Half a Rogue

Chapter XIX

Tragedy was abroad that day, crossing and recrossing Williams Street. Tragedy has the same prerogative as love and death—the right to enter the palace or the hovel, into the heart of youth or age. It was not a killing to-day, only a breaking of hearts, that is to say, the first step. Tragedy never starts out on her rounds roughly; she seeks her cause first; she seeks her anonymous letter, her idle hands, her lying tongue; then she is ready. Tragedy does nothing hastily; she graduates her victim.

Warrington stumbled rather than walked home. When he reached the opposite curb he slipped and fell, bruising his hands. ... Deny it? Deny it when convicted without trial? There are never any proofs to refute a letter written by an unknown enemy. There is never any guard against the stab in the back. ... He and Kate! It was monstrous. And John? Did John know? Did John see that letter? No, Patty surely had not shown it to John. He knew John (or he believed he did); not all the proofs or explanations Heaven or earth could give would convince John, if that letter fell into his hands. ... And he was to speak at a mass meeting that night! God! He stumbled up the steps to the door. He was like a drunken man. ... Patty believed it; Patty, just and merciful, believed it. If she believed, what would John, the jealous husband, believe? There were so many trifling things that now in John's eyes would assume immense proportions. ... In less than half an hour the world had stopped, turned about, and gone another way. He opened the door. As he did so a woman rushed into the hall.

"Richard, Richard, I thought you would never come!"

"You, and in this house alone?" His shoulders drooped.

Mrs. Jack did not observe how white he was, how dull his eye, how abject his whole attitude. She caught him by the sleeve and dragged him into the living-room.

"Richard, I am dying!" she cried. She loosened the collaret at her throat. "What shall I do, what shall I do?"

He realized then that he was not alone in misery.

"What is it, girl?" stirring himself.

"Listen, Dick!" She dropped into the old name unconsciously. She had but one clear thought; this man could save her. "Some time ago—the night you and John went down town together—I received a telephone call from that vile wretch, McQuade."

"McQuade?" Warrington's interest was thoroughly aroused by that name; nothing else could have aroused it.

"He said that if I did not persuade you to withdraw your name before the convention met he would not oppose the publication of a certain story concerning my past and yours. Horrible! What could I do? I remained silent; it was Patty's advice. We were afraid that John would kill McQuade if we told him." She let go of his arm and paced the room, beating her hands together. "Think of the terror I have lived in all these weeks! Half dead every evening when John came home; not daring to read the papers; afraid of calling on my few friends! I have never, in all my life, done an evil action, either in thought or deed. What terrible gift is this that God gives to some people to make truth half a truth and half a truth a lie? Read this!"

It was a half-sheet of ordinary office paper, written on a typewriter. Its purport was similar to the one he had read but a few minutes since. Only it was bolder; there were no protestations about anybody's welfare. It was addressed to John Bennington.

"Great God! another anonymous letter! Do you know who sent this?"

"I can think of no one but McQuade; no one!" frantically. "Save me, Richard! I love him better than God, and this is my punishment. If John sees this, I shall die; if he doesn't kill me I shall kill myself! I opened it by mistake. I am so miserable. What has happened? What have I done that this curse should fall on me? When I came to this city I expected to find rest in the house of the man I loved. ... Patty does not come over. ... What have I not suffered in silence and with smiles? I have seen them whispering; I have seen covert smiles, and nods, and shrugs. I knew. I was an actress. It seems that nothing too bad or vile can be thought of her who honestly throws her soul into the greatest gift given to woman. An actress! They speak of her in the same tone they would use regarding a creature of the streets. Well, because I loved my husband I have said nothing; I have let the poison eat into my heart in silence. But this goes too far. I shall go mad if this thing can not be settled here and now. It is both my love and my honor. And you must do it, Richard; you must do it."

"You say McQuade called you up by telephone?"

"Yes."

He struck his forehead. The carbon sheet! He ran to his desk, pulled out all the drawers, tumbling the papers about till he found what he sought. From the letter to the faint imprint on the carbon sheet and back to the letter his eyes moved, searching, scrutinizing.

"Look!" with a cry of triumph.

"What is it?"

