The lobby was full of men smoking and laughing and talking, oblivious of the fact that a near tragedy was being enacted scarcely a dozen feet away.
“And then,” Dougherty was saying, “we let you alone. It wasn’t my fault, but Dumain and Driscoll wouldn’t stand with us. Now they’ve got to. We’ve got you marked, and the game’s up.”
“What is it — another prize-ring entertainment?” asked Knowlton.
“No. I wish it was. I don’t like this thing any better than you do. It ain’t the right kind of a deal.”
Dougherty spoke slowly and with some hesitation as he continued:
“But I promised to stick, so here goes. It’s this way: you leave New York today and give us your word to let Miss Williams alone, or in you go. We’re on. You’re shoving the queer.”
Knowlton didn’t blink an eyelash. He sat gazing across the lobby at Lila’s profile in silence, without a sign even that he had heard. Then he turned his head and met Dougherty’s eyes, saying in an even tone:
“That’s pretty bad, Tom. Couldn’t you think up anything better? You’ve been having bad dreams.”
But Dougherty shook his head.
“It’s no use, Knowlton. We know. No matter how, but it ought to be enough to tell you that you shouldn’t have trusted Red Tim. We’ve got enough on you right now to hold you tight. The game’s up.”
Knowlton was regarding his companion keenly, and he saw the truth in his unwavering gaze and air of half commiseration. Subterfuge was useless. The game was up.
For a long minute he sat trying to collect his thoughts. Dougherty’s untroubled calmness, the careless attitude of Lila seated but a few feet away, the gaiety of the lobby, all combined to give the thing an appearance of triviality. He could hardly realize the fact that the earth was falling away under his feet.
He turned to Dougherty:
“All right, then. You’ve got it on me. But you can’t do this, Tom. It’s not like you. Do you mean to say you’d actually peach on me?”
“Perhaps not,” the ex-prizefighter admitted. “But I’m not the only one. There’s no use talking, you’re up against it, and the only way out is to beat it.
“It’s a dirty trick, and I don’t like it any better than you do, but the fact is I’m doing you a favor. The others all know about it, and they’re dead sore, and they’d do it anyway if I didn’t.”
Knowlton’s face was expressionless. His eyes stared straight into his companion’s, and they held no anger nor resentment nor appeal. But his hand held the arm of the lounge with a grip of steel and the muscles of his jaw were set tensely in his effort to control himself.
Dougherty continued to speak. He explained the conditions under which they would leave Knowlton unmolested — he must leave New York at once and give them his word not to communicate with Miss Williams. And the sooner he left the better, since there was one member of the gang who could not be trusted. It was unnecessary, said the ex-prizefighter, to mention his name.
In the end Knowlton agreed, observing calmly that he was at the end of his rope and had no alternative. In spite of his effort at control, a lifelessness and despair crept into his tone that made Dougherty curse the part he had played. Knowlton gave his promise not to see Lila and said that he would leave New York at once.
He finished:
“Of course, she will know. That’s the worst of it, Dougherty. I don’t hold any grudge against you; I suppose you couldn’t help it. But you were all blithering idiots to imagine that she could ever do anything wrong. She never did and never will.
“I was going to lunch with her today. When I think of — but that’s useless, I suppose if I wanted to see her — but I don’t want to. It would do no good.
“There’s a lot I could tell you, Dougherty, but that, too, would be useless. You’ve called the turn on me, and I certainly don’t intend to whine. Tell Dumain good-by; he was all right. He’s a good fellow, that little Frenchman.”
Knowlton rose to his feet.
“Is... is she waiting for you now?” stammered Dougherty, glancing across at Lila.
“Yes. When I’m gone, tell her not to wait any longer.”
Knowlton hesitated as though about to speak further, then, changing his mind, turned abruptly and without another word passed down the lobby and out into the street. As he passed the cigar stand he heard his name called. He recognized Dumain’s voice, but did not halt.
On the sidewalk he stopped and glanced to either side as though undecided which way to turn. Then he started at a rapid stride uptown.
His mind was still a chaos of mingled thoughts. Curiously enough, he felt little surprise.
“I am paying,” he kept muttering to himself over and over. “I am paying.”
For two hours he walked the streets, unconscious of direction or surroundings, his brain in a turmoil of regret and despair.
Rarely had he so given way to his emotions, but fate had struck him a blow that left him weak and helpless in their grasp. He called it fate. So do we all.
At the end of the two hours he found himself far uptown, on the Drive. It was a clear, crisp February day. Up from the Hudson came a damp, chilling breeze, with the faintest subtle suggestion of the spring about to come; it brought with it the shrieks of tugs and the more resonant calls of ferryboats. Above the factories and piers across the river slanted the descending sun, disclosing the melancholy barrenness of the slope below the Drive.
Knowlton faced about suddenly and retraced his steps downtown. He was fighting the hardest of all fights, and he had had no time for preparation.
He tried to clear his brain of feeling, to think connectedly; he caught himself trying to conduct a mental operation in mathematics in order to prove to himself that he could think, and he laughed aloud. That was a good sign, he told himself: he could still laugh.
He found himself, without knowing how he had come there, at the entrance of the house on Thirtieth Street. He looked at the door for a moment irresolutely, then entered and mounted the stairs to his rooms on the second floor.
He glanced at a little bronze clock on the mantel; it was half past four. His train for the West was to leave Grand Central Station at seven-thirty.
He sat down on a chair by the window, trying once more to collect his thoughts, but in vain. One picture filled his brain to the exclusion of all else.
Remorse, which comes only after suffering, had not yet touched him; he knew only that his every sense, his very reason, had been dulled and obscured by an all-pervading pain.
But if he could not think, he could act, he told himself. As to the course to be followed he had no choice. He had promised Dougherty that he would leave New York, and since his future was decided by that promise there was really no necessity for thought.
He pulled his trunk to the middle of the floor and began to pack, throwing in suits and shirts indiscriminately. From a shelf in the wardrobe he took a package wrapped in brown paper, about a foot square, and stood for some minutes regarding it uncertainly.
“That won’t do,” he muttered, glancing at the fireplace, long disused, “and I don’t dare take it to the furnace.” Then, still undecided and placing the package on a table, he resumed his packing.
Finally the trunk was filled and there remained only to place his toilet articles and a change of linen in his suitcase, together with the contents of a lower drawer in the wardrobe. These items were somewhat curious.
There was a small white glove, two tiny handkerchiefs, a dozen or more letters, two photographs, and several books. These he wrapped carefully and placed in the suitcase, with the exception of one of the books and a photograph.