Chapter XI: Part 11

“Well, we shan’t take anything that doesn’t belong to us,” laughed Calendar, fumbling with the catch; “not even so small a matter as my own child’s traveling bag. A small—heavy—gladstone bag,” he grunted, opening the valise and plunging in one greedy hand, “will—just—about—do for mine!” With which he produced the article mentioned. “This for the discard, Cap’n,” he laughed contentedly, pushing the girl’s valise aside; and, rumbling with stentorian mirth, stood beaming benignantly over the assembled company.

“Why,” he exclaimed, “this moment is worth all it cost me! My children, I forgive you freely. Mr. Kirkwood, I felicitate you cordially on having secured a most expensive wife. Really—d’you know?—I feel as if I ought to do a little something for you both.” Gurgling with delight he smote his fat palms together. “I just tell you what,” he resumed, “no one yet ever called Georgie Calendar a tight-wad. I just believe I’m going to make you kids a handsome wedding present.... The good Lord knows there’s enough of this for a fellow to be a little generous and never miss it!”

The thick mottled fingers tore nervously at the catch; eventually he got the bag open. Those about the table bent forward, all quickened by the prospect of for the first time beholding the treasure over which they had fought, for which they had suffered, so long....

A heady and luscious fragrance pervaded the atmosphere, exhaling from the open mouth of the bag. A silence, indefinitely sustained, impressed itself upon the little audience,—a breathless pause ended eventually by a sharp snap of Calendar’s teeth. “_Mmm_!” grunted the adventurer in bewilderment. He began to pant.

Abruptly his heavy hands delved into the contents of the bag, like the paws of a terrier digging in earth. To Kirkwood the air seemed temporarily thick with flying objects. Beneath his astonished eyes a towel fell upon the table—a crumpled, soiled towel, bearing on its dingy hem the inscription in indelible ink: “_Hôtel du Commerce, Anvers_.” A tooth-mug of substantial earthenware dropped to the floor with a crash. A slimy soap-dish of the same manufacture slid across the table and into Brentwick’s lap. A battered alarm clock with never a tick left in its abused carcass rang vacuously as it fell by the open bag.... The remainder was—oranges: a dozen or more small, round, golden globes of ripe fruit, perhaps a shade overripe, therefore the more aromatic.

The adventurer ripped out an oath. “Mulready, by the living God!” he raged in fury. “Done up, I swear! Done by that infernal sneak—me, blind as a bat!”

He fell suddenly silent, the blood congesting in his face; as suddenly broke forth again, haranguing the company.

“That’s why he went out and bought those damned oranges, is it? Think of it—me sitting in the hotel in Antwerp and him lugging in oranges by the bagful because he was fond of fruit! When did he do it? How do I know? If I knew, would I be here and him the devil knows where, this minute? When my back was turned, of course, the damned snake! That’s why he was so hot about picking a fight on the boat, hey? Wanted to get thrown off and take to the woods—leaving me with _this_! And that’s why he felt so awful done up he wouldn’t take a hand at hunting you two down, hey? Well—by—the—Eternal! I’ll camp on his trail for the rest of his natural-born days! I’ll have his eye-teeth for this, I’ll—”

He swayed, gibbering with rage, his countenance frightfully contorted, his fat hands shaking as he struggled for expression.

And then, while yet their own astonishment held Dorothy, Kirkwood, Brentwick and Stryker speechless, Charles, the mechanician, moved suddenly upon the adventurer.

There followed two metallic clicks. Calendar’s ravings were abrupted as if his tongue had been paralyzed. He fell back a pace, flabby jowls pale and shaking, ponderous jaw dropping on his breast, mouth wide and eyes crazed as he shook violently before him his thick fleshy wrists—securely handcuffed.

Simultaneously the mechanician whirled about, bounded eagerly across the floor, and caught Stryker at the door, his dexterous fingers twisting in the captain’s collar as he jerked him back and tripped him.

