The Incendiary Part 8

"Did you come here to insult me?"

At this outburst of indignation the sheriff's deputy drew near.

"That was nothing, Rob," said Harry, sobering up. "Only my cursed thoughtlessness. I'm sorry, on my word, you've got into the fix."

"Carry your condolences somewhere else."

"Oh, well----"

"I was always literal and I mean now what I say. Your apology only makes the matter worse."

There is nothing more subversive of dignity than an unpremeditated sneeze. Not that Saul Aronson had much dignity to spare. On the contrary, he was an extremely modest young man, with apparently one great pa.s.sion in his life, the service of s.h.a.garach. On this occasion his resounding ker-choo proclaimed from afar the arrival of that personage and threw a ridiculous damper on the rising temper of the cousins. Seeing the two strangers approach, Harry fumbled out a farewell and withdrew with an air of languid bravado. s.h.a.garach watched him as he pa.s.sed.

"Follow that young man for a few hours," he said to Aronson. "I should like to know his afternoon programme."

Aronson hung on his master's lips and trotted off to obey his command.

"I am s.h.a.garach, come to defend you," he said to the prisoner, still flushed with the remembrance of the quarrel.

"Who sent you to defend me?" was the curt reply.

"Your friend, Miss Barlow."

"Emily?"

Robert's voice grew softer.

"I have some questions to ask you."

"What have I done to be questioned as if I were a cut-throat? What have I done to be jailed here like some wild beast, before whom life would not be safe if he were let at large?"

"I know you are innocent, Floyd."

Only the falsely accused can tell how the first a.s.surance of trust from another revives hope and faith in their kind. Robert Floyd was no man to lean on strangers, yet s.h.a.garach's words were as soothing to him as a gentle hand laid on a feverish forehead.

"Your cousin Harry came here to verify his knowledge of the will, which disinherited him, did he not?"

"Harry was disinherited, that is true."

"How came you to give up the profession of botanist, in which your uncle trained you?"

"Men interest me more than vegetables."

"But you refused your uncle's wealth, that would have given you power among men."

"It was not mine. I had not earned it. I feared the temptation."

"You are a journalist, I believe?"

"Six months ago I happened to report a conference of charities for the Beacon. Today I am eking out my income by occasional work for that paper."

s.h.a.garach thought of his own first brief. A youth, imperfectly acquainted with English, was charged with the larceny of an overcoat from his fellow-lodger. Something about him enlisted the sympathy of a kind-hearted lady who drew s.h.a.garach into the case because of his knowledge of the Hebrew jargon which the prisoner spoke. The youth was acquitted and was now a student of law, being no other than s.h.a.garach's a.s.sistant and idolater, Aronson. That was years ago. Today hundreds flocked to hear his pleading of a cause, judges leaned over alertly, as if learning their duty from him, and the very hangers-on of the courtroom acquired a larger view of the moral law when s.h.a.garach expounded it.

"My own beginnings were as humble," he said.

"You are a criminal lawyer by choice, people say."

"The moral alternative of innocence or guilt, of liberty or imprisonment--sometimes, as now, of life or death--exalts a cause in my eyes far above any elevation to which mere financial litigation can attain."

Robert looked his visitor over thoughtfully. The criminal lawyer was not reputed the highest grade of the guild. But there was a sneer, too, in many quarters for the journalist. He, too, must mingle in the reek of cities, share Lazarus' crust and drink from the same cup with the children of the slums.

"And you have risen to the defense of murderers," he said.

"Men accused of murder," answered s.h.a.garach.

"You are reputed to be uniformly successful."

"That is no miracle. My clients are uniformly innocent. My first step is to satisfy myself of that."

"When were you first satisfied of my innocence?"

"When I saw you here."

"I am to be removed to the state prison while the jail is repaired," said Robert, who had indulged dreams of some powerful intervention which should procure his release. "How long before a final hearing will be given me?"

"Two months at most. The evidence against your cousin is growing rapidly under my hands."

