CHAPTER LVII.
A STERN CHASE.
"At any cost!" The last words of his master tingled in Saul Aronson'sears when he left the court-room with the summons in his hand. Eversince the disclosures of Serena Lamb he had been more than usuallyabashed in his demeanor. For in some measure he felt that it was he whohad brought this threatened catastrophe upon their cause. Here was theopportunity to retrieve his misstep. He would prove his fidelity andserve the writ "at any cost."
Mrs. Arnold had secured a few minutes' start, but Aronson did not doubthis ability to overtake her. She would probably call a cab, since shewas an all-day attendant at the sittings and it was unlikely her familycarriage would be waiting for her. Impatiently he rang the elevator up,and then, deciding just as it arrived that it was quicker to walk down,balked the boy by tacking off toward the staircase and descending it twosteps at a time. When he reached the exit, the square was deserted. Butjust around the corner, like the whisk of a vanishing tail, he caught aglimpse of a rapidly driven cab. After this he sped, down the crowdedmain thoroughfare, dodging the pedestrians as well as he could, with hiseyes on the distant vehicle, and yawing wildly at last into the arms ofa man who stood waiting on the curbstone.
"Where in the----" but the man was a herdic driver and his language mayas well be left to the imagination. Aronson saw the badge on his hat;that was enough.
"Catch that carriage," he said, "and I'll give you $2."
"Jump in," cried the driver. The door was locked in a jiffy andpresently they were bumping over the cobblestones.
"Stop there!" shouted the burly policeman who used to escort Emily sogallantly over the street crossing.
"It's a runaway!" cried the herdic driver, giving himself the lie by asavage snap of his whip. The officer was in no trim for a spurt, so hefell behind puffing. Still they bumped on, till Aronson's anxietymastered him and he rapped at the window for attention. The driverstupidly reined up.
"Go on!" cried the passenger, and the whip-lash circled once more with acrack. They were out on the long bridge to Oxford now, and the fugitivecould not be far ahead.
"Hello!" shouted the driver. The jehu in front turned his head.
"Haul up!" he hailed.
The driver in front obeyed and the two herdics were soon abreast,Aronson getting a dusty toss in his impatience to get out. As he pickedhimself up, a great fat man put his head out of the other herdic windowand began to ask the cause of the detention.
"Is Mrs. Arnold in there?" inquired Aronson, putting his head into theherdic, just by the fat passenger's.
"Mrs. Arnold? What Mrs. Arnold? Take your head out, you impudent,--driveaway, you----" cried the fat passenger, settling back on the cushionswhich he almost filled with the breadth of his back. Aronson was leftstanding alone on the road, puzzling his wits what to do.
"You lost the right carriage," he said.
"I followed the one you pointed out," answered the driver, surlily.
"Well, take me back."
"Where's my $2?" asked No. 99, and Aronson had to pay him this sum, aswell as an advance fare for the ride back, before he would turn hishorse's head. Going in town, the animal made up for time gained by aheartbreaking leisureliness of pace. No one could blame the poor hackhorse. There had been some attempt to make him look respectable bydocking his tail, but it was no more successful than a silk hat on aprize-fighter, designed to foster the same illusion.
It was just 5:40 when Aronson reached the Northern depot and the trainfor Hillsborough had left at 5:38. He had the misery of knowing thatMrs. Arnold was probably well on her way to her summer residence by thistime, and that there was no train earlier than 7 o'clock. In the interimhe bought a ticket, supped, reflected, counted his money and studied thesubpoena.
A village bell was tolling 8 when Aronson stepped from the passenger carout on the platform of the Hillsborough station. They had left thesunset behind them in their eastward ride and the country village wasdark.
"I want a carriage to Mrs. Arnold's house," he said to thestation-master.
"Hacks are all in now," answered the official behind the grating,turning to his books. But he underrated the persistency of his customer.
"I'll give you $1.50 for a team," said Aronson. The suggestion workedmagically and in less than an hour he was let down before the veranda ofthe Arnold mansion. A ruby porch-light flooded him with a kind ofdelighted confusion. How mild and solemn the country is at night! Howsuggestive of grassy comforts the humming of the crickets! All theshepherd that lay deep down in Aronson's nature, as in that of every oneof us, even the plainest, had time to show itself in the intervalbetween his ring and the servant's answer.
"Mrs. Arnold is in Woodlawn," answered the housemaid. "Can you leaveyour business?"
"No, I want to see her personally."
Woodlawn! She had escaped him then. The teamster was waiting and theservant diminishing the aperture of the door to a suspicious crack,while he collected his thoughts.
"How long has she been in Woodlawn?" he asked.
"She just moved in yesterday morning," replied the servant, closing thedoor with a slam.
"Take me back in time for the next train," said Aronson to the driver.
"Too late for the next train," came the drawling answer. "Next train isat 9:15 and it's most 9 now."
"When is the last train?" asked Aronson, figuring on a midnight visit toWoodlawn.
"That's the last train to-night."
Here was a wild-goose chase indeed, but Aronson had a keen suspicionthat it was the goose who was the chaser.