“Mr. Kirkwood!” he cried. “Here, please—one moment. Take this man’s gun, from him, will you?”

Kirkwood sprang to his assistance, and without encountering much trouble, succeeded in wresting a Webley from Stryker’s limp, flaccid fingers.

Roughly the mechanician shook the man, dragging him to his feet. “Now,” he ordered sternly, “you march to that corner, stick your nose in it, and be good! You can’t get away if you try. I’ve got other men outside, waiting for you to come out. Understand?”

Trembling like a whipped cur, Stryker meekly obeyed his instructions to the letter.

The mechanician, with a contemptuous laugh leaving him, strode back to Calendar, meanwhile whipping off his goggles; and clapped a hearty hand upon the adventurer’s quaking shoulders.

“Well!” he cried. “And are you still sailing circles round the men from Scotland Yard, Simmons, or Bellows, or Sanderson, or Calendar, or Crumbstone, or whatever name you prefer to sail under?”

Calendar glared at him aghast; then heaved a profound sigh, shrugged his fat shoulders, and bent his head in thought. An instant later he looked up. “You can’t do it,” he informed the detective vehemently; “you haven’t got a shred of evidence against me! What’s there? A pile of oranges and a peck of trash! What of it?... Besides,” he threatened, “if you pinch me, you’ll have to take the girl in, too. I swear that whatever stealing was done, she did it. I’ll not be trapped this way by her and let her off without a squeal. Take me—take her; d’you hear?”

“I think,” put in the clear, bland accents of Brentwick, “we can consider that matter settled. I have here, my man,”—nodding to the adventurer as he took up the black leather wallet,—“I have here a little matter which may clear up any lingering doubts as to your standing, which you may be disposed at present to entertain.”

He extracted a slip of cardboard and, at arm’s length, laid it on the table-edge beneath the adventurer’s eyes. The latter, bewildered, bent over it for a moment, breathing heavily; then straightened back, shook himself, laughed shortly with a mirthless note, and faced the detective.

“It’s come with you now, I guess?” he suggested very quietly.

“The Bannister warrant is still out for you,” returned the man. “That’ll be enough to hold you on till extradition papers arrive from the States.”

“Oh, I’ll waive those; and I won’t give you any trouble, either.... I reckon,” mused the adventurer, jingling his manacles thoughtfully, “I’m a back-number, anyway. When a half-grown girl, a half-baked boy, a flub like Mulready—damn his eyes!—and a club-footed snipe from Scotland Yard can put it all over me this way,... why, I guess it’s up to me to go home and retire to my country-place up the Hudson.” He sighed wearily.

“Yep; time to cut it out. But I would like to be free long enough to get in one good lick at that mutt, Mulready. My friend, you get your hands on him, and I’ll squeal on him till I’m blue in the face. That’s a promise.”

“You’ll have the chance before long,” replied the detective. “We received a telegram from the Amsterdam police late this afternoon, saying they’d picked up Mr. Mulready with a woman named Hallam, and were holding them on suspicion. It seems,”—turning to Brentwick,—“they were opening negotiations for the sale of a lot of stones, and seemed in such a precious hurry that the diamond merchant’s suspicions were roused. We’re sending over for them, Miss Calendar, so you can make your mind easy about your jewels; you’ll have them back in a few days.”

“Thank you,” said the girl with an effort.

“Well,” the adventurer delivered his peroration, “I certainly am blame’ glad to hear it. ’Twouldn’t ’ve been a square deal, any other way.”

He paused, looking his erstwhile dupes over with a melancholy eye; then, with an uncertain nod comprehending the girl, Kirkwood and Brentwick, “So long!” he said thickly; and turned, with the detective’s hand under his arm and, accompanied by the thoroughly cowed Stryker, waddled out of the room.

III——THE JOURNEY’S END

Kirkwood, following the exodus, closed the door with elaborate care and slowly, deep in thought, returned to the table.