"It was 'evidence' that brought me here. Is your 'evidence' against Harry no more valuable?"

"I am not prosecuting Harry Arnold, but every item that points to his guilt guides the finger of suspicion away from you."

s.h.a.garach was satisfied with his interview. He had elicited proof to his own mind of Robert's innocence and legal evidence of Harry's disinheritance under the will. To fasten knowledge of the fact upon the cousin would now be an easier task.

"Miss Barlow will be permitted to see you," was his parting a.s.surance to the prisoner before he hurriedly returned to his office, to find an unexpected client awaiting him.

John Davidson, the marshal, had a friendly habit, the legacy of a country bringing-up, which his acquaintances found both useful and agreeable. Our tired Emily, trudging to s.h.a.garach's with the heavy message of a day's failure, must have agreed with them heartily. At least, she did not decline his invitation when the kindly old gentleman drove up behind her and urged her to share his seat in the carriage.

"I am bringing him some evidence now," said Emily in answer to the marshal's first question, after he had settled her according to his liberal ideas of comfort and clucked his horse to a gentle trot.

"Evidence--no need of evidence, miss. If s.h.a.garach has your case, that will be prima-facie evidence in itself of your sweetheart's innocence."

"He is a wonderful man. But do people like him?"

"Like him? Well, 'like' is a medium word, you see, used for medium people. He's a good deal of a sphinx to us all, my dear. But aren't you a brave girl to be tramping the streets for your sweetheart? Don't mind being called sweethearts, I hope? That was the old-country word when I courted Elizabeth. But I believe young folks now call it fiancee, inamorata--French words and Italian, as though they were ashamed to speak it out in good old English."

"Oh, we prefer sweethearts a hundred times. But I see Mr. s.h.a.garach's sign."

The marshal handed her out with old-fas.h.i.+oned gallantry, threw his horse's head-weight on the curbstone and accompanied her upstairs. Neither Aronson, nor Jacob, the office boy, answered his knock, but a throaty falsetto, somewhat the worse for wear, was intoning an evangelical hymn within. Strange quavers ad libitum and a constant beating of the foot, occasionally heightened to a break-down stamp, intermingled with the air. It was only by giving a rap with his whole clenched hand that the marshal was able to arouse the attention of this musical inmate.

"Evenin', Mr. Davidson. Keepin' house, you see."

"Good evening, Jupiter." Then to Emily: "This is Pineapple Jupiter."

"Cullud gospel-preacher, missus. Belong to the mission upstairs. Buy a mission paper, missus?"

His complexion was as black as a coal shovel, but everything artificial about him made the ant.i.thesis of the swan to the raven. His suit was of bleached linen, his s.h.i.+rt bosom, choker and spotless cravat, all the color of snow. Even his wool was wintry and the rolling eyes and brilliant teeth gave his ensemble the effect of a pen-and-ink sketch, or one of those black-and-white grotesques that recently captured a pa.s.sing vogue.

"When will s.h.a.garach return?" asked Davidson, but a light step on the stairs, which Emily knew to be his, rendered an answer needless. The lawyer bowed with his usual stateliness and ushered them in.

"Remain outside till Jacob comes, Jupiter," he said. The negro salaamed deferentially.

"As a result of today's inquiries," s.h.a.garach folded his arms, "two desirable witnesses are missing. The peddler, as I surmised, is not a peddler; and the incendiary, who could a.s.sist us materially in our researches, still remains in the Arnold mansion."

Emily's face was puzzled at this enigmatic opening.

"That is to say, he was not seen by any one coming out. I believe, however, that he succeeded in getting away un.o.bserved, as I think I had the pleasure of meeting him this afternoon."

"The incendiary?" cried Emily, and the marshal echoed her.

"At the county jail."

Emily's heart fluttered. Had s.h.a.garach become a convert to the belief in Robert's guilt? And if so?

"You know Harry Arnold?" he asked.

