Blindfolded Part 39

I a.s.sured the stout little broker solemnly that Doddridge Knapp was to know nothing of my dealings.

"I'll do anything for a good customer like you," he gasped. "Lord, if it wasn't for the lying, where would the market be? Dead, sir, dead!" And Wallbridge shook his head merrily over the moral degradation of the business that chained his thoughts by day and his dreams by night.

I joined Doddridge Knapp at the office and confided to him the fact that the cat was out of the bag. The King of the Street looked a little amused at the announcement.

"Good Lord, Wilton! Where are your ears?" he said. "The Street had the whole story on Friday. Decker was sure of it on Wednesday. But I kept under cover long enough to get a good start, and that was as much as I expected."

"How do we stand now?" I asked. I knew that our purchases had not been progressing very well.

"There's five hundred shares to get," said the King of the Street thoughtfully; "five hundred and thirty-six, to be accurate."

"That's not a very promising outlook," I suggested, remembering that we had secured only four hundred shares in the whole day's struggle.

"Well, there'll be an earthquake in the Street if we don't get them, and maybe there'll be one if we do. Decker is likely to dump all his shares on the market the minute we win, and it will be the devil's own job to keep the bottom from falling out if he does."

The King of the Street then gave some brief directions.

"Now," he continued, "you are to be at the Exchange without fail, on Monday morning. I'll be there to give you your orders. Don't be one minute behind hand, or there may be Tophet to pay." And he emphasized his words with an impressive growl that showed the Wolf's fangs.

"I'll be on hand," I replied.

"Well, then, go," he growled; "and see that you come with a clear head on Monday. Keep your thirst until after the game is over."

A few hours later I was at the house of the Wolf, but I forgot to ask for Doddridge Knapp. Luella received me with apparent indifference that contrasted sharply with her parting, and I was piqued. Mrs. Knapp was gracious, and sailed between us before I had received a dozen words.

"Where are your spirits to-night?" she asked railingly. "Have you left them in lower Pine Street?"

"I have a heart for any fate," I returned lightly. "Am I too grave for the occasion?"

"You're always under orders to be cheerful," Luella broke in, "or at least to explain the reason why."

"He can't explain," retorted her mother. "Mr. Knapp won't let him."

It struck me, on watching mother and daughter, that it was they who were grave. Luella gave an occasional flash of brightness, but seemed tired or depressed, while Mrs. Knapp appeared to struggle against some insistent sorrow. But presently we found a subject in which Luella roused her interest, and her bright mind and ready wit drove away the fancy that had first a.s.sailed me. Then some caller claimed the attention of Mrs. Knapp, and I was content to monopolize Luella's conversation for the evening. At last I was constrained to go. Mrs. Knapp was still busied in conversation with her visitor, and Luella followed me once more into the hall.

Again her animation left her, and she was silent; and I, on my side, could think of nothing to say. Then her deep gray eyes flashed upon me a look that sent my pulses throbbing, an indefinable, pleading glance that shook my soul.

"Can't you tell me--won't you tell me?" she said in a low tone that was the complement of the silent speech of the eyes.

"I wish I could," I whispered.

"I know it must be right--it is right," she said in the same tone. "But I wish that I might know. Will you not tell me?"

"I will tell you some day," I said brokenly. "Now it is another's, and I can not. But it shall all be yours."

"All?"

"Everything."

In another moment I know not what I should have done, so stirred and tempted was I by her tone and look. But in an instant her manner changed, and she exclaimed in a mocking voice:

"Now I have your promise, so I'll let you go. You'd better not linger, or mama will certainly have some business to talk over with you." And before I could touch her hand she was gone, and her laughing "good night" echoed down the hall.

I was puzzled by these changes of mood, and decided that Luella Knapp was a most unaccountable young woman. And then there dashed over me a sickening realization of what I had done, of what I had promised, and of how impossible it was that I should ever reveal to her the secret I guarded. I cursed the mad folly and crime of her father, for they stood between her and me. Yet under the subtle influence that she cast upon me I felt the bonds of duty relaxed and slipping away. I had now to confess to myself that I loved Luella Knapp. And she? I hoped and feared, and ran over in my mind every incident of my later visits that might tell in what regard I was held--the tones, the words, the manner, that ran from deep interest to indifference. And trying to untangle the skein, I was a good deal startled to feel a touch on my arm as I reached the sidewalk.

"Oh, it's you, Porter, is it?" I exclaimed, on recognizing my retainer.

"Is Barkhouse here?"

"Yes, sir. An' here's Wilson with a message for you."

"A message for me! From whom?"

Wilson took me aside, and thrust an envelope into my hand.

"That come to your room--about nine o'clock, I reckon," he said.

"Leastways, that's the first we saw of it. An' Mother Borton was there, an' she says she must see you to-night, sure. She wouldn't stay, but says you was to come down there before you goes to bed, sure, if you wants to keep out of trouble."

I looked at the envelope, and in the flickering light from the street-lamp I could make out the address to Henry Wilton. By the handwriting and by the indefinable scent that rose from the paper, I knew it for a message from the Unknown who held for me the secrets of life and death.

CHAPTER XXI

AT THE BIDDING OF THE UNKNOWN

The windows of Borton's shone cheerfully, although it was past midnight.

At our cautious approach a signal was given, and with the answering word a man appeared from the obscurity.

"All safe?" I inquired.

"It's all right," said Barkhouse. "There's a dozen men in the bar-room, and I'm not sure there ain't some of the hounds amongst them. But you're to go in the side door, and right up stairs."

"Two of you may keep at the foot of the stairs, just inside the door," I said. "You may stand watch outside, Barkhouse."

There was sound of rude song, and the clink of gla.s.s and bottle in the bar and dining-room, as I pa.s.sed through the side hall. But the door was closed, and I saw nothing of the late revelers. In the upper hallway Mother Borton stood by an open door, silhouetted dark and threatening against the dim flickerings that came from the candle in the room behind her.

I had but opened my mouth to give her word of greeting when she raised a warning claw, and then seizing me, drew me swiftly into the room and closed and locked the door.

"How air ye, dearie?" she said, surveying me with some apparent pride.

"You're safe and whole, ain't ye?"

As the candlelight fell on her face, she seemed older and more like a bird of prey than ever. The nose and chin had taken a sharper cast, the lines of her face were deeper drawn with the marks of her evil life, and her breath was strong with the strength of water-front whisky. But her eyes burned bright and keen as ever in their sunken sockets, with the fire of her fevered brain behind them.

"I am safe," I said, "though I had a close shave in Chinatown."

"I heerd of it," said Mother Borton sourly. "I reckon it ain't much good to sit up nights to tell you how to take keer of yourself. It's a wonder you ever growed up. Your mammy must 'a' been mighty keerful about herdin' ye under cover whenever it rained."