“If you do,” put in Driscoll, “you’d better speak it better than Dumain speaks English. If a man could be electrocuted for murdering a language he’d be a storage battery by this time.”
“Have your fun,” said Dumain, rising to his feet and shrugging his shoulders good-naturedly. “Eet ees a treeck — zat Angleesh. I have eet not.”
“Hardly,” laughed Jennings. “You don’t speak it with the finish of our late friend Mr. Knowlton, for instance. By the way, have you seen him?” he added, turning to Dougherty.
“Who? Knowlton?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I should say not.” Dougherty grinned as though the idea were absurd. “And, believe me, I won’t see him — at least, not in the Lamartine. When I tell a guy he’s not wanted, that ends it.”
“Don’t be too sure,” Booth advised. “Just because he didn’t come yesterday — you know today is another day.”
Dougherty turned on the speaker scornfully. “Listen,” he said with emphasis. “If that Knowlton shows his face in this lobby — which he won’t — but if he does, we’ll eat him up.”
“Diable! Mon Dieu!”
The exclamation came from Dumain, in an undertone of surprise and alarm. The others turned to him in wonder, and, following his fixed gaze toward the main entrance, saw Knowlton walk down the center of the lobby and stop at Lila’s desk!
The action and facial expression of each of the Erring Knights at this juncture was curiously indicative of their different characters.
Driscoll and Dougherty moved forward and glared belligerently; Booth and Jennings glanced from one side to the other as though in search of reenforcements; Dumain sputtered with wrath and indignation, and Sherman’s face darkened with a menacing scowl. None of them, however, appeared to be particularly anxious to cross the lobby.
Knowlton had not cast a single glance in their direction. His back was turned to them as he stood talking with Lila, and their conversation was in so low a tone that the Erring Knights heard not a word of it.
For perhaps two minutes this scene, half farcical, remained unchanged. The Erring Knights muttered to each other in undertones and glared fiercely, but they made no move.
Suddenly they saw Knowlton lift his hat and bow to Lila, turn sharply, and leave the lobby even more hurriedly than he had entered it.
Each of the Erring Knights glanced round the circle of his companions; some questioning, others assertive.
“It’s up to us,” declared Dougherty. “We’ve got to show him.”
They gathered themselves closely about the lounge, and all began talking at once.
In the meantime, what of Lila?
When Knowlton entered the lobby she was busied with some papers on her desk, and therefore did not see him. She became aware of his presence only when he stopped at her side and spoke to her.
For a moment she was speechless with surprise and gladness and confusion. She stared at him strangely, unseeing.
“What’s the matter?” smiled Knowlton. “I hope I don’t look as fierce as that.”
Then, as Lila did not answer, he reached for a telegraph blank, wrote on it, and handed it to her, together with a ten-dollar bill which he took from his wallet.
Lila’s dismay and confusion were doubled. The bill was exactly similar to the others he had given her, and to those which the collector had declared to be counterfeit.
What could she say? Finding no words, and feeling that she must do something, she extended her hand to take the bill, then drew it back, shivering involuntarily. Summoning her courage by a violent effort, she faltered:
“Mr. Knowlton, that bill — I... I cannot take it.”
And as Knowlton’s face filled with surprise and something else that resembled uneasiness, and before he could speak she continued:
“The other day our collector showed me one of the bills you had given me, and asked where I got it. He said they were counterfeit. I thought you would want to know.”
Knowlton had turned pale and was staring at her fixedly.
“Well?” he said.
“Shall I tell him?”
“Why — didn’t you?” the young man stammered eagerly.
“No. I thought I had better speak to you first. You see—” Lila’s voice faltered and ceased, her face reddening to the tips of her ears with shame.
Knowlton picked up the bill he had laid on the counter and returned it to his pocket. His hand trembled nervously, and his voice was low and uncertain as he said:
“If it’s all the same to you, I... it would be better not to tell him. I shall not bother you with more of them. And I... I thank you,” he added, as he turned away. That was all.
Lila turned to her desk, sick at heart; and when little Dumain bustled over a few minutes later with the intention of learning something of what Knowlton had said to her, he found her in tears.
“Mon Dieu!” he gasped. The sight of Miss Williams crying was unprecedented and, to Dumain, extremely painful. “What is zee mattaire?”
“Nothing,” said Lila. “I have a headache. For goodness’ sake, don’t stand and stare at me!”
Whereupon Dumain retreated to the corner where he had left the others in secret session. He decided not to tell them about Lila’s tears, being convinced that if he did so they would proceed to murder Knowlton on Broadway at high noon.
Besides, he had an idea that the tears were caused by Knowlton’s having said farewell, in which case there would be no necessity for action on the part of the Erring Knights. Dumain was certainly not a coward; but he was — let us say — discreet.
Lila was overwhelmed with shame and humiliation. She had told Knowlton that she had lied for his sake, which amounted to a confession of her interest in him and regard for him. He must have understood. And he had muttered a perfunctory thank you, and walked away.
But perhaps he took it as a matter of course. Perhaps he regarded her as one of those creatures to whom deception is natural — of loose morals and conscience — whose aid may be depended upon by any stray enemy of society and morality.
This thought was unbearable. Lila clenched her fists tightly till the little pink nails bit sharp rings in the white palms of her hands.
Why had he not explained? It could have been but for one of two reasons: either he was guilty and could not, or he regarded her opinion as unimportant and did not care to.
And if he were guilty; but that was impossible. John Knowlton, the man to whom she had given her heart unreservedly, and forever, a counterfeiter — a criminal? It could not be.
There remained only the supposition that he cared so little about her that her good opinion was a matter of indifference to him. And this, though mortifying, was bearable. Still was she filled with shame, for he had heard her confession, and had made no sign.
Most probably she would never know, for she felt convinced that she would never see Knowlton again. She had been unable to avoid overhearing a great deal of the conversation of the Erring Knights concerning him, and Dumain himself had told her that they had warned him to stay away from the Lamartine.
She smiled bitterly as she thought of that warning. If her anxious protectors only knew how little likelihood there was of Knowlton’s taking the trouble either to harm her or to make her happy!
For hours these thoughts filled her mind, confusedly, without beginning or end. It seemed that the afternoon would never pass.
Gradually the lobby filled, and for a time business at the telegraph desk was almost brisk. The Erring Knights strolled in and out aimlessly. From the billiard room down the hall came the sound of clicking balls and banging cues.
Now and then the strident voice of the Venus at the cigar stand rose above all other sounds as she gave a pointed retort to an intimate or jocular remark of a customer. At intervals the bell on the hotel desk gave forth its jarring jingle.