Her Forbidden Knight (3 page)

Here it was, at about two o’clock in the afternoon, that Driscoll, Sherman, and Dougherty were seated, discoursing amiably.

Sherman, a tall, dark man, with a general air of assertiveness, was explaining the deficiencies and general inutility of the New York press.

The door opened; Dumain approached. At his side was a stranger, whom he introduced to the others as Mr. Knowlton.

“I believe I’ve met Mr. Knowlton before,” said Sherman, extending a hand.

“You have the advantage of me,” said the newcomer politely.

Sherman was silent, but gazed at him curiously as he turned to Driscoll.

They conversed. Knowlton appeared to be educated, well informed, and a good fellow. He also possessed an indefinable air of good breeding—lacking in the others.

Driscoll proposed a game of billiards.

“You’re on,” the others agreed.

“As for me,” said Knowlton. “I’ll be with you in a minute. Want to send a telegram.”

They nodded and proceeded to the billiard room, while Knowlton approached Lila’s desk.

Lila was reading a book, and handed him a pad of blanks absently, without looking up; and when he pushed the telegram across the counter she took it and counted the words, still without looking at him. It was signed “John Knowlton.”

“Eighty cents, please,” said Lila.

As she raised her head and met the eyes of the stranger she was conscious of a distinct and undeniable shock.

Why, she could not have told. There was nothing alarming in the young man’s appearance; he had a very ordinary face and figure, though the former was marked by an unusually genial and pleasing pair of gray eyes, and bore an expression of uncommon frank good nature. Lila, feeling that she was staring at him, flushed and turned aside, and the gray eyes twinkled with an amused smile as their owner took a ten-dollar bill from his wallet and held it out to her.

“Is this the smallest you have?” asked Lila, opening the cash drawer.

“I believe it is,” said Knowlton. “Sorry; but you see, being a millionaire, I never care to be bothered with anything smaller. Can you make it?”

Lila examined the contents of the drawer.

“If you’ll take some silver.”

“Anything,” Knowlton smiled.

Lila handed him his change.

“You will send it at once?” asked Knowlton.

She nodded. Knowlton appeared to be in no hurry to leave.

“I suppose that since my business is over I should make my bow and depart,” he said finally. “But I like to talk and I hate billiards.”

“Then why do you play?” Lila asked.

“Why? Oh, why do we do anything? I suppose merely to kill time.”

“But that is wrong. A man ought to do something—something worth while. He should never want to kill time, but to use it.”

“A sermon?” Knowlton smiled.

“I beg your pardon,” said Lila, coloring.

“But I was joking.”

“I know—of course—and it was very silly of me. Only I do believe that what I said is true. I have always wished to be a man.”

“Motion denied,” said Knowlton.

“And that means?”

“That it is impossible. That is to say, my guess is that you are thoroughly a woman. Am I right?”

“Do I look so old?”

“Oh, I didn’t mean that! Then we’ll say girl. You are—let’s see—nineteen.”

“Twenty,” Lila declared.

“Well, that leaves one for safety. It really wasn’t a bad guess. It’s always best to—”

“Are you coming, Knowlton?” came a voice.

Billy Sherman was standing in the hall leading to the billiard room, regarding them with a sinister frown.

“Right away,” Knowlton answered. “Didn’t know you were waiting.”

He lifted his hat to Lila and joined Sherman. The two disappeared within.

Lila began humming a tune softly under her breath. She picked up her book and turned to the page she had marked, then suddenly let it fall to the desk, gasping with amazement. She had been conversing familiarly, even intimately, with a man she had never before seen—an utter stranger! And at first she had not even realized it! What had she been thinking of? It was incredible.

“Of course,” she thought, “there was really nothing wrong about it. I suppose I am silly. And yet—how did it happen? He is certainly different from other men. And, oh, what will he think of me? I hope he will understand that I don’t talk to everybody.”

Again she picked up the book and tried to read, but the printed words were blurred and meaningless to her eyes. She was saying to herself over and over: “I wonder what he is thinking of me?”

The truth is, that just at that moment Knowlton was not only thinking of her, but was also talking about her.

On entering the billiard room with Sherman he had found the others waiting. Two or three other games were in progress, and the room was filled with men and smoke, the clicking of balls, and the clinking of glasses. Dumain was sitting on a billiard table to preserve their claim to its use.

