He said:
“We’re friends of yours, ain’t we, Miss Williams?”
She nodded, wondering.
“Old friends — pals?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I want to ask you a question. If you don’t want to answer it, all right. What I mean is, maybe I’ve got no right to ask it, but I want to know. Do you love this guy Knowlton?”
Lila’s face colored, she hesitated, and then answered simply:
“Yes.”
“How well do you love him?”
“As well” — the answer came as promptly as though it were printed in a catechism — as indeed it is — “as he loves me.”
Dumain cried “Bravo!” and Dougherty grinned. Then they rose, and each extended a hand to Lila, as a “pal.”
She understood, but could not speak, and took the outstretched hands, one in each of her own. Then she found her tongue and started to stammer her gratitude.
“Cut it!” said Dougherty rudely. He was unused to emotion of the tender sort, and this had been a trying scene. “The thing to do now is to get him out. And, little pal, leave it to us. It’s a cinch. But, believe me, you’ll have to pay for it. There’s one thing we’ve got to have.”
“A kees from zee bride?” Dumain suggested.
“No, you darned Frenchman. An invitation to the wedding!”
Chapter XV
Number Thirty-two
After a night in his cell at the Tombs Knowlton rose from his cot early in the morning with a racking headache and a poignant sense of desolation and despair.
But his breakfast, which he forced himself to swallow, and his bath, such as it was, considerably refreshed him, and he found that the night had, at least, cleared his brain and left him able to think. He sat on the edge of his cot and considered his calamity, if not calmly, with fortitude and a supply of the dry light of reason.
He tried to keep his mind off of Lila; he could not think of her with fortitude; it filled him with an overwhelming sense of her loyalty and bravery and sweet compassion.
He reviewed in his mind the probable evidence against himself, turning it over and over, trying to discover its value, but it was like groping blindly in the dark. He knew nothing of what was known.
Had Red Tim been captured? Did they have any direct evidence of any of his — he sought a word — transactions? Or had they counted on catching him “with the goods on” — and been foiled by Lila?
All the morning he sat and pondered on these questions when he was not thinking of Lila. He felt little anxiety concerning her; she had given, before him, so convincing an instance of her wit and courage that he felt assured of her safety. He knew she had escaped from the rooms, and though she had carried a dangerous burden she could have found no serious difficulty in disposing of it.
He remembered her embarrassed timidity as she had entered his rooms, her flash of anger at his seeming indifference, the light of awakening gladness in her eyes as he had told her his love — and then, her arms clasped about his neck, her lips pressed to his, her frank, sweet words of surrender.
And now — he glanced at the bare prison walls — this! He shuddered and groaned.
At that moment there came a voice from the grated door — the rasping voice of the turnkey:
“Knowlton! Someone to see you!”
The man on the cot sprang to his feet in surprise. Could it be — But no, surely it could not be Lila, he thought, and, hesitating, stammered:
“Who is it?”
Then he crossed to the door and peered through the grating.
“Dougherty!” he cried, astonished. “What in the name of Heaven brings you here?”
The ex-prizefighter, who was standing in the middle of the corridor, approached the door.
“Hello, Knowlton! You seem to be on the wrong side this time. How’s the world?”
Knowlton stood staring at him stiffly, without speaking. Why had he come? Had anything happened to Lila? Had she been arrested?
“What do you want?” he demanded, in a voice hoarse with anxiety.
Dougherty laughed.
“That’s a devil of a way to talk to a friend. But I can see you’ve got the Willies, so I’ll excuse you.”
“A... a friend?” Knowlton stammered.
“Sure.” Dougherty laughed again, possibly to hide a certain embarrassment. “Do you think I’d be here if I wasn’t? Among other things, I’ve got a little note here for you from Miss Williams.”
“Where is she?”
“At home.”
“Is she all right? Is she well?”
“Yes — both.”
“Thank God! And the note?”
“Not so loud.” Dougherty came closer to the door. “I’ll have to slip it to you on the quiet. And talk lower — you never can tell in this little hotel who’s around. Wait a minute — here — quick!”
A tiny roll of paper showed itself through the bars of the door. Knowlton grasped it with anxious fingers and placed it in his pocket.
His voice was tremulous with feeling.
“Thanks, old man. A thousand thanks. You’re sure she’s all right?”
“Absolutely.”
“Thank God!” Knowlton’s fingers closed convulsively over the paper in his pocket. “That’s really all I cared about. It doesn’t matter much what happens to me — anyway, I deserve it. But if she had been—”
“Well, she wasn’t,” Dougherty interrupted. “And now to get down to business, for I haven’t got any too much time. You’re going to get out of this thing, Knowlton, and we’re going to help you.”
“But why—”
“Never mind why. Of course we’re doing it mostly for her, but she told us some stuff about you this morning that we didn’t know, and we feel we gave you kind of a dirty deal, and we want to square up. But mostly it’s for her. You are on the square with her, ain’t you? That’s all we want to know.”
The question was humiliating, but Knowlton swallowed it. He felt that he deserved it, and he realized that Dougherty had a right to ask it.
He said simply:
“You know I am. Didn’t she tell you?”
“Yes. I know. And say — you’re a lucky devil, Knowlton.”
Then they proceeded to a discussion of the steps to be taken for Knowlton’s defense. Dougherty was surprised to discover that he knew nothing of the nature of the evidence against him, and declared that it greatly increased their difficulties.
He ended:
“But leave that to the lawyer. Dumain has gone after him now — I left him over at the subway — and they’ll probably be here this afternoon.”
“But—” Knowlton hesitated.
“Well?”
“Why, about the lawyer. I had thought of conducting my own defense. I don’t believe he can help us any.”
“What’s the matter? Broke?” said Dougherty bluntly.
“The fact is — yes. Or nearly so. And I certainly can’t take any more favors—”
“Go to the deuce with your favors! Didn’t I say we’re going to help you out of this? Don’t be a fool, Knowlton! But I can’t quite understand how you can be broke. I supposed you had a nice little pile stowed away somewhere. You don’t mean to tell me you shoved the queer for that gang and got nothing out of it?”
Knowlton almost smiled.
“But I stopped that a month ago.”
“I know that. She told us all about it. But didn’t you have sense enough to dig a fat little hole somewhere?”
Instead of answering the question Knowlton asked one of his own:
“Didn’t you ask me a little while ago if I was on the square with Miss Williams?”
Dougherty nodded, wondering what that had to do with the accumulation of a “pile.”