But Lila, seeing his helplessness, acted for herself. For a second only she stood rooted to the spot with terror; then she glanced with a flashing eye round the room, while her brain worked with the rapidity of lightning.
She saw, a few feet to the right, a curtained alcove; then, as she turned, her eye fell on the package of counterfeit money lying on the trunk. With silent swiftness she crossed the room and picked up the package, and as swiftly sped back to the side of Knowlton.
She held her mouth close, very close against his ear, that no sound might reach the other side of the door, and whispered:
“Get them into the other room — all of them — as far away as possible.”
She saw that he did not comprehend her meaning, but there was no time to explain further. She must trust to his sagacity as soon as he recovered his wits.
With one last glance about the room to make sure that there was nothing in it to reveal her presence, she pressed his hand swiftly and disappeared behind the curtain of the alcove. All this had taken but three or four seconds.
The knocking on the door and the command to open were repeated. Knowlton turned the knob of the catch-lock and the door flew open.
Three men burst into the room, the foremost exclaiming, “Here he is!” as he ran to Knowlton, who had fallen back several steps from the door.
And then Knowlton understood Lila’s plan, simple and admirable. In an instant his brain cleared, and, realizing that Lila had taken the package of counterfeit money — the evidence — with her into the alcove, he decided on his own plan of action.
Turning suddenly, just as the man nearest him was about to grasp him by the shoulder, he sprang aside with the swiftness and agility of a panther and disappeared into the room beyond, toward the rear. As he had foreseen, the three men, all of them, rushed after him and found him standing by a window looking out on the rear court, laughing gaily.
“Why all the excitement?” he queried pleasantly. “Did you think I was trying to run away?”
The leader of the detectives, a heavy, red-faced man with carroty hair, grunted.
“Get him!” he said to his companions.
Then Knowlton had need of all his composure. But he was not thinking of himself. As the two detectives grasped him roughly and handcuffed his wrists and led him back into the room in front, he was saying to himself. “She had plenty of time. But was that what she meant? It must have been. But where did she go?”
He dared not glance at the alcove; he felt that his eyes would have burned a hole through the curtain.
Then the detectives began a search of the rooms.
“I’m sure the stuff is here,” said the red-faced man, “and we’ve got to find it. You might save us the trouble,” he added, turning to Knowlton. “What’s the use? The game’s up. Where is it?”
Knowlton did not answer. He was leaning forward in an agony of anxiety, watching one of the detectives, who had just approached the alcove and grasped the curtain.
He pulled the curtain aside, letting the gaslight stream into the alcove, and Knowlton barely suppressed a cry of joy. It was empty.
Then he replied to the man who had spoken to him:
“If you’ll tell me what you want I may be of some assistance. Everything I own is in that trunk and suitcase,” pointing to them.
“Huh!” the red-faced man grunted. “Going to beat it, eh? Open ’em up, boys, while I look him over. Got a key for the trunk?”
Knowlton drew a bunch of keys from his pocket and tossed it to one of the men, then submitted himself to be searched. The detective took several miscellaneous articles from the young man’s pockets, then a pocketbook. This he opened expectantly; but as he examined its contents there appeared on his face an expression of keen disappointment.
“What the deuce!” he exclaimed. “Where do you keep it?”
“I have said,” Knowlton replied, “that I have no idea what you are looking for. If you will tell me—”
“Cut it!” said the other roughly. “I guess you’re a wise one, all right, but what’s the use? I tell you we’ve got enough on you already to send you up. You might as well talk straight.”
Knowlton was silent. The red-faced man glared at him for a moment, then walked over to aid the others in their search of the trunk and suitcase.
They pulled out clothing and toilet articles and books, and heaped them indiscriminately on the floor, while Knowlton looked on with a grim smile. Now and then oaths of disappointment came from the lips of the searchers.
Suddenly one of them uttered a cry of triumph and drew forth a neatly wrapped brown paper parcel. The leader took a knife from his pocket, cut the string of the parcel, and tore away the wrapper with eager fingers, disclosing to view — a stack of real-estate contracts.
“The deuce!” he ejaculated. “You’re a boob, Evans.”
Again they set to work.
Soon they finished with the trunk and suitcase and began on the rooms themselves. Nothing escaped them. They took the covers and mattress from the bed and shook each separately.
The couch was turned upside down and examined with probes. The drawers in the bureaus and tables and wardrobes were removed, and the interiors of the articles subjected to a close scrutiny. They raked out the dust and rubbish from the fireplace, and lifted the bricks.
The search lasted nearly an hour. They found nothing.
The red-faced man, muttering an oath, turned to Knowlton:
“Well, we’ve got you, anyway, my boy. I guess you’ll find out you can’t play with Uncle Sam.”
Then he turned to his men:
“Come on, Evans, we’ll take him down. You stay here, Corliss, and look the place over again and keep an eye out. Try the fire escape — we didn’t look out there — and the dumbwaiter. The stuff ought to be here somewhere. If you find anything let me know; if not, report at the office in the morning as usual. Come along, Knowlton.”
“But where?” Knowlton stood up. “And on what authority? And for what?”
“To the Ritz, for dinner,” said the red-faced man sarcastically, while the others grinned delightedly at the keen wit of their superior. “Where d’ye suppose? To the Tombs. I suppose next you’ll want to see the paper. Here it is.”
He drew a stamped, official-looking document from his pocket and waved it about in front of Knowlton’s face.
The young man said nothing further, but allowed himself to be led out of the rooms into the hall.
“Is it necessary — must I wear these on the street?” he stammered, holding up his shackled hands.
The red-faced man eyed him grimly.
“I guess two of us can take care of you,” he said finally. “Take off the irons, Evans.”
The other removed the handcuffs from Knowlton’s wrists, and they descended the stairs and passed out to the street, one on either side of the prisoner.
Half an hour later Knowlton was pacing the floor of a narrow cell in the Tombs prison, with a heart full of remorse and bitterness and despair.
Yet he had no thought of his own danger, but was possessed of a fearful anxiety for Lila. Where had she gone? What had she done? Alone on the street at night, and with such a burden — the burden of his own crime! He felt that the thought would drive him mad, and he bit his lips to keep himself from crying out.
He thought of her magnificent courage in the awful scene at his rooms, and his eyes filled with tears. How brave and daring she had been! And how it must have hurt her innocence and proud womanhood to have been driven to such extremities for him — a criminal!
He told himself that she would despise him.