"Do you see that mutilated letter T?" He indicated with his finger on the dim carbon sheet.

"Yes, yes!"

"Compare it with the letter T in this note."

She did so, her hands shaking pitifully. "I can't see, Richard."

"That carbon sheet came from McQuade's office; so did that letter to John. And now, by the Lord! now to pull out Mr. McQuade's fangs, and slowly, too." He pocketed the two sheets. "Come!" His hat was still on his head.

"Where, Richard?"

"To John."

"No, no! John?"

"To him. We can not settle this matter underground. We must fight in the open, in the light. John must know. You must be brave, girl. This is no time for timidity and tears. You know and I know that right and truth are on our side. We'll risk it in a single throw." Upon determining to act thus, he was acting as only a man acts who has a wide and definite knowledge of men and affairs. "Come; the sooner it is over the better. John may flare up a little, but he is a just man. Let us go to John."

She put forth many arguments, but to each he shook his head. The thought of losing a particle of John's love terrified her, who was ordinarily a courageous woman.

"We are losing time," said Warrington. "When John reads these two documents he will understand. He knows McQuade is base enough to seek revenge this way. He will recognize it for its worth. But if John finds out that we have left him out of our confidence, he will have some good reason to doubt. Come."

So she followed him, her heart like lead, no thought coherent, her will without energy. This was to be the end of all her dreams. They crossed the street without speaking. He helped her down this curb and up that. All this excitement lessened his own pain temporarily. But who had written to Patty, if not McQuade? He could block any future move of McQuade's but this other anonymous writer, whom Patty declared she knew? He went on doggedly. One battle at a time. Together they entered the house, together they passed from room to room in search of John. They came upon him reading in the library. He rose to greet them. There was no beating about the bush for Warrington. He went straight into the heart of things.

"John, read this."

John glanced at the sheet, and his face darkened. The look he shot his wife was indescribable. She watched him, twisting and knotting and untwisting her gloves.

"When did this thing come?" asked John, a slight tremor in his tone.

"This morning," Mrs. Jack answered, her voice choking.

"Why did you not bring it to me?" he asked. "Why did you take it to Dick? You and he should not come to me; on the contrary, you and I should have gone to him. But never mind now. I have carried in my pocket a letter similar to this for several weeks," simply.

"Catch her, John!" cried Warrington.

"No, no! I am not fainting. I am just dizzy."

The poor woman groped her way to the lounge and lay down. Her shoulders were shaking with noiseless sobs.

John crossed the room and put his hand on her head. The touch was tender.

"Well, Dick?"

"It is easy to distort truth into a lie, John."

"But it is very hard to reverse the order again."

"Do you believe the lie?" Warrington looked his friend squarely in the eyes.

A minute passed. The ticking of the clock was audible.

"Believe it? I have had to struggle, I have had to fight hard and all alone. I do not say that I don't believe it. I say that I WILL not!"

A truly noble soul always overawes us. This generosity struck Warrington dumb. But the woman found life in the words. She flung herself before her husband and clasped his knees with a nervous strength that provoked a sharp cry from his lips.

"John, John!"

He stooped and unwound her arms, gently drawing her up, up, till her head lay against his shoulder. Then she became a dead weight. She had fainted. He lifted her up in his strong arms and started for the stairs.

"Were she guilty of all the crimes chronicled in hell, I still should love her. But between you and me, Dick, things must be explained."

"I shall wait for you, John."

John was not gone long. When he returned he found Warrington by the bow-window that looked out upon the lawn.

"Now, Dick, the truth, and nothing but the truth. Don't be afraid of me; I am master of myself."

"I'm not afraid of you. There is half a truth in that letter," began Warrington, facing about. "Your wife did stay a night in my apartments."

John made no sign.

"It was the first week of a new play. I had to be at the theater every night. There were many changes being made. Near midnight we started out for a bite to eat. She had been suffering with attacks of neuralgia of the heart. As we entered the carriage, one of these attacks came on. We drove to her apartments. We could not get in. Her maid was out, the janitor could not be found, and unfortunately she had left her keys at the theater. In a moment like that I accepted the first thing that came into my head: my own apartments. She was not there a quarter of an hour before a trained nurse and her own physician were at her side. I slept in a chair. At six the following morning she left for her own apartments. And that, John, is the truth, God's truth. I see now that I should have taken her to a hotel. You know that there was a time when I was somewhat dissipated. It was easy to take that incident and enlarge upon it. Now, let me tell you where this base slander originated. Compare the letter you have with the one I gave you."