"I have never met him." She colored a little, for she was not descended from the Brewsters of Lynn. "But it seems to me your argument against him is inferential, Mr. s.h.a.garach." Twenty times she had gone over it on her pillow the night before.

"Were the a priori case against Mr. Floyd as strong, you would have more reason than you have to be apprehensive, Miss Barlow," said s.h.a.garach, in that ringing tone of his, from which all the sap of emotion seemed purposely wrung out, leaving only a residuum of dry logic.

Immediately he began writing a letter, as if to terminate the interview, and John Davidson reached for his hat, casting a glance down at his carriage in the street. Then with an effort Emily unburdened herself of the portentous message which she had come to deliver.

"I have done my best," she said. "But Bertha Lund is not to be found."

CHAPTER XI.

A KISS IN THE DARK.

Bertha Lund's aunt, Mrs. Christenson, kept a boarding house for Swedes, on a street near the water front. By virtue of an intelligence-office license she was also empowered to obtain places in domestic service for newly imported Frederikas and Katherinkas. But the Swedish housemaid is one of those rare commodities in which the demand exceeds the supply. So there had been no crowded gallery of sodden faces around the waiting-room when Emily called Thursday morning before going to work, but only two or three laughing maidens who chatted with the boarders. All had the bloom of a winter apple in their cheeks and their blue eyes sparkled with reflections of the sea. Mrs. Christenson was making terms with a lady in an inner room.

"You wish for a servant?" she said, coming forward pleasantly.

"My business is with Miss Bertha Lund, your niece. I believe she is lodging here."

"My niece is gone," answered the landlady, unceremoniously turning her back and shutting the door with that emphasis which is feminine for profanity. Then her voice was heard, pitched a little higher, as she interpreted the silvery Swedish of the girl within, for the benefit of her future mistress.

"Something must be wrong," thought Emily. But there was nothing for her to do but retreat, somewhat hurt and a great deal troubled. She had reached the head of the stairs when one of the domestics in the waiting-room came forward sympathetically and in her pretty, broken English explained Mrs. Christenson's conduct. Bertha, it seems, had not returned home since the night of the trial. Search had been made for her, but without result. From what the girl said, though this was put guardedly and in an almost inaudible whisper, Emily inferred that Bertha, who was naturally quick-tempered, had chafed under her aunt's imperious discipline and had probably gone to board with some friend, registering herself for employment meanwhile in one of the other intelligence offices. Once before she had manifested the same impatience of restraint and had disappeared into the country for an entire summer.

It was still possible, even probable, that she could be found if search were inst.i.tuted at once. Bertha had only a day's start of her pursuer, and it was not likely that she had secured a situation to her taste so soon. Emily formed the heroic resolve to scour the intelligence offices herself. Finding the list in the directory incomplete, she boldly visited police headquarters, from which licenses are issued, and copied the name and address of every keeper in the city.

With a letter from one of the police commissioners and a minute description of Bertha at her tongue's end, Emily had pa.s.sed from office to office, braving discourtesy and even insult. As this was the busy season her truancy from the studio would have to be made up by lamplight work, which meant ache to her weary eyes, and the unwonted climbing of stairs and trudging about for hours soon exhausted her small stock of strength. But Emily was less concerned over her personal sacrifice than over the failure of her inquiries. By 4 o'clock her task was still uncompleted. The rounds of the offices had not been half-made. Still no Bertha could be found, no girl answering her description or dressed as Bertha had been dressed at the trial having applied for work on the previous day. With a cloud of despondency forming over her heart, only lightened by a dim hope of consolation from s.h.a.garach, she had turned her steps in the direction of his office when John Davidson overtook her.

"Not to be found!" echoed the marshal.

"When was she seen last?" inquired s.h.a.garach, calmly.

"The evening of the trial," answered Emily. "She hasn't returned to her aunt's, where she was lodging, since then."

"Why, I saw the girl talking with McCausland," said Davidson.