Dorothy seemed not to have moved, save to place her elbows on the marble slab, and rest her cheeks between hands that remained clenched, as they had been in the greatest stress of her emotion. The color had returned to her face, with a slightly enhanced depth of hue to the credit of her excitement. Her cheeks were hot, her eyes starlike beneath the woven, massy sunlight of her hair. Temporarily unconscious of her surroundings she stared steadfastly before her, thoughts astray in the irridescent glamour of the dreams that were to come....

Brentwick had slipped down in his chair, resting his silvered head upon its back, and was smiling serenely up at the low yellow ceiling. Before him on the table his long white fingers were drumming an inaudible tune. Presently rousing, he caught Kirkwood’s eye and smiled sheepishly, like a child caught in innocent mischief.

The younger man grinned broadly. “And you were responsible for all that!” he commented, infinitely amused.

Brentwick nodded, twinkling self-satisfaction. “I contrived it all,” he said; “neat, I call it, too.” His old eyes brightened with reminiscent enjoyment. “Inspiration!” he crowed softly. “Inspiration, pure and simple. I’d been worrying my wits for fully five minutes before Wotton settled the matter by telling me about the captain’s hiring of the motor-car. Then, in a flash, I had it.... I talked with Charles by telephone,—his name is really Charles, by, the bye,—overcame his conscientious scruples about playing his fish when they were already all but landed, and settled the artistic details.”

He chuckled delightedly. “It’s the instinct,” he declared emphatically, “the instinct for adventure. I knew it was in me, latent somewhere, but never till this day did it get the opportunity to assert itself. A born adventurer—that’s what I am!... You see, it was essential that they should believe we were frightened and running from them; that way, they would be sure to run after us. Why, we might have baited a dozen traps and failed to lure them into my house, after that stout scoundrel knew you’d had the chance to tell me the whole yarn... Odd!”

“Weren’t you taking chances, you and Charles?” asked Kirkwood curiously.

“Precious few. There was another motor from Scotland Yard trailing Captain Stryker’s. If they had run past, or turned aside, they would have been overhauled in short order.”

He relapsed into his whimsical reverie; the wistful look returned to his eyes, replacing the glow of triumph and pleasure. And he sighed a little regretfully.

“What I don’t understand,” contended Kirkwood, “is how you convinced Calendar that he couldn’t get revenge by pressing his charge against Miss Calendar—Dorothy.”

“Oh-h?” Mr. Brentwick elevated his fine white eyebrows and sat up briskly. “My dear boy, that was the most delectable dish on the entire menu. I have been reserving it, I don’t mind owning, that I might better enjoy the full relish of it.... I may answer you best, perhaps, by asking you to scan what I offered to the fat scoundrel’s respectful consideration, my dear sir.”

He leveled a forefinger at the card.

At first glance it conveyed nothing to the younger man’s benighted intelligence. He puzzled over it, twisting his brows out of alignment. An ordinary oblong slip of thin white cardboard, it was engraved in fine script as follows:

MR. GEORGE BURGOYNE CALENDAR

81, ASPEN VILLAS, S. W.

“Oh!” exclaimed Kirkwood at length, standing up, his face bright with understanding. “_You_—!”

“I,” laconically assented the elder man.

Impulsively Kirkwood leaned across the table. “Dorothy,” he said tenderly; and when the girl’s happy eyes met his, quietly drew her attention to the card.

Then he rose hastily, and went over to stand by the window, staring mistily into the blank face of night beyond its unseen panes.

Behind him there was a confusion of little noises; the sound of a chair pushed hurriedly aside, a rustle of skirts, a happy sob or two, low voices intermingling; sighs.... Out of it finally came the father’s accents.

“There, there, my dear! My dearest dear!” protested the old gentleman. “Positively I don’t deserve a tithe of this. I—” The young old voice quavered and broke, in a happy laugh.... “You must understand,” he continued more soberly, “that no consideration of any sort is due me. When we married, I was too old for your mother, child; we both knew it, both believed it would never matter. But it did. By her wish, I went back to America; we were to see what separation would do to heal the wounds dissension had caused. It was a very foolish experiment. Your mother died before I could return....”