John complied. He nodded. These two letters had come from the same typewriter.

"Next?"

"Here is another document." It was the carbon sheet.

John spread the sheet against the window-pane. The light behind brought out the letters distinctly. He scarcely reached the final line when he spun round, his face mobile with eagerness.

"Where did this come from?"

"Indirectly, out of McQuade's waste-basket."

"Morrissy and McQuade; both of them! Oh, you have done me a service, Dick."

"But it can not be used, John. That and the letters were written on McQuade's typewriter. So much for my political dreams! With that carbon sheet I could pile up a big majority; without it I shall be defeated. But don't let that bother you."

"McQuade!" John slowly extended his arms and closed his fingers so tightly that his whole body trembled. An arm inside those fingers would have snapped like a pipe-stem. "McQuade! Damn him!"

"Take care!" warned the other. "Don't injure those letters. When my name was suggested by Senator Henderson as a possible candidate, McQuade at once set about to see how he could injure my chances. He was afraid of me. An honest man, young, new in politics, and therefore unattached, was a menace to the success of his party, that is to say, his hold on the city government. Among his henchmen was a man named Bolles."

"Ah!" grimly.

"He sent this man to New York to look up my past. In order to earn his money he brought back this lie, which is half a truth. Whether McQuade believes it or not is of no matter; it serves his purpose. Now, John!"

John made no reply. With his hands (one still clutching the letters) behind his back he walked the length of the room and returned.

"Will you take my word, which you have always found loyal, or the word of a man who has written himself down as a rascal, a briber, and a blackleg?"

John put out his empty hand and laid it on Warrington's shoulder.

"You're a good man, Dick. Dissipation is sometimes a crucible that separates the gold from the baser metals. It has done that to you. You are a good man, an honorable man. In coming to me like this you have shown yourself to be courageous as well. There was a moment when the sight of you filled my heart with murder. It was the night after I received that letter. I've been watching you, watching, watching. Well, I would stake my chance of eternity on your honesty. I take your word; I should have taken it, had you nothing to prove your case. That night I ran into Bolles. ... Well, he uttered a vile insult, and I all but throttled him. Here's my hand, Dick."

The hand-grip that followed drew a gasp from Warrington.

"Not every man would be so good about it, John. What shall we do about McQuade?"

"I was about to say that I shall see McQuade within an hour," in a tone that did not promise well for McQuade.

"Wait a day or two, John. If you meet him now, I believe you will do him bodily harm, and he has caused enough trouble, God knows."

"But not to meet him! Not to cram this paper down his vile throat! I had not considered that sacrifice. And I can not touch him by law, either."

"But you can silence him effectually. This business will end right here."

"You are right," said John with reluctance. "If I met him in this rage. I should probably kill him."

"Let us go and pay him a visit together, John," Warrington suggested. "I can manage to keep in between you."

"That's better. We'll go together." And John went for his hat. Then he ran up stairs quickly. There was a loving heart up there that ached, and he alone could soothe it.

And then the two men left the house. As they strode down the street, side by side, step by step, their thoughts were as separate as the two poles. To the one his wife was still his wife, in all the word implied; to the other there was only a long stretch of years that he must pass through alone, alone,—not even the man at his side would ever be quite the same to him, nor his wife. There was a shadow; it would always walk between them.

"Remember, Dick, Patty must never know anything of this. Nothing must come between her and my wife."

"I shall say nothing to any one, John." Who had written to Patty?

It took them a quarter of an hour to reach McQuade's office. Unfortunately for that gentleman, he was still in his office and alone. The new typewriter and the two clerks had gone. He was still wondering why Osborne's niece had resigned so unexpectedly. Probably she was going to get married. They always did when they had saved a penny or two. He laughed. He had been careless now and then, but whatever she might have picked up in the way of business or political secrets could not profit her. Boss McQuade felt secure. Warrington was as good as beaten. He had had his long-delayed revenge on the man who had turned him out of doors.

