Her Forbidden Knight

Chapter X The End of the Rope

Sherman 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.

Remorse, which comes only after suffering, had not yet touched him; he knew only that his every sense, his very reason, had been dulled and obscured by an all-pervading pain.

But if he could not think, he could act, he told himself. As to the course to be followed he had no choice. He had promised Dougherty that he would leave New York, and since his future was decided by that promise there was really no necessity for thought.

He pulled his trunk to the middle of the floor and began to pack, throwing in suits and shirts indiscriminately. From a shelf in the wardrobe he took a package wrapped in brown paper, about a foot square, and stood for some minutes regarding it uncertainly.

“That won’t do,” he muttered, glancing at the fireplace, long disused, “and I don’t dare take it to the furnace.” Then, still undecided and placing the package on a table, he resumed his packing.

Finally the trunk was filled and there remained only to place his toilet articles and a change of linen in his suitcase, together with the contents of a lower drawer in the wardrobe. These items were somewhat curious.

There was a small white glove, two tiny handkerchiefs, a dozen or more letters, two photographs, and several books. These he wrapped carefully and placed in the suitcase, with the exception of one of the books and a photograph.

Glancing at his watch, he saw that it was six o’clock. The cab which he had ordered would arrive in three-quarters of an hour.

The early winter night had long since fallen; the room was dark. He sat down on the trunk to wait.

In the meantime Lila had spent a long and weary afternoon at her desk in the Lamartine.

When she had seen Knowlton, after he had left her for a moment to speak with Dougherty, turn and leave the lobby without so much as looking in her direction, she had been overcome with amazement.

That he, of all men, should be thus openly discourteous, was unbelievable. Well, she thought, of course he would soon return, and when they were at lunch together—

But as the minutes passed by with no sign of his return she grew uneasy. Was it possible he had forgotten his engagement with her? For that he could have deliberately disregarded it was impossible.

Could his conversation with Dougherty have had anything to do with it? She wondered what the ex-prizefighter had said to him; for she knew that Knowlton had scorned the threats of the Erring Knights.

The minutes flew; a half-hour passed. She told herself that she would wait five minutes more, and then if he had not come, go without him. The five minutes passed, it seemed, as so many seconds; she decided to wait five more. She was glad that Dougherty was not to be seen; she knew that she would have been unable to refrain from asking him to explain.

At one o’clock she forced herself to go.

When she returned from lunch she half expected to find Knowlton in the lobby, and, not seeing him, she burned to ask Miss Hughes or the hotel clerk if he had been there. But she could not bring herself to it, and she proceeded to her desk with a heavy heart.

She was mortified and half angry; but above all, she was uneasy. She told herself that Knowlton would never have thus humiliated her but for some cogent and powerful reason, and she could imagine none, unless—

When Dougherty entered the lobby and joined Dumain and Driscoll in the corner Lila kept herself from calling to him only by an extreme exertion of the will. And, after all, she thought, it might all amount to a mere nothing that could easily be explained and forgiven by a word.

The afternoon dragged slowly by.

You may be sure Dougherty had lost no time in telling the others of his success with Knowlton. They were in high glee.

“But weel he keep zee promise about Mees Williams?” said Dumain.

“As well as you would, my friend.” Dougherty was in ill humor. “I’d like to hear you ask him that.”

“And now, thank the Lord, we’re rid of him,” said Driscoll in a tone of finality.

It voiced the general feeling and it was supposed to be Knowlton’s epitaph.

They wandered into the billiard room — it was the middle of the afternoon — and began a four-handed game; Driscoll and Booth against Jennings and Dougherty.

Sherman had not been seen since he had left earlier in the day. Dumain, barred from the game on account of his superior skill, took a chair nearby and after each miss explained to the player how easy the shot would have been for him.

But Dumain’s mind was only half on the billiard game.

With all due respect to a great people, the fact remains that Frenchmen are as a rule “gabby” little fellows, and Dumain was a true son of his country. They can talk about anything, and at all times with pleasure, and when they really have something to say and somebody to say it to, silence becomes for them a positive pain.

Thus it was that Dumain squirmed in his chair.

Not fifty feet away Lila was seated at her desk, and how he longed to tell her of Knowlton!

