Just then I was determined that my companion should not stray back to the wreck, and to that end I was determinedly facetious.
“Do you know that it is Sunday?” she asked suddenly, “and that we are actually ragged?”
“Never mind that,” I retorted. “All Baltimore is divided on Sunday into three parts, those who rise up and go to church, those who rise up and read the newspapers, and those who don’t rise up. The first are somewhere between the creed and the sermon, and we need not worry about the others.”
“You treat me like a child,” she said almost pettishly. “Don’t try so hard to be cheerful. It - it is almost ghastly.”
After that I subsided like a pricked balloon, and the remainder of the ride was made in silence. The information that she would go to friends in the city was a shock: it meant an earlier separation than I had planned for. But my arm was beginning again. In putting her into a cab I struck it and gritted my teeth with the pain. It was probably for that reason that I forgot the gold bag.
She leaned forward and held out her hand. “I may not have another chance to thank you,” she said, “and I think I would better not try, anyhow. I cannot tell you how grateful I am.” I muttered something about the gratitude being mine: owing to the knock I was seeing two cabs, and two girls were holding out two hands.
“Remember,” they were both saying, “you have never met me, Mr. Blakeley. And - if you ever hear anything about me - that is not - pleasant, I want you to think the best you can of me. Will you?”
The two girls were one now, with little flashes of white light playing all around. “I - I’m afraid that I shall think too well for my own good,” I said unsteadily. And the cab drove on.
CHAPTER XI
THE NAME WAS SULLIVAN
I had my arm done up temporarily in Baltimore and took the next train home. I was pretty far gone when I stumbled out of a cab almost into the scandalized arms of Mrs. Klopton. In fifteen minutes I was in bed, with that good woman piling on blankets and blistering me in unprotected places with hot-water bottles. And in an hour I had a whiff of chloroform and Doctor Williams had set the broken bone.
I dropped asleep then, waking in the late twilight to a realization that I was at home again, without the papers that meant conviction for Andy Bronson, with a charge of murder hanging over my head, and with something more than an impression of the girl my best friend was in love with, a girl moreover who was almost as great an enigma as the crime itself.
“And I’m no hand at guessing riddles,” I groaned half aloud. Mrs. Klopton came over promptly and put a cold cloth on my forehead.
“Euphemia,” she said to some one outside the door, “telephone the doctor that he is still rambling, but that he has switched from green ribbons to riddles.”
“There’s nothing the matter with me, Mrs. Klopton,” I rebelled. “I was only thinking out loud. Confound that cloth: it’s trickling all over me!” I gave it a fling, and heard it land with a soggy thud on the floor.
“Thinking out loud is delirium,” Mrs. Klopton said imperturbably. “A fresh doth, Euphemia.”
This time she held it on with a firm pressure that I was too weak to resist. I expostulated feebly that I was drowning, which she also laid to my mental exaltation, and then I finally dropped into a damp sleep. It was probably midnight when I roused again. I had been dreaming of the wreck, and it was inexpressibly comforting to feel the stability of my bed, and to realize the equal stability of Mrs. Klopton, who sat, fully attired, by the night light, reading Science and Health.
“Does that book say anything about opening the windows on a hot night?” I suggested, when I had got my bearings.
She put it down immediately and came over to me. If there is one time when Mrs. Klopton is chastened - and it is the only time - it is when she reads Science and Health. “I don’t like to open the shutters, Mr. Lawrence,” she explained. “Not since the night you went away.”
But, pressed further, she refused to explain. “The doctor said you were not to be excited,” she persisted. “Here’s your beef tea.”
“Not a drop until you tell me,” I said firmly. “Besides, you know very well there’s nothing the matter with me. This arm of mine is only a false belief.” I sat up gingerly. “Now - why don’t you open that window?”
Mrs. Klopton succumbed. “Because there are queer goings-on in that house next door,” she said. “If you will take the beef tea, Mr. Lawrence, I will tell you.”
The queer goings-on, however, proved to be slightly disappointing. It seemed that after I left on Friday night, a light was seen flitting fitfully through the empty house next door. Euphemia had seen it first and called Mrs. Klopton. Together they had watched it breathlessly until it disappeared on the lower floor.
“You should have been a writer of ghost stories,” I said, giving my pillows a thump. “And so it was fitting flitfully!”
“That’s what it was doing,” she reiterated. “Fitting flitfully - I mean flitting fitfully - how you do throw me out, Mr. Lawrence! And what’s more, it came again!”
“Oh, come now, Mrs. Klopton,” I objected, “ghosts are like lightning; they never strike twice in the same night. That is only worth half a cup of beef tea.”
“You may ask Euphemia,” she retorted with dignity. “Not more than an hour after, there was a light there again. We saw it through the chinks of the shutters. Only - this time it began at the lower floor and climbed!”
“You oughtn’t to tell ghost stories at night,” came McKnight’s voice from the doorway. “Really, Mrs. Klopton, I’m amazed at you. You old duffer! I’ve got you to thank for the worst day of my life.”
Mrs. Klopton gulped. Then realizing that the “old duffer” was meant for me, she took her empty cup and went out muttering.
“The Pirate’s crazy about me, isn’t she?” McKnight said to the closing door. Then he swung around and held out his hand.
“By Jove,” he said, “I’ve been laying you out all day, lilies on the door-bell, black gloves, everything. If you had had the sense of a mosquito in a snow-storm, you would have telephoned me.”
“I never even thought of it.” I was filled with remorse. “Upon my word, Rich, I hadn’t an idea beyond getting away from that place. If you had seen what I saw - ”
McKnight stopped me. “Seen it! Why, you lunatic, I’ve been digging for you all day in the ruins! I’ve lunched and dined on horrors. Give me something to rinse them down, Lollie.”
He had fished the key of the cellarette from its hiding-place in my shoe bag and was mixing himself what he called a Bernard Shaw - a foundation of brandy and soda, with a little of everything else in sight to give it snap. Now that I saw him clearly, he looked weary and grimy. I hated to tell him what I knew he was waiting to hear, but there was no use wading in by inches. I ducked and got it over.
“The notes are gone, Rich,” I said, as quietly as I could. In spite of himself his face fell.
“I - of course I expected it,” he said. “But - Mrs. Klopton said over the telephone that you had brought home a grip and I hoped - well, Lord knows we ought not to complain. You’re here, damaged, but here.” He lifted his glass. “Happy days, old man!”
“If you will give me that black bottle and a teaspoon, I’ll drink that in arnica, or whatever the stuff is; Rich, - the notes were gone before the wreck!”
He wheeled and stared at me, the bottle in his hand. “Lost, strayed or stolen?” he queried with forced lightness.
“Stolen, although I believe the theft was incidental to something else.”
Mrs. Klopton came in at that moment, with an eggnog in her hand. She glanced at the clock, and, without addressing any one in particular, she intimated that it was time for self-respecting folks to be at home in bed. McKnight, who could never resist a fling at her back, spoke to me in a stage whisper.