The Seventh Noon Part 25

"You've found him!"

"In callage," nodded Chung, with the genial air of a clergyman after completing a marriage ceremony.

Donaldson reached the carriage before Chung had descended the first half-dozen steps. He opened the door and saw a limp, unkempt form sprawled upon the seat. He recognized it instantly as Arsdale. But the man was in no condition to be carried home. He must take him somewhere and watch over him until he was in a more presentable shape.

But one place suggested itself,--his own apartments.

Donaldson paused. He must take this bedraggled, disheveled remnant of a man to the rooms which stood for rich cleanliness. He must soil the nice spotlessness of the retreat for which he had paid so dearly. In view of the little he had so far enjoyed of his costly privileges, this last imposition seemed like a grim joke.

"To the Waldorf," he ordered the driver with a smile.

He himself climbed up on the box where he could find fresh air. At the hotel he bribed a bellboy to help him with the man to his room by way of the servant's entrance. Then he telephoned for the hotel physician, Dr. Seton.

Before the doctor arrived Donaldson managed to strip the clothes from the senseless man and to roll him into bed. Then he sat down in a chair and stared at him.

"It's an opium jag," he explained, as soon as Dr. Seton came in, "but that is n't the worst feature of it. I 'm tied here to him until he comes to. I can't tell you how valuable my time is to me. I want you to take the most heroic measures to get him out of it as soon as possible."

"Very well, we 'll clear his system of the poison. But we can't be too violent. We must save his nerves."

"d.a.m.n his nerves," Donaldson exclaimed. "He doesn't deserve nerves."

The doctor glanced sharply from his patient to Donaldson himself. He noted the latter's pupils, his tense lips, his tightened fingers. He had jumped at the word poison, like a murderer at the word police.

"See here," he demanded, "you have n't any of this stuff in you, have you?"

"No," answered Donaldson, calmly.

"Anything else the matter with you?"

"Nothing but nervousness, I guess. I 've been under something of a strain recently."

Donaldson turned away. He was afraid of the keen eyes of this man.

Barstow had not experimented very long with the stuff; perhaps, after all, it did produce symptoms. But he rea.s.sured himself the next minute, remembering that the drug was unknown. Barstow had not revealed his discovery to any one. If he showed a dozen symptoms they would be unrecognizable.

The doctor dropped his questioning and turned to his patient. He subjected the man to the stomach-pump and hot baths. Donaldson a.s.sisted and watched every detail of the vigorous treatment with increasing interest. At the end of two hours Arsdale was allowed to sleep.

Seton put on his coat and wrote out instructions for the further care of the man. But before leaving he again turned his shrewd eyes upon Donaldson himself.

"My boy," he said kindly, "you ought to pay some attention to your own health. I hate to see a man of your age go to pieces."

He squinted curiously at Donaldson's eyes. The latter withdrew a little.

"What makes you think there is anything wrong with me?" he asked.

"Your eyes for one thing," he answered.

"Nonsense. If I need anything, its only a good sweating, such as you gave Arsdale."

"There are some poisons not so easily sweated out."

Donaldson hesitated. While watching this man at work upon the boy, he had felt a temptation which was now burning hot within him. It was possible that it was not too late even now to clean his own system of the drug he had swallowed. This man, he knew, would bring to his aid all the wisdom of medical science. Barstow may have been mistaken, although he knew the careful chemist well enough to realize this was well nigh an impossibility. The next second he held out his hand. It was steady. He smiled as he saw Seton pause a moment to note if it trembled.

"Thanks for all you 've done, doctor," he said. "Do you think I can take him home tomorrow?"

"If you follow my instructions. The boy really has a sound physique.

He ought to pull out quickly."

As the door closed upon the doctor, Donaldson drew a breath of relief.

Thank G.o.d he had resisted his impulse. He would keep true to his compact. He must remain true to himself. That was all that was now left. There must be no shirking--no flinching. If he had played the fool, he must not play the coward. The subtle tempter had suggested the girl, but he realized that he had better not come to her at all than to come as one who had played unfairly with himself. To be unfaithful to the spirit of his undertaking would be as weak a thing as not to fulfill the letter of his oath. His shadowy duty to the girl would not justify himself in evading a crisis demanding his life for the life of another, nor would it vindicate the greater evasion. It was a matter of honor to remain true to that which at the start had justified the whole hazard to him. It was this which restrained him even from learning whether or not Barstow was in town.

The man on the bed was breathing heavily, his lips moving at every breath in a way to form a grimace. He made in this condition the whole room as tawdry as a tavern tap. And at the feet of this thing he was tossing his meager store of golden minutes.

Yet it was through this inert medium alone that Miss Arsdale could pay the debt to the father who had been so good to her; and it was only through this same unsightly sh.e.l.l that he, Donaldson, could in his turn repay his debt for the dreams she had quickened in him.

He stepped to the telephone to tell her what he could of that which he had found and done. The mere sound of her voice as it came over the wire brightened the room like a flood of light. The joy in it as she listened to what he had accomplished was payment enough for all he had sacrificed. He told her that the doctor had advised keeping the boy in for at least another day.

"Oh, but you are good!" she exclaimed. "And you will not leave him--you will guard him against running off again?"

"I shall stay here at his side until it is absolutely safe to go."

"If I could only come down!"

"But you must n't. You must stay where you are and do as you 're told."

"It will be only for to-day and to-night, won't it?"

"Probably that is all."

"That is n't very long."

"Not as time goes."

"But it will seem long."

"Will it--to you?"

He regretted the question the moment it had been uttered. But it came to his lips unbidden.

"Of course," she answered.

"It will seem very long to me," he returned slowly. "Almost a lifetime."

"Perhaps you will telephone now and then."

"Very often, if I may."

"The nurse says she 'll not allow me to answer the telephone after nine at night."

"Nine to-night is a long way off yet."