The reason he did not run to her at once with the news may be summed up in one word: Dougherty. He knew that the ex-prizefighter would not approve, and he was half afraid of him. Dumain was a little man.

The billiard game lasted until five o’clock, when Booth suddenly ended it by announcing that he had to see a customer and departed in haste.

“That’s what comes of having a job,” said Dougherty in disgust, as they wandered into the lobby. “How anybody can be a typewriter salesman I don’t understand. Why can’t he live like a gentleman?”

This seemed to be an unanswerable question, as no one responded. They strolled up and down the lobby, then over to the leather lounge and loafed and smoked like gentlemen. Dumain kept one eye — an eye of impatience — on Lila.

At a quarter to six Jennings and Driscoll rose and announced that it was time for them to depart. They were due at the theater at seven-thirty, and they had yet to dine.

“Where are you going?” Dougherty demanded.

They replied that they intended to eat at Tony’s and invited him and Dumain to accompany them.

“Eet ees too early for me,” said the little Frenchman.

Dougherty hesitated, giving the matter due consideration, and finally decided to accept. They left Dumain alone in the corner. He watched them through the window till they had disappeared up Broadway, then turned quickly. Now was his chance.

Lila, with her hat and coat on, was arranging her desk, preparing to go home. At Dumain’s approach she looked up quickly. Her face wore a tired and listless expression that caused the little Frenchman to hesitate. But only for a moment; then he said:

“So your friend deed not even stop to say good-by! You see I was right about heem. Of course you could not know — but when we told you! And now you see.”

Lila looked at him.

“What are you talking about?” she said shortly.

Dumain was undisturbed:

“I mean zat Knowlton — you know eet. Bah! Deed you not see heem run like a dog wiz hees tail between hees feet? Do you know why? We found out about heem. He ees what you call eet a counterfeiter. And when we tell heem he runs.”

Lila had clenched her fists on the desk before her and was leaning on them heavily.

“That is not true,” she said calmly.

Ignoring her, Dumain went on:

“We made heem to leave New York today. Most probable he ees already gone. Perhaps now you will admit I know something when I tol’ you two, three months ago about zis Knowlton? Bah! You were veree angry. You said I am impertinent.” He nodded his head sagely: “I am wise.”

Lila’s face was very white. But her voice, though little above a whisper, was fairly under control as she said:

“You say Mr. Knowlton is going away?”

Dumain said “Yes,” while his eyes gleamed with satisfaction at the impression he was making.

“Has he gone?”

Dumain supposed so, but wasn’t sure.

Lila straightened herself firmly and a new light appeared in her eyes, of resolve, while she calmly buttoned her coat.

“I thought you ought to know about eet,” said Dumain a trifle lamely.

Lila appeared to be little moved. She made no comment on Dumain’s observation, but thanked him and turned to go, leaving him staring at her in profound amazement.

“Zee devil!” he ejaculated, snapping his fingers. “She cares not zat much!”

But once outside the lobby Lila’s courage forsook her. She grasped at a railing and seemed about to fall.

Then, pressing her lips together tightly and forcing back the tears that sought to blind her, she started up Broadway at a walk that was almost a run. She stopped suddenly. Should she call a cab? But, no, she felt it would be impossible to sit still. Again she started forward.

Darkness had fallen nearly an hour before, and the yellow glare of Broadway lighted her steps. The lull following the close of business and preceding the theater hour was evidenced by the quietness of the street; and the few pedestrians to be seen were hurrying to get home to a late dinner.

But Lila was aware of nothing save a fearful anxiety. Would she be too late? Would she find him gone — forever?

This thought occupied her brain to the exclusion of all else. She did not consider whether Dumain had spoken the truth, nor why she was going, nor what she would do: nor was she conscious of any feeling, one way or the other, concerning the revelation that the man she loved was a criminal. She only knew that she must see him.

At Thirtieth Street she turned westward. In another ten minutes of breathless, rapid steps she found herself at the address to which she had sent his letters.

She ascended the stoop and searched on the letterboxes for his name. There it was — the second on the left — John Knowlton.

For a moment she hesitated, half conscious for the first time of the recklessness and immodesty of what she was doing.

Then she pressed the bell button firmly.