Her Forbidden Knight (5 page)

Dumain appeared to be lost in thought.

“But what can we do?” he said finally.

“The same as we’ve done to a dozen others.”

“But zis Knowlton—he is no coward.”

“There are six of us,” said Sherman meaningly.

Dumain rose from his chair with a gesture of decision.

“I speak to Dougherty and Driscoll,” he said as he turned to go.

Sherman watched him cross the lobby.

“The little idiot!” he muttered contemptuously. Then he turned his eyes toward Lila’s desk.

As he gazed at her his face burned with desire and his eyes glittered like the eyes of the serpent. Slowly they filled with evil exultation. Then, subduing this outward betrayal of his thoughts, he crossed to her desk, halted uncertainly, and finally reached for a telegram blank.

“You have decided to give me some of your patronage?” Lila smiled.

“Yes,” Sherman replied. “Only it won’t be in code.”

A tinge of color appeared in Lila’s cheeks, and a pang of jealousy that stung Sherman’s heart made him regret the observation. He placed the telegram blank on the top of the desk and after a minute’s thought wrote on it as follows:

MR. GERALD HAMILTON,

President of the Warton National

Bank, Warton, Ohio.

In case you wish to find John Norton, try the Hotel Lamartine, New York.

W. S.

Lila smiled as she read it.

“You newspaper men are so mysterious,” she observed. Then suddenly she turned slightly pale and glanced up quickly.

“She’s noticed the similarity in the names,” thought Sherman.

“Why?” he said aloud. “Is there anything so mysterious about that?”

“It sounds like a missing heir or a—an embezzler,” said Lila.

“I’m sorry I can’t enlighten you.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t expect you to. I suppose you’re full of important and terrible secrets.”

“Perhaps.” Sherman hesitated a moment, then added: “But there’s only one that I regard as important.”

Lila was silent.

“It is about you,” Sherman continued.

“About me?” Lila’s tone was incredulous.

“About you,” Sherman repeated. His tone was low and significant as he added, “and me.”

His meaning was too clear to admit of any pretense that it was not understood. For a moment Lila’s face was lowered, then she raised it and said firmly: “Mr. Sherman, I do not wish you to talk to me—like—that.”

“I can’t help it. You know it, anyway. I love you.” Sherman’s voice trembled with desire.

“Must I tell you that you annoy me?” she said, rising to her feet.

Sherman lost control of himself.

“You wouldn’t say that to Mr. John Knowlton,” he sneered. “And the time will come when you can’t say it to me. I want you. Look at me. Do I look like a man who wouldn’t take what he wants? You will—you must be mine.”

The unexpectedness of it caused Lila’s face to turn a fiery red. Then she as suddenly became pale. For a moment neither spoke. They had no words; for Sherman had no sooner spoken than he regretted the rashness of his premature avowal. Lila was the first to recover herself.

“Mr. Sherman,” she said calmly, “if you ever speak to me in this way again I shall tell Mr. Dougherty and Mr. Driscoll that you are annoying me. Now go.”

And Sherman went.

D
UMAIN PONDERED LONG OVER THE INFORMATION
Sherman had given him concerning Knowlton before he decided to act on it.

The fact is that Dumain was strongly opposed to the revealing of a man’s past. He may have had a personal reason for this; but let us be charitable. Broadway is not the only place in the world where they act on the belief that a man’s past is his own and should not be held against him.

Besides, Sherman had admitted that Knowlton had merely been suspected. There had been no evidence; he had been allowed to go free. And Dumain was not inclined to strike a blow at an innocent man who suffered under the blasting stigma of an unproved accusation.

Still, there was Lila. She must be protected at any cost. And had not Dumain himself noticed her interest in Knowlton? What if she really loved him?

And what if Knowlton was the sort of man Sherman had declared him to be? Clearly it meant Lila’s ruin. For it is the belief of all Broadway cynics that any woman will do anything for the man she loves. So, early the next morning (that is, early for him), Dumain made his decision on the side of prudence.

He spoke first to Dougherty. The ex-prizefighter was greatly surprised.

“I like Knowlton,” he said, “and I believe you’re wrong to suspect him. But you know what I think of Miss Williams; and where she’s concerned we can’t leave any room for doubt. Knowlton must be informed that he is absolutely not wanted.”

