The Black Bag by Louis Joseph Vance (snow like ashes txt) 📕

thought to trace in those

vacuous features—a resemblance to some one he had seen, or known, at some

past time, somewhere, somehow.

 

“I give it up. Guess I’m mistaken. Anyhow, five young Englishmen out of

every ten of his class are just as blond and foolish. Now let’s see how bad

he’s hurt.”

 

With hands strong and gentle, he turned the round, light head. Then, “Ah!”

he commented in the accent of comprehension. For there was an angry looking

bump at the base of the skull; and, the skin having been broken, possibly

in collision with the sharp-edged newel-post, a little blood had stained

and matted the straw-colored hair.

 

Kirkwood let the head down and took thought. Recalling a bath-room on the

floor above, thither he went, unselfishly forgetful of his predicament if

discovered, and, turning on the water, sopped his handkerchief until it

dripped. Then, returning, he took the boy’s head on his knees, washed the

wound, purloined another handkerchief (of silk, with a giddy border)

from the other’s pocket, and of this manufactured a rude but serviceable

bandage.

 

Toward the conclusion of his attentions, the sufferer began to show signs

of returning animation. He stirred restlessly, whimpered a little, and

sighed. And Kirkwood, in consternation, got up.

 

“So!” he commented ruefully. “I guess I am an ass, all right—taking all

that trouble for you, my friend. If I’ve got a grain of sense left, this is

my cue to leave you alone in your glory.”

 

He was lingering only to restore to the boy’s pockets such articles as he

had removed in the search for matches,—the matchbox, a few silver coins,

a bulky sovereign purse, a handsome, plain gold watch, and so forth. But

ere he concluded he was aware that the boy was conscious, that his eyes,

open and blinking in the candlelight, were upon him.

 

They were blue eyes, blue and shallow as a doll’s, and edged with long,

fine lashes. Intelligence, of a certain degree, was rapidly informing them.

Kirkwood returned their questioning glance, transfixed in indecision, his

primal impulse to cut-and-run for it was gone; he had nothing to fear from

this child who could not prevent his going whenever he chose to go; while

by remaining he might perchance worm from him something about the girl.

 

“You’re feeling better?” He was almost surprised to hear his own voice put

the query.

 

“I—I think so. Ow, my head!… I say, you chap, whoever you are, what’s

happened?… I want to get up.” The boy added peevishly: “Help a fellow,

can’t you?”

 

“You’ve had a nasty fall,” Kirkwood observed evenly, passing an arm

beneath the boy’s shoulder and helping him to a sitting position. “Do you

remember?”

 

The other snuffled childishly and scrubbed across the floor to rest his

back against the wall.

 

“Why-y … I remember fallin’; and then … I woke up and it was all dark

and my head achin’ fit to split. I presume I went to sleep again … I say,

what’re you, doing here?”

 

Instead of replying, Kirkwood lifted a warning finger.

 

“Hush!” he said tensely, alarmed by noises in the street. “You don’t

suppose—?”

 

He had been conscious of a carriage rolling up from the corner, as well as

that it had drawn up (presumably) before a near-by dwelling. Now the rattle

of a key in the hall-door was startlingly audible. Before he could move,

the door itself opened with a slam.

 

Kirkwood moved toward the stair-head, and drew back with a cry of disgust.

“Too late!” he told himself bitterly; his escape was cut off. He could run

up-stairs and hide, of course, but the boy would inform against him and….

 

He buttoned up his coat, settled his hat on his head, and moved near the

candle, where it rested on the floor. One glimpse would suffice to show him

the force of the intruders, and one move of his foot put out the light;

then—_perhaps_—he might be able to rush them.

 

Below, a brief pause had followed the noise of the door, as if those

entering were standing, irresolute, undecided which way to turn; but

abruptly enough the glimmer of candlelight must have been noticed. Kirkwood

heard a hushed exclamation, a quick clatter of high heels on the parquetry,

pattering feet on the stairs, all but drowned by swish and ripple of silken

skirts; and a woman stood at the head of the flight—to the American an

apparition profoundly amazing as she paused, the light from the floor

casting odd, theatric shadows beneath her eyes and over her brows, edging

her eyes themselves with brilliant light beneath their dark lashes, showing

her lips straight and drawn, and shimmering upon the spangles of an evening

gown, visible beneath the dark cloak which had fallen back from her white,

beautiful shoulders.

VIII

MADAME L’INTRIGANTE

 

“Mrs. Hallam!” cried Kirkwood, beneath his breath.

 

The woman ignored his existence. Moving swiftly forward, she dropped on

both knees by the side of the boy, and caught up one of his hands, clasping

it passionately in her own.

 

“Fred!” she cried, a curious break in her tone. “My little Freddie! Oh,

what has happened, dearie?”

 

“Oh, hello, Mamma,” grunted that young man, submitting listlessly to her

caresses and betraying no overwhelming surprise at her appearance there.

Indeed he seemed more concerned as to what Kirkwood, an older man, would

be thinking, to see him so endeared and fondled, than moved by any other

emotion. Kirkwood could see his shamefaced, sidelong glances; and despised

him properly for them.

 

But without attending to his response, Mrs. Hallam rattled on in the uneven

accents of excitement. “I waited until I couldn’t wait any longer, Freddie

dear. I had to know—had to come. Eccles came home about nine and said that

you had told him to wait outside, that some one had followed you in here,

and that a bobby had told him to move on. I didn’t know what—”

 

“What’s o’clock now?” her son interrupted.

