“Peter!” I moaned, and buried my face in my hands. Von Gerhard put a quick hand on my arm. But I shook it off. “I’m not going to faint,” I said, through set teeth. “I’m not going to do anything silly. I want to think. I want to … Go on, Blackie.”
“Just a minute,” interrupted Von Gerhard. “Does he know where Mrs. Orme is living?”
“I’m coming t’ that,” returned Blackie, tranquilly. “Though for Dawn’s sake I’ll say right here he don’t know. I told him later, that she was takin’ a vacation up at her folks’ in Michigan.”
“Thank God!” I breathed.
“Wore a New York Press Club button, this guy did. I asked one of the boys standin’ on the outer edge of the circle what the fellow’s name was, but he only says: `Shut up Black! An’ listen. He’s seen every darn thing in the world.’ Well, I listened. He wasn’t braggin’. He wasn’t talkin’ big. He was just talkin’. Seems like he’d been war correspondent in the Boer war, and the Spanish-American, an’ Gawd knows where. He spoke low, not usin’ any big words, either, an’ I thought his eyes looked somethin’ like those of the Black Cat up on the mantel just over his head—you know what I mean, when the electric lights is turned on in-inside{sic} the ugly thing. Well, every time he showed signs of stoppin’, one of the boys would up with a question, and start him goin’ again. He knew everybody, an’ everything, an’ everywhere. All of a sudden one of the boys points to the Roosevelt signature on the wall—the one he scrawled up there along with all the other celebrities first time he was entertained by the Press Club boys. Well this guy, he looked at the name for a minute. `Roosevelt?’ he says, slow. `Oh, yes. Seems t’ me I’ve heard of him.’ Well, at that the boys yelled. Thought it was a good joke, seein’ that Ted had been smeared all over the first page of everything for years. But kid, I seen th’ look in that man’s eyes when he said it, and he wasn’t jokin’, girl. An’ it came t’ me, all of a sudden, that all the things he’d been talkin’ about had happened almost ten years back. After he’d made that break about Roosevelt he kind of shut up, and strolled over to the piano and began t’ play. You know that bum old piano, with half a dozen dead keys, and no tune?
I looked up for a moment. “He could make you think that it was a concert grand, couldn’t he? He hasn’t forgotten even that?”
“Forgotten? Girl, I don’t know what his accomplishments was when you knew him, but if he was any more fascinatin’ than he is now, then I’m glad I didn’t know him. He could charm the pay envelope away from a reporter that was Saturday broke. Somethin’ seemed t’ urge me t’ go up t’ him an’ say: `Have a game of billiards?’
“`Don’t care if I do,’ says he, and swung his long legs off the piano stool and we made for the billiard room, with the whole gang after us. Sa-a-ay, girl, I’m a modest violet, I am, but I don’t mind mentionin’ that the general opinion up at the club is that I’m a little wizard with the cue. Well, w’en he got through with me I looked like little sister when big brother is tryin’ t’ teach her how to hold the cue in her fingers. He just sent them balls wherever he thought they’d look pretty. I bet if he’d held up his thumb and finger an’ said, `jump through this!’ them balls would of jumped.”
Von Gerhard took a couple of quick steps in Blackie’s direction. His eyes were blue steel.
“Is this then necessary?” he asked. “All this leads to what? Has not Mrs. Orme suffered enough, that she should undergo this idle chatter? It is sufficient that she knows this—this man is here. It is a time for action, not for words.”
“Action’s comin’ later, Doc,” drawled Blackie, looking impish. “Monologuin’ ain’t my specialty. I gener’ly let the other gink talk. You never can learn nothin’ by talkin’. But I got somethin’ t’ say t’ Dawn here. Now, in case you’re bored the least bit, w’y don’t hesitate one minnit t’—”
“Na, you are quite right, and I was hasty,” said Von Gerhard, and his eyes, with the kindly gleam in them, smiled down upon the little man. “It is only that both you and I are over-anxious to be of assistance to this unhappy lady. Well, we shall see. You talked with this man at the Press Club?”
“He talked. I listened.”
“That would be Peter’s way,” I said, bitterly. How he used to love to hold forth, and how I grew to long for blessed silence—for fewer words, and more of that reserve which means strength!”
“All this time,” continued Blackie, “I didn’t know his name. When we’d finished our game of billiards he hung up his cue, and then he turned around like lightning, and faced the boys that were standing around with their hands in their pockets. He had a odd little smile on his face—a smile with no fun it, if you know what I mean. Guess you do, maybe, if you’ve seen it.
“`Boys,’ says he, smilin’ that twisted kind of smile, `boys, I’m lookin’ for a job. I’m not much of a talker, an’ I’m only a amateur at music, and my game of billiards is ragged. But there’s one thing I can do, fellows, from abc up to xyz, and that’s write. I can write, boys, in a way to make your pet little political scribe sound like a high school paper. I don’t promise to stick. As soon as I get on my feet again I’m going back to New York. But not just yet. Meanwhile, I’m going to the highest bidder.’
“Well, you know since Merkle left us we haven’t had a day when we wasn’t scooped on some political guff. `I guess we can use you—some place,’ I says, tryin’ not t’ look too anxious. If your ideas on salary can take a slump be tween New York and Milwaukee. Our salaries around here is more what is elegantly known as a stipend. What’s your name, Bo?’
“`Name?’ says he, smiling again, `Maybe it’ll be familiar t’ you. That is, it will if my wife is usin’ it. Orme’s my name—Peter Orme. Know a lady of that name? Good.’
“I hadn’t said I did, but those eyes of his had seen the look on my face.
“`Friends in New York told me she was here,’ he says. `Where is she now? Got her address?’ he says.
“`She expectin’ you?’ I asked.
“`N-not exactly,’ he says, with that crooked grin.
“`Thought not,’ I answered, before I knew what I was sayin’. `She’s up north with her folks on a vacation.’
“`The devil she is!’ he says. `Well, in that case can you let me have ten until Monday?’”
Blackie came over to me as I sat cowering in my chair. He patted my shoulder with one lean brown hand. “Now kid, you dig, see? Beat it. Go home for a week. I’ll fix it up with Norberg. No tellin’ what a guy like that’s goin’ t’ do. Send your brother-in-law down here if you want to make it a family affair, and between us, we’ll see this thing through.”
I looked up at Von Gerhard. He was nodding approval. It all seemed so easy, so temptingly easy. To run away! Not to face him until I was safe in the shelter of Norah’s arms! I stood up, resolve lending me new strength and courage.
“I am going. I know it isn’t brave, but I can’t be brave any longer. I’m too tired—too old—”
I grasped the hand of each of those men who had stood by me so staunchly in the year that was past. The words of thanks that I had on my lips ended in dry, helpless sobs. And because Blackie and Von Gerhard looked so pathetically concerned and so unhappy in my unhappiness my sobs changed to hysterical laughter, in which the two men joined, after one moment’s bewildered staring.