“Zat ees zee way eet looks to me,” said Dumain.

He had met Dougherty on Broadway, and as they talked they strolled to the hotel and entered the lobby. The hotel clerk threw them a familiar nod. Miss Hughes sang out a cheery “Good morning,” and Lila smiled pleasantly as they passed her desk. Except for two or three strangers, probably commercial buyers, reading their morning newspapers, the place was empty.

“Sure,” said Dougherty, continuing. “When are you going to tell him?”

Dumain looked aghast.

“Tom! Surely you don’t expect me to tell heem?”

“Why not?”

“What! How could I? Here are zee facts: Knowlton weighs one hundred and eighty pounds. I weigh a hundred and twentee. It would be absurd. I don’t think I am a coward; but I would like to leeve anozzer year or two.”

Dougherty laughed.

“All right. Leave it to me. I’ll tell him. It’s too bad,” he added regretfully. “I liked Knowlton.”

A few minutes later Knowlton entered the lobby. He walked straight to Lila’s desk and wrote out a telegram. Dumain and Dougherty, who were only a few feet away, overheard the conversation.

“You’re early this morning,” said Lila, as Knowlton handed her a bill from a bulging wallet.

Knowlton glanced at his watch.

“Early? It’s past eleven.”

“I know. But that’s early for you.”

“Perhaps. A little,” Knowlton admitted. “And how are you this fine wintry morning?”

“Well, thank you,” Lila smiled.

Knowlton turned away.

“In the name of Heaven, is there anything wrong with that?” Dougherty growled.

“No,” Dumain admitted. “But zee die is cast. Never retract a deleeberate decision. There’s your man; go after heem.”

The ex-prizefighter started across the lobby. Knowlton turned.

“Hello, Tom!”

“Good morning,” said Dougherty, visibly ill at ease.

“Are you on for a game of billiards?”

“No,” Dougherty hesitated. “The fact is, Knowlton, there’s something I have to say to you.”

“Is it much?” Knowlton smiled.

“It’s enough.”

“Then come over to the corner. It’s more comfortable. Hello, Dumain. How’s the world?” Knowlton continued chattering as they walked to the leather lounge sacred to the Erring Knights. Then he produced some cigars, offering one to Dougherty.

“No, thanks,” said Dougherty stiffly.

“What! Won’t take a cigar? What’s happened?”

Dougherty coughed and cleared his throat.

“Well,” he stammered, “the truth is we—that is, they—they think you ought to go—that is, leave—Oh, darn it all!”

“Easy, Tom,” said Knowlton. “Give it to me a word at a time.”

Dougherty recommenced his stammering, but a word here and there gave Knowlton an idea of what he was trying to say.

“I believe,” he interrupted, “you are trying to tell me that I have become
persona non grata.
In other words, the Erring Knights have seen fit to expel their youngest member.”

“Right,” said Dougherty, inexpressibly relieved. “If I could have said it like that I would have had no trouble.”

Knowlton cut off the end of a cigar and lit it.

“And now,” he said between puffs, “what is it—
puff
—you want?”

“That’s not the question. It’s what we don’t want.”

“All right.” Knowlton waved aside the distinction. “Go on.”

“In the first place,” Dougherty began, “there’s Miss Williams.”

“I see her,” said Knowlton gravely. “She’s sending a telegram. Probably mine. See how the light plays on her hair? Well, what about her?”

“You are not to go near her,” said Dougherty with emphasis.

“Ever?”

“Never.”

Knowlton blew a cloud of smoke toward the ceiling.

“I see. And what else?”

“You are to stay away from the Lamartine.”

“M-m-m. Anything else?”

“That is all.”

Knowlton rose, walked to a cuspidor and knocked the ashes from his cigar, then returned to his seat. For another minute he smoked in silence.

“And if I refuse?” he said finally.

“There are six of us,” said Dougherty with meaning.

“Then, if I enter the doors of the Lamartine I displease the Erring Knights?”

“You do.”

“In that case,” Knowlton again rose, “I have to announce that in the future the Erring Knights will be displeased on an average of fourteen times a week. It pains me to cause my old friends so much displeasure, but you leave me no choice.” He hesitated a moment, then added: “You should have known better than to try to frighten me, Dougherty.” With that he walked away.