“Come on!” called Dougherty; “get a cue!”

Knowlton took one from a rack, tested its weight, and chalked it.

“How do we play?” he asked.

“You and Dougherty, Dumain and I,” said Driscoll. “Sherman’s out.”

The game proceeded. They had run through the first frame and begun on the second before Knowlton found opportunity to put his question.

“Who is she?” he said to Dougherty.

Dougherty stared at him.

“Who?”

“The girl at the telegraph desk.”

“None of your business,” said the ex-prizefighter.

“Why,” said Knowlton, surprised at his bruskness, “I meant no offense, I’m sure.”

“That’s all right,” said Dougherty, “but we don’t allow anybody to talk about Miss Williams who doesn’t know her. Perhaps you’ll have that honor—some day.”

“Your shot, Knowlton!” called Driscoll.

Knowlton made a try at a cushion-carrom and missed badly. Dumain, who followed, nursed the balls into a corner and seemed in for a run.

“So her name is Miss Williams?” said Knowlton, returning to Dougherty.

Dougherty turned on him sharply.

“See here,” he said, “I told you not to talk about her.”

“Who’s talking about her? I merely asked her name. Is that an insult?”

“Perhaps not,” Dougherty admitted. “But it’s too familiar. And I don’t like your tone.”

Knowlton assured him that if he read anything but the deepest respect in his tone he was mistaken. This somewhat mollified Dougherty, and he ended by reciting the tale of the Erring Knights.

“I fancied it was something like that,” said Knowlton when he had finished. “And she appears to be all you say she is. But it is really rather amusing. A Broadway gang acting chaperon for a pretty girl! Who would believe it?”

“It’s the hardest job I ever had,” said Dougherty. “See this nose? I got that from a guy that was making eyes at her just the other day—Driscoll yonder. He’s one of us now.”

“And how may one be elected a member of this club?”

“Nothing doing. We’re full up.”

“But I want to join. Really—I’m serious about it. To tell the truth”—Knowlton hesitated—“it’s been such a deuce of a time since I’ve done anything really decent that the idea appeals to me. How about it?”

“Oh, stick round if you want to,” said Dougherty. “If you feel that way about it, I have no objections. And anytime you want to know—”

“Your shot, Dougherty,” called Dumain. “I just ran thirty-two. Zat win zee game. You haven’t got a chance.”

And they hadn’t. Driscoll completed the frame in the next inning, and the game was ended.

“Enough!” said Dougherty. “Dumain ought to be ashamed of himself. He’s a blooming professional. It’s time to eat, anyway. Come on.”

The others trooped out in a body, while Knowlton remained behind to pay for the game. He had just pocketed his change and was turning to follow, when he heard his name called. At his elbow was Billy Sherman, who had remained seated in a corner while the others were playing.

“Did you call me?” asked Knowlton.

“Yes,” said Sherman. “I want a word with you—alone.”

His eyes glittered with hostility and with a certain air of command as he turned to leave the room with a gesture to Knowlton to follow.

Knowlton appeared surprised, but obeyed with a shrug of the shoulders. “Another of Miss Williams’s chaperons,” he thought. “Jove, they’re worse than a pack of women!”

Sherman led the way down the hall, round a corner, and into a small room containing a table or two, some chairs, and a sofa—evidently a private parlor. When Knowlton had followed him inside he locked the door. Then, motioning Knowlton to a chair, he stood before him with his hands in his pockets, looking down on him with an insolent leer.

But Knowlton refused to be impressed. “This air of mystery appeals to me,” he smiled. “Is it murder or merely a sermon? Now that you have aroused my expectations, I shall expect you to satisfy them.”

Sherman, disregarding him, came directly to the point. “You were talking with Miss Williams,” he said abruptly.

Knowlton, with a smile of amusement, admitted it.

“Well, you’ll have to cut it,” said Sherman calmly.

“But why?”

“No questions. I say cut it.”

“Mr. Sherman”—Knowlton’s voice remained calm—“you are impudent. This thing is no longer amusing. It is decidedly tiresome. I shall talk to whomever I please.”

Sherman nodded.

“I expected you to say that. Very well. In that case, I have a story to tell you.” He leaned forward, and continued in a tone of sneering insult: “I lived for ten years in a little town called Warton. Does that interest you?”

