The Gray Dawn Part 63

She smiled across at him. This sudden reversion to an easy every-day plane had brought Sansome's first mood again to the surface. In this atmosphere of orderly tete-a-tete he was again the society man. Nan breathed freer. He murmured something inane and conventional about Hebe.

"Meaning you're a little tin G.o.d?" she chaffed.

He said something still more involved, to the effect that her presence would make a G.o.d out of the most unworthy mortal. It was all vapid, unreal, elaborate, artificial.

"If I can only keep him at this!" thought she desperately.

She had drunk her gla.s.s of sherry because she felt she needed it. Now she poured another, and without comment, refilled Sansome's whiskey gla.s.s.

"Here's to us!" she cried, lifting her gla.s.s.

Nan's plan of getting him so drunk that he would not interfere with her escape had the merit of simplicity, and also of endors.e.m.e.nt by such excellent authority as melodrama and the novel. It had the defect of being entirely theoretical. Nan's innocence of the matter in hand had not taken into account the intermediate stages of drunkenness, nor did she realize the strength inherent in the a.s.sociation of ideas. As she leaned forward to fill the gla.s.ses, Sansome's eyes brightened. He had seen women pouring wine many times before. The picture before him reminded him of a dozen similar pictures taken from the gallery of his rather disreputable past. His elaborate complimentary mood vanished. He pledged her ardently, and deep in his eyes began to burn a secret covetous flame. Nan poured her, sherry under the table.

"This really is a cozy party!" she cried. "Will you have another with me?"

The third gla.s.s of neat whiskey whirled in Sansome's head. He was verging toward complete drunkenness, but in the meantime became amorous. His eyes burned, his lips fell apart. Nan tried in desperation to keep on a plane of light persiflage, to hold him to his chair and to the impersonal. Deep fear entered her. She urged more drink on him, hoping that he would be overpowered. It was like a desperate race between this man's pa.s.sions and the deep oblivion that reached for them. Her mouth was dry, and her brain whirled. Only by the greatest effort could she prevent herself from flying to pieces. Sansome hardly appeared to hear her. He wagged his head at her, looking upon her with swimming, benevolent eyes. Suddenly, without warning, he sprang up, overturning with a crash the small table and the bottles and gla.s.ses.

"By G.o.d, you're the most beautiful woman I ever saw!" he cried. "Come here!"

He advanced on her, his eyes alight. She saw that the crisis had come, and threw aside all pretence.

"Keep away! Keep away!" she warned him through, gritted teeth; then, as he continued to stumble toward her, she struck at him viciously again and again with one of the small light chairs.

For a moment or so she actually managed to beat him off; but he lunged through the blows and seized her around the shoulders.

"Reg'lar little tiger cat!" he murmured with fond admiration.

His reeking breath was on her neck as he sought her mouth. She threw her head back and to one side, fighting desperately and silently, tearing at him with her hands, writhing her body, lowering her head as he forced her around, kicking at his s.h.i.+n. The man's strength was as horrible as it was unexpected. The efforts to which she was giving her every ounce did not appear to have the slightest effect on him, His handsome weak face continued to smile foolishly and fondly down on her.

"Reg'lar little tiger cat!" he repeated over and over.

The terrible realization dawned on her that he was too much for her.

Her body suddenly went lax. She threw back her and screamed.

LXXIV

The plot which Morrell had first suggested idly and as sort of a joke, but which later he had entered into with growing belief, was quite perfect in all details but one: he a.s.sumed that Keith had accompanied Durkee's expedition, and was sure that he had seen the young lawyer off. As a matter of fact, Keith had been recalled. A messenger had at the very last moment handed him an order sealed with the well-known open eye, and signed "33 Secretary." It commanded him to proceed with certain designated men to the arrest of certain others inscribed on the black list. This was a direct order, whereas the present expedition was wholly a voluntary affair. Keith had no alternative but to obey, though he did so reluctantly, for this search for arms had promised sport.

Therefore, he stepped ash.o.r.e at the last instant; a proceeding un.o.bserved by Morrell, who was surveying the scene from a distance, and who turned away once the sails were hoisted.

The duty to which Keith had been a.s.signed took some time. The men had to be searched out one by one, escorted to headquarters, and the usual formalities there accomplished. It was late in the evening before he was free to go home. He let himself in with his latchkey, and had just turned up the low-burning gas in the hall when the sound of hurrying feet brought him back to the door. He flung it open to confront Mrs.

Sherwood and Krafft. They were both panting as though they had run some distance and Krafft's usually precise attire was dishevelled and awry, as though it had been hastily put on.

"Nan!" gasped Mrs. Sherwood. "Is she here?"

Keith, with instant decision, asking no questions, threw open the parlour door, glanced within, ran upstairs three steps at a time, but almost immediately returned after a hasty inspection of the upper story. His face had gone very pale, but he had himself in perfect control.

"Well?" he demanded crisply, looking from one to the other.

But Mrs. Sherwood did not stop to answer. With a stifled exclamation she darted from the house. Krafft looked after her, bewildered. Keith shook him savagely by the shoulder.

"Speak up, man! Quick! What is it?" demanded Keith. His voice was vibrant with suppressed excitement, but he held himself outwardly calm, and waited immobile until the end of Krafft's story. It was characteristic of him as of all strong men in a crisis that he made no move whatever until he was sure he had grasped the whole situation.

Krafft was just going to bed--he always retired early--when he was called to the door by Mex Ryan. Mex had never come to his house before.

He was a shoulder striker and a thug; but he had one sure streak of loyalty in that nothing could ever induce him to go back on a pal. For various reasons he considered Krafft a pal. He was very much troubled.

"Look here, boss," he said to Krafft, "It just come to my mind a while ago: what was the name of that bloke you told me to keep off'n? The Cora trial man, I mean."

Krafft recalled the circ.u.mstance, and named Keith.

Mex slapped his head.

"That's right! It come to me afterward. Well, there's dirty work with his wife. That's where I see the name, on the outside of the note. I just give her a fake letter that says her husband is shot, and she's to go to him."

"How did he know what the letter said?" interjected Keith at this point.

"He'd read anything given him, of course. Mex knew the letter was false. I came up to find your house. I didn't know where you lived, so I stopped at John Sherwood's to inquire. Mrs. Sherwood was home alone.

She came with me."

"Where did this letter say I was supposed to be?" asked Keith,

"Jake's Place."

"My G.o.d!" cried Keith, and leaped for the door. At the same instant Mrs. Sherwood's voice was heard from the darkness.

"Come here," she cried, "I have a rig."

They found her seated in a buggy. Both climbed in beside her. Keith took the reins, and lashed the horse with the light whip. The astonished animal leaped; the buggy jerked forward.

Then began a wild, careering, b.u.mpy ride into the night. The road was fearful and all but invisible. The carriage swayed and swung dangerously. Keith drove, every faculty concentrated. No one spoke. The dim and ghostly half-guessed forms of things at night streamed past.

"Who sent that letter?" demanded Keith finally.

"Mex wouldn't tell me," replied Krafft.

"How long ago did he deliver it?"

"About an hour."

The horse plunged frantically under the lash as this reply reached Keith. The buggy was all but overturned. He pulled the frantic animal down to a slower pace, and with an obvious effort regained control of himself.

"Can't afford an accident!" he warned himself.

"Are you armed?" Mrs. Sherwood asked him suddenly.