Blindfolded Part 40

"I _was_ a little to blame," I admitted, "but your warning was not thrown away. I thought I was well-guarded."

Mother Borton sniffed contemptuously.

"I s'pose you come down here alone?"

"No." And I explained the disposition of my forces.

"That's not so bad," she said. "They could git up here soon enough, I reckon, if there was a row. But I guess you didn't think I sent for ye jest to tell ye you was a fool in Chinatown."

I admitted that I should have expected to wait till morning for such a piece of information.

"Well," said Mother Borton, "that ain't it. Something's up."

"And what might it be?" I inquired. "The moon?"

Mother Borton did not take this flippancy kindly. Her face grew darker and more evil as it was framed in the dancing shadows behind her.

"You can git a knife in ye as easy as winking if I'll jest keep my mouth shut," she cried spitefully.

"Yes," said I repentantly, putting my hand upon her arm. "But you are my very good friend, and will tell me what I ought to know."

The creature's face lighted at my tone and action, and her eyes melted with a new feeling.

"That I will," she said; "that I will, as if you were my own boy."

She seized my hand and held it as she spoke, and looked intently, almost lovingly, on my face. Elsewhere I could have s.h.i.+vered at the thought of her touch. Here, with the bent figure amid the gloomy shadows of the den in which we sat, with the atmosphere of danger heavy about us, I was moved by a glow of kindly feeling.

"I was a-listening to 'em," she continued in a low, earnest tone, glancing around fearfully as if she had the thought that some one else might be listening in turn. "I was a-listening, an' I heerd what they says."

"Who said?" I inquired.

"The ones you knows on," she returned mysteriously.

"What ones?" I persisted, though I supposed she meant to indicate some of my energetic enemies.

Mother Borton paid no attention to my question, and continued:

"I knowed they was a-talking about you, an' they says they would cut your liver out if they found ye there."

"And where is there?" I asked with growing interest.

"That's what I was listening to find out," said Mother Borton. "I couldn't hear much of what they says, but I hears enough to git an idee."

"Well?" I said inquiringly as she hesitated.

She bent forward and hissed rather than whispered:

"They've found out where the boy is!"

"Are you certain?" I asked in sudden alarm.

"Pretty sure," she said, "pretty sure. Now you won't go near the place, will ye, dearie?" she continued anxiously.

"You forget that I haven't the first idea where the boy is hidden," I returned.

"Oh, Lord, yes! I reckon my mind's going," grunted Mother Borton. "But I'm afeard of their knives for ye."

"I wish I could give warning," said I, much disturbed by the information. "The protector of the boy ought to know about this. I'm afraid I have done wrong."

Mother Borton looked at me fixedly.

"Don't you worry, my dear. She'll know about it all right."

Again the feeling stole over me that this woman knew more than she told.

But I knew that it was useless to question her directly. I considered a moment, and then decided to trust her with a secret which might surprise her into admitting her knowledge.

"I suspect that she knows already. I got a note to-night," said I, drawing from my pocket the envelope I had received from the Unknown.

Mother Borton seized it, looked for a moment at the firm, delicate hand of the address, and drew out the sheet that it inclosed.

"Read it, dearie," she said, handing it back after a scrutiny. "I can't tell anything but big print."

I suspected that Mother Borton was trying to deceive me, but I repeated the words of the note:

"Send six men to 8 o'clock boat. Come with one in hack to courtyard of the Palace Hotel at 7:40."

Mother Borton's face changed not a whit at the reading, but at the end she nodded. "She knows," she said.

"What does it mean?" I asked. "What is to happen?"

"Don't go, dearie--you won't go, will you?"

"Yes," I said. "I must go."

"Oh," she wailed; "you may be killed. You may never come back."

"Nonsense," said I. "In broad daylight, at the Palace Hotel? I'm much more likely to be killed before I get home to-night."

Her earnestness impressed me, but my resolution was not shaken. Mother Borton rested her head on the table in despair at my obstinacy.

"Well, if you will, you will," she said at last; "and an old woman's warnings are nothing to you. But if you will put your head in the traps, I'll do my best to make it safe after you git it there. You jist sit still, honey." And she took the candle and went to a corner where she seated herself at a stand.

Her shadow grew very large, and her straggling locks sent streamers of blackness dancing on the grimy ceiling. The weird figure, thrown into bold relief by the candle-lighted wall beyond it while all else was in obscurity, gave an uncanny feeling that turned half to dread as I looked upon her. What secret did she hold? What was the danger she feared?

Mother Borton appeared to have some difficulty in arranging her words to her liking. She seemed to be writing, but the pen did not flow smoothly.

At last she was done, and, sealing her work in an envelope, she brought the flickering light once more to the table.

"Take that," she said, thrusting the envelope into my hand. "If you find a one-eyed man when you git into trouble, give him that letter I've writ ye, and it may do ye some good. It's the best I can do fer ye. You'd better go now and git some sleep. You may need it."