 

“It’s about three, I think … Have you hurt yourself, dear? Oh, why

didn’t you come home? You must’ve known I was dying of anxiety!”

 

“Oh, I say! Can’t you see I’m hurt? ‘Had a nasty fall and must’ve been

asleep ever since.”

 

“My precious one! How—?”

 

“Can’t say, hardly … I say, don’t paw a chap so, Mamma … I brought

Eccles along and told him to wait because—well, because I didn’t feel so

much like shuttin’ myself up in this beastly old tomb. So I left the door

ajar, and told him not to let anybody come in. Then I came up-stairs. There

must’ve been somebody already in the house; I know I thought there was.

It made me feel creepy, rather. At any rate, I heard voices down below, and

the door banged, and somebody began hammerin’ like fun on the knocker.”

 

The boy paused, rolling an embarrassed eye up at the stranger.

 

“Yes, yes, dear!” Mrs. Hallam urged him on.

 

“Why, I—I made up my mind to cut my stick—let whoever it was pass me on

the stairs, you know. But he followed me and struck me, and then I jumped

at him, and we both fell down the whole flight. And that’s all. Besides, my

head’s achin’ like everything.”

 

“But this man—?”

 

Mrs. Hallam looked up at Kirkwood, who bowed silently, struggling to hide

both his amusement and perplexity. More than ever, now, the case presented

a front inscrutable to his wits; try as he might, he failed to fit an

explanation to any incident in which he had figured, while this last

development—that his antagonist of the dark stairway had been Mrs.

Hallam’s son!—seemed the most astounding of all, baffling elucidation

completely.

 

He had abandoned all thought of flight and escape. It was too late; in the

brisk idiom of his mother-tongue, he was “caught with the goods on.” “May

as well face the music,” he counseled himself, in resignation. From what he

had seen and surmised of Mrs. Hallam, he shrewdly suspected that the tune

would prove an exceedingly lively one; she seemed a woman of imagination,

originality, and an able-bodied temper.

 

“You, Mr. Kirkwood!”

 

Again he bowed, grinning awry.

 

She rose suddenly. “You will be good enough to explain your presence here,”

she informed him with dangerous serenity.

 

“To be frank with you—”

 

“I advise that course, Mr. Kirkwood.”

 

“Thanks, awf’ly…. I came here, half an hour ago, looking for a lost purse

full—well, not quite full of sovereigns. It was my purse, by the way.”

 

Suspicion glinted like foxfire in the cold green eyes beneath her puckered

brows. “I do not understand,” she said slowly and in level tones.

 

“I didn’t expect you to,” returned Kirkwood; “no more do I…. But, anyway,

it must be clear to you that I’ve done my best for this gentleman here.” He

paused with an interrogative lift of his eyebrows.

 

“‘This gentleman’ is my son, Frederick Hallam…. But you will explain—”

 

“Pardon me, Mrs. Hallam; I shall explain nothing, at present. Permit me

to point out that your position here—like mine—is, to say the least,

anomalous.” The random stroke told, as he could tell by the instant

contraction of her eyes of a cat. “It would be best to defer explanations

till a more convenient time—don’t you think? Then, if you like, we can

chant confidences in an antiphonal chorus. Just now your—er—son is not

enjoying himself apparently, and … the attention of the police had best

not be called to this house too often in one night.”

 

His levity seemed to displease and perturb the woman; she turned from him

with an impatient movement of her shoulders.

 

“Freddie, dear, do you feel able to walk?”

 

“Eh? Oh, I dare say—I don’t know. Wonder would your friend—ah—Mr.

Kirkwood, lend me an arm?”

 

“Charmed,” Kirkwood declared suavely. “If you’ll take the candle, Mrs.

Hallam—”

 

He helped the boy to his feet and, while the latter hung upon him and

complained querulously, stood waiting for the woman to lead the way with

the light; something which, however, she seemed in no haste to do. The

pause at length puzzled Kirkwood, and he turned, to find Mrs. Hallam

holding the candlestick and regarding him steadily, with much the same

expression of furtive mistrust as that with which she had favored him on

her own door-stoop.

 

[Illustration: He helped the boy to his feet, and stood waiting.]

 

“One moment,” she interposed in confusion; “I won’t keep you waiting…;”

and, passing with an averted face, ran quickly up-stairs to the second

floor, taking the light with her. Its glow faded from the walls above and

Kirkwood surmised that she had entered the front bedchamber. For some

moments he could hear her moving about; once, something scraped and bumped

on the floor, as if a heavy bit of furniture had been moved; again there

was a resounding thud that defied speculation; and this was presently

followed by a dull clang of metal.

 

His fugitive speculations afforded him little enlightenment; and, meantime,

young Hallam, leaning partly against the wall and quite heavily on

Kirkwood’s arm, filled his ears with puerile oaths and lamentations; so

that, but for the excuse of his really severe shaking-up, Kirkwood had

been strongly tempted to take the youngster by the shoulders and kick him

heartily, for the health of his soul.

 

But eventually—it was not really long—there came the quick rush of Mrs.

Hallam’s feet along the upper hall, and the woman reappeared, one hand

holding her skirts clear of her pretty feet as she descended in a rush that

caused the candle’s flame to flicker perilously.

 

Half-way down,