The Drums of Jeopardy. Harold MacGrath

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      Suddenly Hawksley felt young, revivified, free. He had arrived. Surmounting indescribable hazards and hardships he walked the pavement of New York. In an hour the mutable quicksands of a great city would swallow him forever. Free! He wanted to stroll about, peer into shop windows, watch the amazing electric signs, dally; but he still had much to accomplish.

      He searched for a telephone sign. It was necessary that he find one immediately. He had once spent six weeks in and about this marvellous city, and he had a vague recollection of the blue-and-white enamel signs. Shortly he found one. It was a pay station in the rear of a news and tobacco shop.

      He entered a booth, but discovered that he had no five-cent pieces in his purse. He hurried out to the girl behind the cigar stand. She was exhibiting a box of cigars to a customer, who selected three, paid for them, and walked away. Hawksley, boiling with haste to have his affair done, flung a silver coin toward the girl.

      “Five-cent pieces!”

      “Will you take them with you or shall I send them?” asked the girl, earnestly.

      “I beg pardon!”

      “Any particular kind of ribbon you want the box tied with?”

      “I beg your pardon!” repeated Hawksley, harried and bewildered. “But I'm in a hurry—”

      “Too much of a hurry to leave out the bark when you ask a favour? I make change out of courtesy. And you all bark at me Nickel! Nickel! as if that was my job.”

      “A thousand apologies!”—contritely.

      “And don't make it any worse by suggesting a movie after supper. My mother never lets me go out after dark.”

      “I rather fancy she's quite sensible. Still, you seem able to take care of yourself. I might suggest—”

      “With that black eye? Nay, nay! I'll bet somebody's brother gave it to you.”

      “Venus was not on that occasion in ascendancy. Thank you for the change.” Hawksley swung on his heel and reentered the booth.

      A great weariness oppressed him. A longing, almost irresistible, came to him to go out and cry aloud: “Here I am! Kill me! I am tired and done!” For he had recognized the purchaser of the cigars as one of the men who had left the 125th Street Station at the same time as he. He remembered distinctly that this man had been in a hurry. Perhaps the whole dizzy affair was reacting upon his imagination psychologically and turning harmless individuals into enemies.

      “Hello!” said a man's voice over the wire.

      “Is Mr. Rathbone there?”

      “Captain Rathbone is with his regiment at Coblenz, sir.”

      “Coblenz?”

      “Yes, sir. I do not expect his return until near midsummer, sir. Who is this talking?”

      “Have you opened a cable from Yokohama?”

      “This is Mr. Hawksley!” The voice became excited.

      “Oh, sir! You will come right away. I alone understand, sir. You will remember me when you see me. I'm the captain's butler, sir—Jenkins. He cabled back to give you the entire run of the house as long as you desired it. He advised me to notify you that he had also prepared his banker against your arrival. Have your luggage sent here at once, sir. Dinner will be at your convenience.”

      Hawksley's body relaxed. A lump came into his throat. Here was a friend, anyhow, ready to serve him though he was thousands of miles away.

      When he could trust himself to speak he said: “Sorry. It will be impossible to accept the hospitality at present. I shall call in a few days, however, to establish my identity. Thank you. Good evening.”

      “Just a moment, sir. I may have an important cable to transmit to you. It would be wise to leave me your address, sir.”

      Hawksley hesitated a moment. After all, he could trust this perfect old servant, whom he remembered. He gave the address.

      As he came out of the booth the girl stretched forth an arm to detain him. He stopped.

      “I'm sorry I spoke like that,” she said. “But I'm so tired! I've been on my feet all day, and everybody's been barking and growling; and if I'd taken in as many nickels as I've passed out in change the boss would be rich.”

      “Give me a dozen of those roses there.” She sold flowers also. “The pink ones. How much?” he asked.

      “Two-fifty.”

      He laid down the money. “Never mind the box. They are for you. Good evening.”

      The girl stared at the flowers as Ali Baba must have stared at the cask with rubies.

      “For me!” she whispered. “For nothing!”

      Her eyes blurred. She never saw Hawksley again; but that was of no importance. She had a gentle deed to put away in the lavender of recollection.

      Outside Hawksley could see nothing of the man who had bought the cigars. At any rate, further dodging would be useless. He would go directly to his destination. Old Gregor had sent him a duplicate key to the apartment. He could hide there for a day or two; then visit Rathbone's banker at his residence in the night to establish his identity. Gregor could be trusted to carry the wallet and the pouch to the bank. Once these were walled in steel half the battle would be over. He would have nothing to guard thereafter but his life. He laughed brokenly. Nothing but the clothes he stood in. He never could claim the belongings he had been forced to leave in that hotel back yonder. But there was loyal old Gregor. Somebody would be honestly glad to see him. The poor old chap! Astonishing, but of late he was always thinking in English.

      He hailed the first free taxicab he saw, climbed in, and was driven downtown. He looked back constantly. Was he followed? There was no way of telling. The street was alive with vehicles tearing north and south, with frequent stoppage for the passage of those racing east and west. The destination of Hawksley's cab was an old-fashioned apartment house in Eightieth Street.

      Gregor would have a meal ready; and it struck Hawksley forcibly that he was hungry, that he had not touched food since the night before. Gregor, valeting in a hotel, pressing coats and trousers and sewing on buttons! Groggy old world, wasn't it? Gregor, pressing the trousers of the hoi polloi! Gregor, who could have sent New York mad with that old Stradivarius of his! But Gregor was wise. Safety for him lay in obscurity; and what was more obscure than a hotel valet?

      He did not seek the elevator but mounted the first flight of stairs. He saw two doors, one on each side of the landing. He sought one, stooped and peered at the card over the bell. Conover. Gregor's was opposite. Having a key he did not knock but unlocked the door and stepped into the dark hall.

      “Stefani Gregor?” he called, joyously. “Stefani, my old friend, it is I!”

      Silence. But that was understandable. Either Gregor had not returned from his labours or he was out gathering the essentials for the evening meal. Judging from the variety of odours that swam the halls of this human warren many suppers were in the process of making, and the top flavour СКАЧАТЬ