There fell a silence, again broken by the father. “After that I was in no haste to return. But some years ago, I came to London to live. I communicated with the old colonel, asking permission to see you. It was refused in a manner which precluded the subject being reopened by me: I was informed that if I persisted in attempting to see you, you would be disinherited.... He was very angry with me—justly, I admit.... One must grow old before one can see how unforgivably one was wrong in youth.... So I settled down to a quiet old age, determined not to disturb you in your happiness.... Ah—Kirkwood!”

The old gentleman was standing, his arm around his daughter’s shoulders, when Kirkwood turned.

“Come here, Philip; I’m explaining to Dorothy, but you should hear.... The evening I called on you, dear boy, at the Pless, returning home I received a message from my solicitors, whom I had instructed to keep an eye on Dorothy’s welfare. They informed me that she had disappeared. Naturally I canceled my plans to go to Munich, and stayed, employing detectives. One of the first things they discovered was that Dorothy had run off with an elderly person calling himself George Burgoyne Calendar—the name I had discarded when I found that to acknowledge me would imperil my daughter’s fortune.... The investigations went deeper; Charles—let us continue to call him—had been to see me only this afternoon, to inform me of the plot they had discovered. This Hallam woman and her son—it seems that they were legitimately in the line of inheritance, Dorothy out of the way. But the woman was—ah—a bad lot. Somehow she got into communication with this fat rogue and together they plotted it out. Charles doesn’t believe that the Hallam woman expected to enjoy the Burgoyne estates for very many days. Her plan was to step in when Dorothy stepped out, gather up what she could, realize on it, and decamp. That is why there was so much excitement about the jewels: naturally the most valuable item on her list, the most easy to convert into cash.... The man Mulready we do not place; he seems to have been a shady character the fat rogue picked up somewhere. The latter’s ordinary line of business was diamond smuggling, though he would condescend to almost anything in order to turn a dishonest penny....

“That seems to exhaust the subject. But one word more.... Dorothy, I am old enough and have suffered enough to know the wisdom of seizing one’s happiness when one may. My dear, a little while ago, you did a very brave deed. Under fire you said a most courageous, womanly, creditable thing. And Philip’s rejoinder was only second in nobility to yours.... I do hope to goodness that you two blessed youngsters won’t let any addlepated scruples stand between yourselves and—the prize of Romance, your inalienable inheritance!”

Abruptly Brentwick, who was no longer Brentwick, but the actual Calendar, released the girl from his embrace and hopped nimbly toward the door. “Really, I must see about that petrol!” he cried. “While it’s perfectly true that Charles lied about it’s running out, we must be getting on. I’ll call you when we’re ready to start.”

And the door crashed to behind him....

Between them was the table. Beyond it the girl stood with head erect, dim tears glimmering on the lashes of those eyes with which she met Philip’s steady gaze so fearlessly.

Singing about them, the silence deepened. Fascinated, though his heart was faint with longing, Kirkwood faltered on the threshold of his kingdom.

“Dorothy!... You did mean it, dear?”

She laughed, a little, low, sobbing laugh that had its source deep in the hidden sanctuary of her heart of a child.

“I meant it, my dearest.... If you’ll have a girl so bold and forward, who can’t wait till she’s asked but throws herself into the arms of the man she loves—Philip, I meant it, every word!...”

And as he went to her swiftly, round the table, she turned to meet him, arms uplifted, her scarlet lips a-tremble, the brown and bewitching lashes drooping over her wondrously lighted eyes....

After a time Philip Kirkwood laughed aloud.

And there was that quality in the ring of his laughter that caused the Shade of Care, which had for the past ten minutes been uneasily luffing and filling in the offing and, on the whole, steadily diminishing and becoming more pale and wan and emaciated and indistinct—there was that in the laughter of Philip Kirkwood, I say, which caused the Shade of Care to utter a hollow croak of despair as, incontinently, it vanished out of his life.