“Well, I’ll show you how square I was. I had two thousand dollars put away. After I got to know her, I... disposed of it.”
Dougherty stared at him incredulously.
“Do you mean to say you threw away two thousand dollars in real money?”
“Yes.”
It took the ex-prizefighter a full minute to recover from his astonishment and find his tongue, after which he stated it as his settled and firm opinion that Knowlton was hopelessly insane.
He added:
“But don’t you worry about the lawyer — leave it to us. And everything else. And now” — he glanced at his watch — “I’ve got to leave you. It’s nearly noon, and I want to catch the boys before they go out to lunch. Dumain will be here this afternoon.”
They talked a few minutes longer before the ex-prizefighter finally departed.
Knowlton listened to his footsteps and those of the turnkey as they passed down the corridor, then he crossed to the little barred window and drew forth the note from Lila. It was short:
DEAR: I have nothing to say, except that I love you, and are you sure you want to hear that? You see, I am cheerful. Mr. Dougherty and Mr. Dumain are very, very kind to me, and to you. We can never repay them. You must be cheerful, too, if you love me.
Knowlton read it over many times and pressed it to his lips. And such is the heart of man that the tears of gratitude which filled his eyes were not for Dougherty’s offer of practical and valuable assistance, but for this little inconsequential note, which said nothing except, “I love you!”
Dougherty, on his way uptown, was facing a new difficulty — a little matter of cash. He was reflecting on the fact that it takes money to prove a man’s innocence, especially when he happens to be guilty. And where was the money to come from?
He considered all possible sources of revenue, and found the total sadly deficient. He counted his own purse three times — it amounted to sixty-two dollars and forty-five cents. And this was a matter, not of a hundred or so, but of two or three thousands.
A thousand for the lawyer, a thousand for a “stake” for Knowlton and Lila, and a thousand for miscellaneous expenses. The ex-prizefighter was determined not to do the thing by halves. But where to get the three thousand?
He had been headed straight for the Lamartine; but instead of leaving the subway at Twenty-third Street he continued to Columbus Circle, and went for a walk in the park to think it over. One idea he had had from the first he dismissed as too hazardous; but as his field of speculation narrowed and revealed the entire lack of anything better, or even so good, he returned to it again and considered it seriously.
It was by no means sure, but it appealed to him — and there was nothing else. He left the park at Ninety-sixth Street and boarded a downtown Elevated.
It was a quarter past three by the solemn-faced clock above the hotel desk when Dougherty entered the lobby of the Lamartine. All of the men he sought — the Erring Knights — were there, except, of course, Sherman.
Dumain greeted the newcomer.
“Deed you see Knowlton?”
“Yes. Did you?”
The little Frenchman nodded.
“Wiz a lawyer. And I gave heem — zee — lawyer — two hundred dollars. Knowlton ees — ees—”
“Broke?”
“Yes.”
“I know it. That puts it up to us, and we’ve got to make good. Have you said anything to the boys?”
For reply Dumain began to give him an account of what had happened in the Lamartine during the preceding hour.
The other interrupted him impatiently.
“I don’t care what they thought. The point is, are they with us?”
“Yes. Positeevely. But they don’t understand—”
“I don’t care whether they understand or not. Where are they? There’s work to do. Come on!”
Five minutes later the five were gathered together on the leather lounge in the corner. Dumain arrived last, having gone to fetch Driscoll from the barber shop in the basement.
Dougherty, leaning against a marble pillar in front of the lounge, began:
“Now, is there anything you guys want to know? Did Dumain explain everything to you? Talk fast!”
There being no response he continued:
“All right. You all know the hole Knowlton’s in, and that we’ve promised Miss Williams to get him out. Well, we need three thousand dollars.”
There were exclamations of astonishment, and Booth, who was seated on the arm of the lounge puffing a cigarette, was so profoundly shocked that he fell off onto the floor.
“What do you want to do — buy up a jury?” came from Driscoll.
“Never mind what I want to do,” returned Dougherty. “I say we need three thousand. Ask Dumain how much the lawyer wants.”
They turned to the little Frenchman, who informed them that the attorney’s fee would hardly be less than a thousand, and might be more.
“And another thousand for a stake for Knowlton,” said Dougherty, “and the rest for—”
“But why should we stake Knowlton?”
“Shut up! I’m not asking you what to do — I’m telling you!” Dougherty roared. “Are we pikers? That’s what I want to know, are we pikers?”
The opinion of the majority, expressed somewhat forcibly, appeared to be that they were not “pikers.”
“Then listen to me. First, I say that we need that thousand dollars, and I don’t want to have to say it again. We’re lucky if we’ve got three hundred among us, except Dumain, and he’s no millionaire. The question is — where’ll we get it?”
“And that is what I would call quite some question,” remarked Driscoll.
“It is,” Dougherty admitted, “but I’ve got a plan. It requires a little capital. I have here fifty dollars. Everybody shell.”
They hesitated for a moment, but Dougherty’s tone was one not to be withstood — and they “shelled.” The ex-prizefighter tabulated this result:
Dougherty.................... $50
Driscoll........................ 32
Jennings......................... 13
Booth............................ 65
Said he
“That’s a hundred and sixty. I need two hundred and fifty. Dumain, give me ninety dollars.”
The little Frenchman handed it over without a word. He had already given the lawyer two hundred, and it left his purse pretty slim.
“Now,” said Dougherty, “my plan is short and sweet, and make or break. I’m going to divide this into five parts. Each of us gets fifty dollars. You can take your choice of anything in town — go wherever you please and play any game you like.
“No two are to go together. We’ll meet at Dumain’s rooms at midnight, and if one or two of us hasn’t scared up a killing somewhere, you can shoot me for a fool. We’ve got five chances.”
The faces of the Erring Knights were alight with joy. They had not expected anything like this. With vociferous applause they proclaimed the greatness of Dougherty, while that gentleman divided the two hundred and fifty among them evenly and gave them sundry advice.
Driscoll and Jennings protested that they had not an even chance with the others, since they had to work from eight till eleven in the evening, whereupon Booth remarked that it was only four o’clock, and that you could lose fifty dollars in fifty seconds if you only went about it right.
They were all optimistic. Dougherty’s scheme was an excellent one, they declared — perfect, certain to win. Knowlton was as good as free. Three thousand? It would be nearer ten.
“Wait,” said the ex-prizefighter as they left the lobby together, “wait till tonight. It’ll be time enough to crow then. I never yet saw a referee count a guy out when he was still on his feet. Remember, midnight, at Dumain’s rooms.”