Dougherty saw him go to the cigar stand, relight his cigar, start toward Lila’s desk, suddenly change his direction, and leave the hotel by the Broadway door. Then the ex-prizefighter hurried over to Dumain.

“I told you so,” he said gloomily.

“What deed he say?” asked Dumain.

“Just what I said he’d say.”

“Well?” Dumain passed over the fact that Dougherty had said nothing whatever about it.

“He ignores us. He intends to do just as he pleases. We’re in for it.”

“It seems to me,” Dumain retorted, “eet would be better to say he’s in for it. We’ll have to show him we are not to be trifled wiz. Come on; I have zee idea.”

They seated themselves on the lounge in the corner and proceeded to a discussion of the plan of battle.

In the meantime Knowlton was striding swiftly toward his rooms on Thirtieth Street. His face wore a worried frown, and every now and then he glanced nervously to the rear. Occasionally, too, his lips parted in an amused smile; possibly whenever he thought of the quixotic chivalry of the Erring Knights.

The streets and sidewalks were covered with snow—the first of the season. Surface cars clanged noisily; voices sounded in the crisp, bracing air with the sharp clarity of bell tones; faces glowed with the healthful exhilaration of quickened steps and the rush of inward warmth to meet the frosty attack of old winter. The vigor of the north and the restlessness of the great city combined to supply the deficiencies of the November sun, ineffectual against the stern attack of his annual enemy.

Knowlton turned in at the same door on Thirtieth Street we have seen him enter before, and mounted the stairs to an apartment on the second floor.

Once inside he locked the door carefully behind him, then walked to a wardrobe in a corner of the adjoining room and took from it a small black bag. His hand trembled a little as he placed the bag on a table in the center of the room.

“My good friend,” he said aloud, “I am inclined to believe that they are trying to separate us. The little comedy just performed at the hotel must have resulted from the good offices of a certain Mr. Sherman.

“Now, the question is, shall I remain true to you or not? You must admit that you’re dangerous; still, I’m willing to give you another chance. We’ll leave it to fate. Heads you stay; tails you go.”

He took a coin from his vest pocket and flipped it high in the air. It struck the table, bounced off onto the floor and rolled halfway across the room.

Knowlton stooped over and looked at it curiously, picked it up and returned it to his pocket. Then he carried the bag back to the wardrobe and replaced it on the shelf.

As he turned and seated himself in a chair by the table, his face wore an expression of gravity and anxiety that belied the lightness of his tone and words.

To the most casual observer it would have been apparent that John Knowlton was approaching, or passing through, a crisis. But suddenly he smiled; sweetly, almost tenderly.

We follow his thought, and it brings us to the lobby of the Lamartine.

Besides the usual crowd of transient guests and midday idlers, we find the Erring Knights assembled in full force. Sherman and Booth, with two or three strangers, are conversing amiably with the Venus at the cigar stand, Driscoll and Jennings are at a game of billiards down the hall, and Dumain and Dougherty are completing their discussion of the ways and means of war. Lila is putting on her hat and coat to go to lunch.

Sherman detached himself from the group at the cigar stand and walked over to the lounge where Dumain and Dougherty were seated.

“Well?” he said significantly, stopping in front of them.

They looked up at him inquiringly.

“Knowlton didn’t show up yet,” he continued.

“Yes, he deed,” said the little Frenchman.

“What?”

“I say, he deed.”

“Then, where is he?”

“I don’t know.”

“Oh!” A light of evil satisfaction appeared in Sherman’s eyes. “Then you spoke to him?”

“Yes.”

“Then he’s gone.”

“So eet seems; but he’ll probably be back.”

“Ah! And what did he say?”

“In effect, he advised us to go to zee devil.”

Sherman seemed taken aback.

“But didn’t you tell him we’d get him?” he demanded.

But Dumain and Dougherty rose and went to join Driscoll and Jennings in the billiard room without answering him. Sherman’s face colored slightly, but he remained silent, gazing after them with a contemptuous sneer.

“My turn next,” he muttered after they had gone.

Within the next hour Dumain spoke to each of the Erring Knights concerning Knowlton; and he was somewhat surprised at the unanimity with which they favored his proposal. Driscoll was the only one who had a good word for Knowlton. But he was easily persuaded.