It was dark outside by this time, and he turned on the drop-light over his desk. He heard the door open and shut, but this was not unusual; so he went on with his writing.

"Well, what's wanted?" he called, folding his letter, but not yet turning his head.

As no one answered, he sent his chair around with a push of his foot. He saw two men, but he did not recognize them at once. By and by his eyes grew accustomed to the dark. Instantly he was on his feet, pressing the button connecting the wall-lights. There was no possible exit save by that door, and these two men stood between. To do McQuade justice, he was not a physical coward. His huge bulk and hardened muscles gave him a ready courage. He forced a smile to his lips. After all, he had expected one or the other of them sooner or later.

"Well, gentlemen, I am highly honored. What can I do for you?" There was a pretense of amiability.

"For the present," said Warrington, "you may sit down. We propose to do so." He drew out a chair from under the office table and placed it close to the door. "You sit there, John." For himself, he sat on the corner of the table.

McQuade did not hesitate, but reseated himself. His thoughts were not particularly lucid, however.

"McQuade, you're as fine a blackleg as ever graced a prison," said Warrington.

"I'll have to take your word for it," was the reply. "But how is it that I see you and Mr. Bennington together?" evilly.

"We'll come to that presently. I had always given you credit for being as astute as you were underhanded and treacherous."

"Thanks." McQuade took a cigar from his pocket and fumbled around in his vest for a match.

"But," Warrington added, "I am pained to reverse my opinion. You are a fool as well as a blackleg."

"How do you make that out?" coolly.

"Do you know where your man Bolles can be found?"

"Bolles? Ah, I begin to see. What do you want of him?"

"We want the esteemed honor of his company at this reunion," dryly.

Bolles? McQuade smiled. He was only too glad to accommodate them. If they wanted Bolles they should have him. Bolles would cut them in two. He reached for the telephone and began to call up the familiar haunts of his henchman. He located him at length in Martin's saloon. There was evidently some reluctance on the part of Bolles.

"Bolles, if you are not at my office inside of ten minutes, I'll break you, and you know what I mean." McQuade hung up the receiver. "He'll be right over. Now, what's all this mystery about?"

"It regards some literary compositions of yours to which I have taken exception."

"Compositions?"

"Yes. Two anonymous letters. But before we discuss them we'll wait for our friend Bolles."

McQuade signified that this was agreeable to him. All the same, he glanced uneasily at the man near the door. Bennington had not made the slightest sound after taking his chair. His arms were folded across his breast, which rose and fell with deep intakes. His face, in the shadow, was no more readable than that of the miniature sphinx paper-weight that rested on McQuade's desk. But Bolles was coming. So they waited. The end of McQuade's cigar waxed and waned according to his inhalations. These inhalations were not quickly made, as by a man whose heart is beating with excitement; they were slow and regular, it might be said, contemplative. John's gaze never left the end of that cigar.

The lights in the tall building opposite began to twinkle from window to window. Warrington slipped off the table and pulled down the curtains. McQuade knocked the ashes from his cigar, contemplated the coal, and returned it to the corner of his mouth.

Ah! The three men heard steps in the hall. The door to the outer office opened and banged. But the man who squeezed past Bennington was not Bolles.

"Morrissy?" cried Warrington. "Fine! Have a chair, Mr. Morrissy, have a chair." Warrington was delighted.

Morrissy's glance, somewhat bewildered, traveled from face to face. On entering he had seen only McQuade's tranquil visage. He sat down, disturbed and mystified.

"What's this?" Morrissy demanded to know.

"Hanged if I know!" said McQuade. "These two gentlemen presented themselves a few moments ago and requested me to send for Bolles. Have a cigar."

Morrissy took the proffered weed, but he did not light it. He turned it round and round in his teeth and chewed it. Well, so long as the boss did not seem alarmed, the trouble could not be serious. Yet he was not over-confident of Bennington's lowering face.

"Been a fine day," said Morrissy, at haphazard.

"Yes, but there's going to be a storm to-night." Warrington resumed his position on the table.

Conversation died. And then Bolles came in. At the sight of Bennington he recoiled.

