The Black Bag Part 14

"As to what?" inquired Kirkwood pointedly, selecting a cigar.

He got no immediate reply, but felt Calendar's sharp eyes upon him while he manoeuvered with matches for a light.

"That's so," it came at length. "You don't know. I kind of forgot for a minute; somehow you seemed on the inside."

Kirkwood laughed lightly. "I've experienced something of the same sensation in the past few hours."

"Don't doubt it." Calendar was watching him narrowly. "I suppose," he put it to him abruptly, "you haven't changed your mind?"

"Changed my mind?"

"About coming in with me."

"My dear sir, I can have no mind to change until a plain proposition is laid before me."

"Hmm!" Calendar puffed vigorously until it occurred to him to change the subject. "You won't mind telling me what happened to you and Dorothy?"

"Certainly not."

Calendar drew nearer and Kirkwood, lowering his voice, narrated briefly the events since he had left the Pless in Dorothy's company.

Her father followed him intently, interrupting now and again with exclamation or pertinent question; as, Had Kirkwood been able to see the face of the man in No. 9, Frognall Street? The negative answer seemed to disconcert him.

"Youngster, you say? Blam' if I can lay my mind to _him_! Now if that Mulready--"

"It would have been impossible for Mulready--whoever he is--to recover and get to Craven Street before we did," Kirkwood pointed out.

"Well--go on." But when the tale was told, "It's that scoundrel, Mulready!"

the man affirmed with heat. "It's his hand--I know him. I might have had sense enough to see he'd take the first chance to hand me the double-cross.

Well, this does for _him_, all right!" Calendar lowered viciously at the river. "You've been blame' useful," he told Kirkwood a.s.sertively. "If it hadn't been for you, I don't know where _I'd_ be now,--nor Dorothy, either,"--an obvious afterthought. "There's no particular way I can show my appreciation, I suppose? Money--?"

"I've got enough to last me till I reach New York, thank you."

"Well, if the time ever comes, just shout for George B. I won't be wanting.... I only wish you were with us; but that's out of the question."

"Doubtless ..."

"No two ways about it. I bet anything you've got a conscience concealed about your person. What? You're an honest man, eh?"

"I don't want to sound immodest," returned Kirkwood, amused.

"You don't need to worry about that.... But an honest man's got no business in _my_ line." He glanced again at his watch. "d.a.m.n that Mulready! I wonder if he was 'cute enough to take another way? Or did he think ... The fool!"

He cut off abruptly, seeming depressed by the thought that he might have been outwitted; and, clasping hands behind his back, chewed savagely on his cigar, watching the river. Kirkwood found himself somewhat wearied; the uselessness of his presence there struck him with added force. He bethought him of his boat-train, scheduled to leave a station miles distant, in an hour and a half. If he missed it, he would be stranded in a foreign land, penniless and practically without friends--Brentwick being away and all the rest of his circle of acquaintances on the other side of the Channel. Yet he lingered, in poor company, daring fate that he might see the end of the affair. Why?

There was only one honest answer to that question. He stayed on because of his interest in a girl whom he had known for a matter of three hours, at most. It was insensate folly on his part, ridiculous from any point of view. But he made no move to go.

The slow minutes lengthened monotonously.

There came a sound from the street level. Calendar held up a hand of warning. "Here they come! Steady!" he said tensely. Kirkwood, listening intently, interpreted the noise as a clash of hoofs upon cobbles.

Calendar turned to the boat.

"Sheer off," he ordered. "Drop out of sight. I'll whistle when I want you."

"Aye, aye, sir."

The boat slipped noiselessly away with the current and in an instant was lost to sight. Calendar plucked at Kirkwood's sleeve, drawing him into the shadow of the steps. "E-easy," he whispered; "and, I say, lend me a hand, will you, if Mulready turns ugly?"

"Oh, yes," a.s.sented Kirkwood, with a nonchalance not entirely una.s.sumed.

The racket drew nearer and ceased; the hush that fell thereafter seemed only accentuated by the purling of the river. It was ended by footsteps echoing in the covered pa.s.sageway. Calendar craned his thick neck round the shoulder of stone, reconnoitering the landing and stairway.

"Thank G.o.d!" he said under his breath. "I was right, after all!"

A man's deep tones broke out above. "This way. Mind the steps; they're a bit slippery, Miss Dorothy."

"But my father--?" came the girl's voice, attuned to doubt.

"Oh, he'll be along--if he isn't waiting now, in the boat."

They descended, the man leading. At the foot, without a glance to right or left, he advanced to the edge of the stage, leaning out over the rail as if endeavoring to locate the rowboat. At once the girl appeared, moving to his side.

"But, Mr. Mulready--"

The girl's words were drowned by a prolonged blast on the boatswain's whistle at her companion's lips; the shorter one followed in due course.

Calendar edged forward from Kirkwood's side.

"But what shall we do if my father isn't here? Wait?"

"No; best not to; best to get on the _Alethea_ as soon as possible, Miss Calendar. We can send the boat back."

"'Once aboard the lugger the girl is mine'--eh, Mulready?--to say nothing of the loot!"

If Calendar's words were jocular, his tone conveyed a different impression entirely. Both man and girl wheeled right about to face him, the one with a strangled oath, the other with a low cry.

"The devil!" exclaimed this Mr. Mulready.

"Oh! My father!" the girl voiced her recognition of him.

"Not precisely one and the same person," commented Calendar suavely.

"But--er--thanks, just as much.... You see, Mulready, when I make an appointment, I keep it."

"We'd begun to get a bit anxious about you--" Mulready began defensively.

"So I surmised, from what Mrs. Hallam and Mr. Kirkwood told me.... Well?"

The man found no ready answer. He fell back a pace to the railing, his features working with his deep chagrin. The murky flare of the gas-lamp overhead fell across a face handsome beyond the ordinary but marred by a sullen humor and seamed with indulgence: a face that seemed hauntingly familiar until Kirkwood in a flash of visual memory reconstructed the portrait of a man who lingered over a dining-table, with two empty chairs for company. This, then, was he whom Mrs. Hallam had left at the Pless; a tall, strong man, very heavy about the chest and shoulders....