no time for preparation.

He tried to clear his brain of feeling, to think connectedly; he caught himself trying to conduct a mental operation in mathematics in order to prove to himself that he could think, and he laughed aloud. That was a good sign, he told himself: he could still laugh.

He found himself, without knowing how he had come there, at the entrance of the house on Thirtieth Street. He looked at the door for a moment irresolutely, then entered and mounted the stairs to his rooms on the second floor.

He glanced at a little bronze clock on the mantel; it was half past four. His train for the West was to leave Grand Central Station at seven-thirty.

He sat down on a chair by the window, trying once more to collect his thoughts, but in vain. One picture filled his brain to the exclusion of all else.