"What is the first train in the morning?"
"At 6:15 a. m.," answered the rustic, who usually knows his localtime-table better than his prayers.
"Can I lodge here for the night?"
"Dunno. Sam Cook might put you up. He used to keep an inn. Maybe he canfind a spare bed for you under the roof somewheres."
"Drive me to Sam Cook's," said Aronson. All the nocturnal interest ofthe countryside had vanished from him now, and it was with no kindlyfeeling toward Hillsborough that he stretched his limbs in the oldboniface's spare bed, laying the subpoena under his pillow and mutteringa petition to Jehovah that he might not oversleep himself and lose the6:15 a. m. But the real danger proved to be that he would get no sleepat all. For at midnight he was still tossing.
A cow-bell, furiously jingled, awoke him at sunrise, and he was in thecity at 7:15, on schedule time.
"To Woodlawn," a sign on one of the tracks read. But the hands of themock clock pointed to 7:45 and there was another half-hour of waiting.All the world was out of bed, for the steeple bell had just tolled 8when he arrived in Woodlawn and inquired his way to the Arnolds'.
"Just moved back!" thought Aronson. "I should say so."
Mats were hanging out of windows, servants were mopping panes, a hostlerwas hosing a muddy carriage in the stable; everything showed that ageneral scrubbing process had begun. To his surprise and pleasure, herecognized the housemaid who answered his ring as Bertha Lund. She wasdressed in her smartest pink, for this was the day of her testimony.
"I want to see Mrs. Arnold," said Aronson, blurting out his message likea schoolboy.
"Mrs. Arnold? Well, you've come too late," answered Bertha.
"Isn't she here?"
"Here! She's on her way to Europe by this time."
"To Europe!"
Saul Aronson's jaw dropped and the subpoena began to burn a hole in hispocket. Was this a subterfuge? He would be on the alert.
"When did she start?"
"Why, this morning. You must have passed her coming out."
Passed her coming out! It was like chasing his own shadow, this constantmissing of the game he hunted.
"But wha--wha--what made her go to Europe?" stammered Aronson. Heremembered hearing Shagarach say one day that flight was confession. WasMrs. Arnold involved in her son's guilt? Then all the more reason forwaylaying her before she gave them the slip.
"Can't a lady go abroad if she
chooses? Mrs. Arnold goes abroad everysummer."
"But Harry----"
"Yes, we're cleaning things up for Harry. They'll live here afterthey're married, you know, Harry and Miss March."
"But he was arrested!"
"Arrested!"
Bertha had left the court early on the previous day and did not read thepapers.
"Didn't his mother know Harry was arrested?"
"Arrested! Harry? What for?"
"For setting his uncle's house on fire," answered Aronson, who as aloyal partisan was one shade more thorough in his conviction of Harry'sguilt than Shagarach himself.
"Setting his uncle's house on fire! Nonsense!"
"What boat did she take?" asked Aronson, breaking in upon Bertha'sastonishment with a gesture of impatience.
"The Venetia, of the Red Star line."
"And it starts so early in the morning?"
"Yes; somewhere between 8 and 9."
Aronson looked at his watch. It was just 8:15. If he could catch a trainback, he might be in town at a little after half-past. And then--adelay! These great steamers are often delayed!
"Toot! Toot! Toot!" came the warning whistle of an engine, and Aronsonwas dashing down the path, never stopping to pick up his hat that waslifted off by the wind, bent only on beating his steam-propelled rivalto the station. It took him the whole journey townward to recover thewind he had lost in that unwonted quarter-mile run. People laughed athis hatless head, but he did not heed them. Besides, if he had been aphilosopher, he might have retorted that hats on a dog-day are simplyone of the nuisances of civilized conventionality. So he took a wharfcar and in less than half an hour was running out to the edge of thegreat Red Star quay, there to behold the Venetia proudly backing intothe channel on the flood of the tide and turning her head oceanward. Iregret to say this spectacle filled Aronson with violent wrath, and thewharf loungers must have taken him for a wild man as he smote his fiststogether and danced about.
"Missed your boat?" inquired casually a sea-beaten man, but Aronson wastoo irate to appreciate his well-meant sympathy. He only ran to the edgeof the wharf and looked off, shading his eyes from the glare of thewater.
Presently he found the man at his elbow again.
"I can catch her for you if it's anything important," said the tar.
"I'll give you--I'll give you--" and then he checked himself, appalledat his own rashness. "How much will you charge?" he asked.
"Well, the Venetians steaming for a record this trip."
"How much?"
"She's got a start of a mile, and going twenty knots."
"How much?"
"There were some picnic folks I expected down here to charter my tug.Don't see them, but they may drop in. I suppose you'll allow somethingfor the disappointment if they come."
"How much?" persisted Aronson, but the Venetia had just disappearedbehind an island and the thought of returning empty-handed to Shagarachacted like a rowel in his flank. "I'll give you $50," he cried,suddenly.
"Done," said the Yankee, wringing his hand, and then Aronson knew thathe ought to have offered $25. But it was no time for haggling. "At anycost," he repeated to himself. The mariner hurried him in and out amongthe wharves, till they came upon a battered but resolute-lookingtugboat, on which two or three deck-hands were lounging.