"When?" asked the lawyer.

"Tuesday evening. Everybody else had gone and Miss Barlow and I were alone in the ante-chamber. McCausland put his head in, as if he wanted the room, and I noticed two women behind him. One was the housemaid and the other was----"

"Mrs. Arnold?"

"True enough. 'Twa'nt no need to tell you, was it?"

The marshal's eyes grew big with admiration.

"Merely a guess. Bertha Lund is a government witness, and McCausland has a habit of keeping his witnesses under cover, especially when they are poor and he is fighting wealth or influence. However, we have a right to know all Bertha knows. Could you find out if she is living with the Arnolds?" he said, turning to Emily.

"They are out of town, but I'll make inquiries," answered the resolute girl.

"This may be of use." s.h.a.garach handed her the note he had rapidly written. It was unsealed and addressed to the warden of the state prison. When the young girl was settled again to John Davidson's satisfaction in the seat of his buggy, she opened the envelope and read its contents aloud: "My Dear Sir: The bearer, Miss Emily Barlow, is a.s.signed to important duties for the defense in the cause of Commonwealth vs. Floyd. I shall esteem it a favor if you will grant her admission to the defendant as my personal representative at all times when she may apply to you. Respectfully yours, "MEYER s.h.a.gARACH, "Counsel for the Accused."

"Well, that was clever, wasn't it?" said old John Davidson, and for the rest of the ride he entertained her with anecdotes of s.h.a.garach's most memorable victories, as well as other fascinating relations. For the marshal, among his many virtues, was a famous traveler, being one of the handful who can boast of having set foot in every state of our union. He may not have been a marvel of detective cunning, as McCausland had intimated, but Emily had forgotten all about her fatigue and was in an agreeably hopeful frame of mind when he set her down before her house door in the plain side street.

That night Robert Floyd slept in a state prison cell. The atmosphere of the place oppressed him. Everything, down to the very keys and padlocks, was more ma.s.sive than at the county jail. Led along a narrow corridor by tenanted cells, whose inmates came to the bars and greeted him, or crouched in the inmost recesses, he was reminded of a menagerie of dangerous beasts. At the door of his own cell the revulsion had seized him like an epileptic fit and he had wrenched himself loose from the jailer. In an instant four vise-like hands were tightened on him and he was flung bodily into the apartment. The iron door swung to with a clang and he heard the jailer's footsteps receding.

"Coo-ee! Ducky, don't ee like ee c'adle?"

"He's a lifer, sure!"

"Don't cry, Johnnie. You'll never get out any more."

"I move a resolution of sympathy for our newly elected a.s.sociate. All in favor, curse Longlegs!"

There is a pa.s.sage in Bach's "Pa.s.sion" music where the infuriated Jews, being offered the choice of pardon for Barabbas or the Savior, shriek out the name of the robber. Robert remembered thinking that up to then he had never heard anything more devilish than the roar of rage with which the mult.i.tude express their preference for "Barabbas!" But the chorus of curses from the convict pack that greeted the sobriquet of "Longlegs" was like an uproar from still lower deeps, where spirits more hideous than the deicides may be confined.

This is not the normal temper of prisons, by any means. But the Georgetown prison had been for months in a state of incipient mutiny and the brewing storm was now threatening to break. Among the grounds of complaint alleged against the present warden was his retention of the obnoxious turnkey, "Longlegs," who was loathed as a "squealer," because he could not be bought. It was further alleged that the men's tobacco rations had been unjustly diminished one-half, such a thing as grat.i.tude for the allowance of this luxury at all not entering their minds. The teams that carted goods from the workshops had recently been put in charge of prison employes, and a useful means of communication with outer friends thus cruelly cut off. In the eyes of the "solitaries" and "hard-labor" men their bill of rights had been monstrously trampled upon, and there was ample cause for the deposing of Warden Tapp and the establishment of anarchy in the inst.i.tution. Only the "lifers" were for peace.