One absinthe drip is not much -but I said again to Kerner, kindly:
"You are a fool." And then, in the vernacular: "Jesse Holmes for yours."
And then I looked around and saw the Fool-Killer, as he had always appeared to my imagination, sitting at a nearby table, and regarding us with his reddish, fatal, relentless eyes. He was Jesse Holmes from top to toe; he had the long, gray, ragged beard, the gray clothes of ancient cut, the executioner's look, and the dusty shoes of one who bad been called from afar. His eyes were turned fixedly upon Kerner. I shuddered to think that I bad invoked him from his assiduous southern duties. I thought of flying, and then I kept my seat, reflecting that many men bad escaped his ministrations when it seemed that nothing short of an appointment as Ambassador to Spain could save them from him. I had called my brother Kerner a fool and was in danger of hell fire. That was nothing; but I would try to save him from Jesse Holmes.
The Fool-Killer got up from his table and came over to ours. He rested his hands upon it, and turned his burning, vindictive eyes upon Kerner, ignoring me.
"You are a hopeless fool," be said to the artist. "Haven't you had enough of starvation yet? I offer you one more opportunity. Give up this girl and come back to your home. Refuse, and you must take the consequences."
The Fool-Killer's threatening face was within a foot of his victim's; but to my horror, Kerner made not the slightest sign of being aware of his presence.
"We will be married next week," be muttered absent-mindedly. "With my studio furniture and some second-hand stuff we can make out."
"You have decided your own fate," said the FoolKiller, in a low but terrible voice. "You may consider yourself as one dead. You have had your last chance."
"In the moonlight," went on Kerner, softly, "we will sit under the skylight with our guitar and sing away the false delights of pride and money."
"On your own head be it," hissed the Fool-Killer, and my scalp prickled when I perceived that neither Kerner's eyes nor his ears took the slightest cognizance of Jesse Holmes. And then I knew that for some reason the veil had been lifted for me alone, and that I bad been elected to save my friend from destruction at the Fool-Killer's bands. Something of the fear and wonder of it must have showed itself in my face.
"Excuse me," said Kerner, with his wan, amiable smile; "was I talking to myself? I think it is getting to be a habit with me."
The Fool-Killer turned and walked out of Farronils.
"Wait here for me," said I, rising; "I must speak to that man. Had you no answer for him? Because you are a fool must you die like a mouse under his foot? Could you not utter one squeak in your own defence?
"You are drunk," said Kerner, heartlessly. "No one addressed me."
"The destroyer of your mind," said I, "stood above you just now and marked you for his victim. You are not blind or deaf."
"I recognized no such person," said Kerner. "I have seen no one but you at this table. Sit down. Hereafter you shall have no more absinthe drips."
"Wait here," said I, furious; "if you don't care for your own life, I will save it for you."
I hurried out and overtook the man in gray halfway down the block. He looked as I bad seen him in my fancy a thousand times - truculent, gray and awful. He walked with the white oak staff, and but for the street-sprinkler the dust would have been flying under his tread. I caught him by the sleeve and steered him to a dark angle of a building. I knew he was a myth, and I did not want a cop to see me conversing with vacancy, for I might land in Bellevue minus my silver matchbox and diamond ring.
"Jesse Holmes," said I, facing him with apparent bravery, "I know you. I have heard of you all my life. I know now what a scourge you have been to your country. Instead of killing fools you have been murdering the youth and genius that are necessary to make a people live and grow great. You are a fool yourself, Holmes; you began killing off the brightest and best of our countrymen three generations ago, when the old and obsolete standards of society and honor and orthodoxy were narrow and bigoted. You proved that when you put your murderous mark upon my friend Kerner -the wisest chap I ever knew in my life."
The Fool-Killer looked at me grimly and closely.
"You've a queer jag," said he, curiously. "Oh, yes; I see who you are now. You were sitting with him at the table. Well, if I'm not mistaken, I heard you call him a fool, too."
"I did," said I. "I delight in doing so. It is from envy. By all the standards that you know he is the most egregious and grandiloquent and gorgeous fool in all the world. That's why you want to kill him."
"Would you mind telling me who or what you think I am?" asked the old man.
I laughed boisterously and then stopped suddenly, for I remembered that it would not do to be seen so hilarious in the company of nothing but a brick wall.
"You are Jesse Holmes, the Fool-Killer," I said, solemnly, "and you are going to kill my friend Kerner. I don't know who rang you up, but if you do kill him I'll see that you get pinched for it. That is," I added, despairingly, "if I can get a cop to see you. They have a poor eye for mortals, and I think it would take the whole force to round up a myth murderer."
"Well," said the Fool-Killer, briskly, "I must be going. You had better go home and sleep it off. Good-night."
At this I was moved by a sudden fear for Kerner to a softer and more pleading mood. I leaned against the gray man's sleeve and besought him:
"Good Mr. Fool-Killer, please don't kill little Kerner. Why can't you go back South and kill Congressmen and clay-caters and let us alone? Why don't you go up on Fifth Avenue and kill millionaires that keep their money locked up and won't let young fools marry because one of 'em lives on the wrong street? Come and have a drink, Jesse. Will you never get on to your job?"
"Do you know this girl that your friend has made himself a fool about?" asked the Fool-Killer.
"I have the honor," said I, "and that's why I called Kerner a fool. He is a fool because he has waited so long before marrying her. He is a fool because be has been waiting in the hopes of getting the consent of some absurd two-million-dollar-fool parent or something of the sort."
"Maybe," said the Fool-Killer -" maybe I -I might have looked at it differently. Would you mind going back to the restaurant and bringing your friend Kerner here?"
"OH, what's the use, Jesse," I yawned. "He can't see you. He didn't know you were talking to him at the table, You are a fictitious character, you know."
"Maybe He can this time. Will you go fetch him?"
"All right," said I, "but I've a suspicion that you're not strictly sober, Jesse. You seem to be wavering and losing your outlines. Don't vanish before I get back."
I went back to Kerner and said:
"There's a man with an invisible homicidal mania waiting to see you outside. I believe he wants to murder you. Come along. You won't see him, so there's nothing to be frightened about."
Kerner looked anxious.
"Why," said be, "I had no idea one absinthe would do that. You'd better stick to Wurzburger. I'll walk home with you."
I led him to Jesse Holmes's.
"Rudolf," said the Fool-Killer, "I'll give in. Bring her up to the house. Give me your hand, boy.",
"Good for you, dad," said Kerner, shaking hands with the old man. You'll never regret it after you know her."
"So, you did see him when he was talking to you at the table?" I asked Kerner.
"We hadn't spoken to each other in a year," said Kerner. "It's all right now."
I walked away.
"Where are you going?" called Kerner.
"I am going to look for Jesse Holmes," I answered, with dignity and reserve.
TRANSIENTS IN ARCADIA
There is a hotel on Broadway that has escaped discovery by the summer-resort promoters. It is deep and wide and cool. Its rooms are finished in dark oak of a low temperature. Home-made breezes and deep-green shrubbery give it the delights without the inconveniences of the Adirondacks. One can mount its broad staircases or glide dreamily upward in its aerial elevators, attended by guides in brass buttons, with a serene joy that Alpine climbers have never attained. There is a chef in its kitchen who will prepare for you brook trout better than the White Mountains ever served, sea food that would turn Old Point Comfort -"by Gad, sah!" -green with envy, and Maine venison that would melt the official heart of a game warden.