"Come in, come in!" said McQuade. "Mr. Warrington will offer you a chair," facetiously.

"Yes, Bolles, sit down."

"Well, gentlemen, here's a quorum;" and McQuade began to rock in his chair. Three against two; that would do very well.

"I will go at once at the matter in hand. Those letters, John." Warrington held out his hand. "I'll read one to you, McQuade." He read slowly and distinctly.

"What the hell is this?" said Morrissy.

"It's up to Mr. Warrington to explain." McQuade grinned. That grin, however, nearly cost him his life.

"John, remember your promise!" cried Warrington.

John sat down, seized with a species of vertigo.

"McQuade, you wrote that."

"Me? You're crazy!"

"Not at all. Let me advise you. The next time you put your hand to anonymous letters, examine the type of your machine. There may be some bad letter."

"I don't know what you're driving at," McQuade declared.

"I see that I must read this, then, to convince you." Warrington stood up, his back toward Bennington. He unfolded the carbon sheet and began to read.

McQuade saw Medusa's head, little versed as he was in mythology. He lowered his cigar. The blood in his face gradually receded.

"'In two sums of five hundred each,'" Warrington went on.

Morrissy, who suddenly saw visions of bars and stripes, made a quick, desperate spring. Warrington struck him with full force on the side of the head. Morrissy reeled, stumbled to the floor and lay there. The others were on their feet instantly.

"Stay where you are, John; I don't need any assistance. Now, McQuade, I've got you where I want you." Warrington spoke with deadly calm now. "This carbon was found in your waste-basket and brought to me. The girl is where you can not find her. There are two courses open to you."

"What are they?" There was murder in McQuade's heart, but there was reason in his head. He saw exactly where he stood. They had him.

"One is state's prison; the other is a full retraction of this base calumny. Take your choice."

"Bolles?"

"It's true, every damn word of it," said Bolles venomously. "Your janitor in New York told me the facts. You know they're true."

"Bolles, I nearly killed you one night. So help me, if you do not withdraw that, I'll kill you here and now!" It was the first time Bennington had spoken.

"Bolles," said McQuade, "did you sell a lie to me?"

Bolles eyed Bennington, who had pushed Warrington out of the way and was moving toward him. He saw death on Bennington's face. Warrington again interposed, but John swept him aside with ease.

"Well, there was a doctor and a nurse there all night with them. But she was in Warrington's rooms all night. That seemed enough for me." Bolles put the table between him and Bennington. He was genuinely afraid.

Morrissy turned over and sat up, rubbing his head. Presently he pulled himself to his feet. He was dazed. Recollection of what had happened returned to him. This dude had knocked him out.

"You'll pay well for that," he said.

"Sit down. It's only a marker for what I'll do to you if you make another move. Now, McQuade, which is it?"

"Go ahead and write your letter," McQuade snarled.

Warrington proceeded.

"Now sign it," he said. "Here, John, take care of this carbon. Bolles, your signature." Bolles scrawled a shaking hand. Warrington put the paper in his pocket. "Bite, both of you now, if you dare."

"I'll trouble you for that carbon," said McQuade.

"Hardly. But you have my word of honor that it shall not be used against you unless you force me. It will repose in my deposit box at the bank. But as for you, Morrissy, this climate doesn't suit your abilities. The field is too small. Take my advice and clear out. That is all, gentlemen. Come, John."

When they were gone Morrissy turned savagely upon McQuade.

"I told you you were a damn fool!"

"Get out of here, both of you; and if you ever stick your heads in this office again, I'll smash you."

McQuade dropped into his chair, once more alone. He sat there for an hour, thinking, ruminating, planning; but all his thinking and ruminating and planning had but one result: they had him licked. Morrissy was right; he was a fool. The girl! He would have liked her throat in his fingers that moment, the sneaking, treacherous baggage! Licked! To go about hereafter with that always menacing him! But there was one ray of consolation. He knew something about human nature. Bennington and Warrington would drift apart after this. Bennington had cleared up the scandal, but he hadn't purged his heart of all doubt. There was some satisfaction in this knowledge. And Warrington would never enter the City Hall as Herculaneum's mayor.