"Get steam up, Si," cried the skipper, and after a delay which seemed anhour to Aronson the water began to be churned to foam before her bow andthe little craft had started on its long chase.
Past the islands of the harbor, past the slow merchant schooners, pastthe white-sailed careening pleasure sloops, past the harbor police boat,past the revenue cutter, past the excursion steamers to local beaches,past the crowded Yarmouth, they flew, cheered on by the passengers--foreverybody soon saw it was a race.
Aronson was studying the wide beam of the Venetia in front. How slowlythey were gaining! They were out beyond the farthest island in theharbor, the lighthouse shoal that is covered at high tide, and still theRed Star liner bore away from them with half a mile of clear waterbetween.
"Cheer up, shipmate," cried Perkins; "she's gettin' bigger and bigger.Heap the coals on down there, Si."
The Venetia must have sighted her pursuer long ago, and indeed the facesof her passengers on the bow were becoming more and more visible everymoment. But this was a record trip, and it would be beneath her dignityto slow up for every petty rowboat that hailed her. So her enginescontinued to pump and she clove the glorious waters swiftly.
"Ahoy!" shouted Capt. Perkins.
"Ahoy yourself!" came the answer. Aronson thought he saw a woman's facethat he knew on the deck.
"Heave to! A boarder!"
"Tell him to get out of bed in time," came the ungracious reply.Evidently the Venetia's third mate was under orders not to stop for anybelated passenger.
"What's your errand?" asked the skipper, a little puzzled, of Aronson.
"I have a subpoena from the court," cried Aronson, all agog.
"Oh, you're a court officer."
Then he rounded his hands and holloaed up:
"A court officer aboard!"
Court officer! This made an impression. The third mate withdrew from thegunwale and presently reappeared with the captain.
"Lash her to!" cried the captain. The tug-boat hugged her great sisterand a ladder was let down, upon which Aronson mounted. With the whitepaper in his hand he looked decidedly formidable.
"I have a subpoena for Mrs. Alice Arnold, one of your passengers. She iswanted as a witness in a murder trial. There she is," he added, for Mrs.Arnold stood in front of the crowd that had rolled like a barrel ofballast toward the center of interest. The captain was nonplused. He wasnot familiar enough with law terms to know the limits of a subpoena'sauthority. But he felt that he was to some extent the protector of hispassengers.
"I don't understand this," he said, turning to Mrs. Arnold.
"It is a great annoyance to me if I must go on so trifling a matter,"she said. She was pale and her manner was haughty. To Aronson it wassomething more. It bore every indication of conscious guilt. He had notforeseen resistance. The document, with Shagarach's name appended, hehad thought would open caverns and cause walls to fall.
"There is the lady. She prefers not to go. I presume you will have tocompel her. But I don't see that I can permit violence on board myship."
The passengers seemed to gloat on Saul Aronson's discomfiture, andShagarach's faithful courier was almost beside himself. In the distancelay the city, crowned with its gold dome, dwindling from sight. Thelonely ocean roared around him. Capt. Perkins' tiny tug still hugged thelarboard of her giant sister.
"It appears to me that paper's no good," said the second mate suddenly.He happened to be a little of a lawyer. "Let's have a look."
Aronson reluctantly saw the summons leave his hand.
"Suffolk county. This ain't Suffolk county," cried the mate, while thering of passengers laughed.
"Shinny on your own side, youngster," he added, returning the paper.
"But it's America," cried Aronson.
"Just passed the three-mile limit," said the captain. He was anEnglishman, the mate was an Englishman. They had no particular love foranything American, except the output of our national mints.
"I'm afraid the captain's right, young man," said a kind, elderlygentleman, who might be a lawyer recruiting his health by an ocean tripbefore the fall term opened. "You've got beyond your jurisdiction."
Mrs. Arnold had gone below and the hatless invader reluctantly abandonedhis prize. On the homeward voyage he gave way to exhaustion and fellinto several naps of forty winks' duration, during the last of which agrotesque dream troubled his peace. He found himself chasing Serena Lambaround an enormous bass drum, as big as the Heidelberg tun, on thestretched skin of which the oaf, the manikin and the pantaloon weredancing a fandango. Still he chased Serena and still she escaped him,the toes of the dancers pounding a heavy tattoo. Faster and fasterpursuer and pursued whirled
around the side of the drum, till Aronson'shead swam like a kitten's in hot pursuit of his own tail. At last in hisdespair he hurled the subpoena at Serena's head.
The three dancers disappeared with a bursting sound into the hollow ofthe drum, and he awoke to find the tugboat just bumping its side againstthe dock. The sea had smoothed down to a lack-luster glaze, but it wasless dreary than the heart of the baffled pursuer.
"We may as well cancel that little debit item now," said SkipperPerkins, flinging a coil of rope ashore.
"At any cost," repeated Aronson sorely to himself. He had done his best,but Mrs. Arnold was out of sight of land--a fugitive from justice.
The Incendiary: A Story of Mystery Page 57