Knowlton turned suddenly pale, and appeared to control himself with an effort.

“Well?” he said finally.

“Well,” repeated Sherman, with a smile of satisfaction at having touched his man, “isn’t that enough? If it isn’t, listen to this. You don’t need to talk; I’ll spare you the trouble.

“In the first place, there’s the Warton National Bank. I know they’re done with you; but it shows I know what I’m talking about.

“I know why you left Warton. I know why you came to New York, and I know who brought you. I know why you call yourself John Knowlton instead of—you know what. I know why you choose a new hangout every week, and I know where you get the coin. Is that enough?”

“I haven’t the slightest idea what you are driving at,” said Knowlton, with a light laugh. If it was acting, it was cleverly done. “I do come from Warton, and my name is not John Knowlton; but anybody is welcome to that information. As for the rest—is it a puzzle?”

Sherman grinned.

“You do it very well,” he admitted. “But it’s no go. I’m on. That’s what I know. Now, here’s what I want:

“Today I saw you talking to Miss Williams; and, frankly, I don’t like the way she looked at you. These other guys are dubs. They don’t bother me. They can buy roses forever if they want to. But that little Williams girl looks good to me, and it’s me for her.

“If I can’t get her one way, I’ll take her another. But I’ll get her. As I said, these other guys don’t count. But you do. I don’t like the way she looked at you. And it’s your move.”

“You mean?”

“I mean just this—beat it.”

“And if I don’t?”

“The cops.”

Knowlton rose to his feet, smiling.

“Stand away,” he said pleasantly. Sherman, unsuspecting and wondering a little at the request, obeyed it.

Then, like a leaping flame, Knowlton’s fist shot forth straight from the shoulder. With terrific force it caught Sherman full in the face. He staggered, fell against a table, then dropped to the floor in a heap.

Knowlton, with the light of battle in his eyes, stood above him with clenched fists. Then, without a word, he turned, unlocked the door, and disappeared into the hall.

Sherman sat up, lifted his hand gingerly to his face, and let out a volley of curses.

“Well,” he muttered, “I made a bad guess. And yet—I can’t be wrong. He’s crooked and I’ll get him. And when I do I’ll pay him for this.”

He rose to his feet painfully and made his way unobserved to the street.

O
N THE FOLLOWING MORNING
K
NOWLTON WAS
formally enrolled as a member of the Erring Knights. “The qualifications,” said Tom Dougherty, “are a good pair of biceps and a boundless esteem for Miss Lila Williams. The dues are two dozen roses each week. A fresh bouquet every morning. Your day will be Saturday.”

Dumain was really not quite easy about it. He himself had introduced Knowlton to the Lamartine, and he knew nothing whatever about him, having picked him up in a Broadway café by accident. But, as was quite right for a palmist and clairvoyant, he trusted to Providence for justification of his action.

From that day forth Knowlton took his place and held it. In spite of his superior education and breeding, he seemed exactly to fit, and within a week had earned quite a reputation as a good fellow. He always had money, and leisure and willingness to spend it.

Nothing came of the encounter with Sherman. A day or two afterward they had met in the billiard room. Dumain and Knowlton were playing.

“Take a cue, Sherman?” Dumain had said.

“If Knowlton doesn’t object,” Sherman replied.

“Not I,” laughed Knowlton. “You can’t bluff in billiards, you know. It’s either hit or miss.”

The significance of this remark was not lost on Sherman.

No one knew anything of the nature of Knowlton’s occupation, or even if he had any. He was in the Lamartine at all hours of the day, and he always had leisure to perform any favor or meet any engagement.

He had one habit that aroused some comment. Two or three times each week he sent a telegram at Lila’s desk. It always bore the same address.

Laughingly alluding to their first meeting, he always insisted on paying with a ten-dollar bill, and the state of Lila’s cash drawer became a standing joke between them. Lila wondered a little about the mysterious telegrams; in fact, she wondered about everything connected with him—and knew nothing.

She even wondered why she was interested in him; why she looked forward to the sight of his face and the sound of his voice. For her innocence was that of inexperience and ignorance—the purest if not the best. It led her into a score of charming deceptions, of which, however, she herself was always the victim.