"You can't have both—like your ma did. You ain't her."
"I'm not my mother," Rhoda admitted.
"One thing or t'other," said the captain.
"Does that mean I've got to give up— Why, Captain, some of them are my friends. I've known them since I was a baby. There's Uncle Billy. Like part of the family. . . . They wouldn't harm me."
"They're crooks and they'll use you and they'll hurt you. Your ma could afford it—bein' who she was—but you're a girl, and you can't afford havin' your name coupled with 'em. Girls is a fragile chiny, Rhody. Now you listen to an old man that knows. I've said my say."
He got to his feet stiffly with the heaviness of age and stood looking down at her silently, severely—but she knew that in his heart was nothing but kindness and anxiety for her happiness. She thanked him as he marched abruptly to the door, where he paused.
"Your ma knew a crook couldn't have no peace," he said, "and she knew peace was somethin' folks has to have if they git happiness out of life. . . "
"Have you been happy?" Rhoda asked, curiously.
"I've done my duty," said the captain, as if that were a full answer to her question; then he opened the door and, without a word of good-by, was gone. It was his way—to eliminate the gracious and the inessential. He had spent a life gnawing for the meat, so that the garnishings had grown to be nonexistent.
Rhoda walked slowly to her chair again and sat, chin in cupped hands, lovely eyes upon the floor—striving to meet the first great demand of her life, face to face with her first momentous decision. . . . One side of the case had been presented to her without circumlocution, without temporizing. The captain had been succinct to bluntness. . . . But what of the other side? The other side must have its arguments and its rights. She paused at that word—its rights. Did any individual or set of individuals possess rights in her? For the first time she conceived of the possibility of it.
Against Captain Spencer's point of view there marshaled custom and affection and loyalty; loyalty not only to those friends of her mother who stood without the law, but to the memory of her mother. What, in this emergency, would Rhoda Fair have demanded of her? . . . It was strange, she thought, that her mother had left no word of advice, no counsel, no request. But Rhoda Fair was not a woman to leave intangible legacies or to endeavor to rule from the grave. . . . It was the loyalties which arrayed themselves before the girl's eyes, for she had been taught to abhor disloyalty as the one unforgivable sin; to be guilty of conduct tainted with treachery was forever to forfeit self-respect, and that, to Rhoda's way to thinking, was the ultimate possible punishment.
It was a problem not to be answered by an hour's cogitation. One must weigh consequences, must estimate the future, must, when all was said and done, lay down a plan of life. It was a grievous thing to ask of a girl of twenty-one, and she might have been forgiven had she wavered and procrastinated. It is significant that she did neither. Until the problem was solved nothing else could be done, and she attacked it with all the vigor of a fine young, intelligence and a loyal if somewhat abnormal young heart. . . . What she did not understand, and what few vastly more experienced minds—minds versed in psychology and the workings of the human soul—could have informed her, was that it never could be determined in the abstract. There must be a decision in the concrete. Facts and personages there must be, an emergency and a demand. . . .
Then she would act, and in that act—perhaps—would be found the final answer which should determine if her life were to lie in the safe pastures of the law-abiding, or among the unpastured goats of those whose hands were turned against the law. . . . The demand, to be granted or refused, could come only from the side of the lawless. . . .
Chapter Two
RHODA FAIR was in her own room, making ready to retire for the night; it was not early, nor were her eyes ready to close in sleep, but darkness and the comfort of a soft bed would be very welcome to her, for mentally she was weary. It was a still night, starless—one of those nights which seem to enfold one, to isolate one from all the world and to give one the sense of being alone in some vast nothingness. Rhoda felt as if corporeal size had departed from her, as if she had sunk to the infinitesimal. . . . In that drowsy neighborhood sounds were few and a belated footfall upon the flag walk without multiplied itself and became painful to her over-sensitized ear. Rhoda listened. Not that she expected to hear anything, but it was one of those nights upon which one must listen—and listening of this sort makes one afraid, afraid of the silence. She was not a girl given to nerves and tremors, but now she tottered upon the verge of senseless panic. . . .
To reassure herself that the world still existed and that she was not the sole survivor upon the planet she crept to the window and crouched there, looking down upon the little space of lawn and shrubs which separated her home from the dwelling which nestled upon the adjoining lot. . . . And then it was that she saw a shadow, crouched and furtive, flit from the indistinct outlines of a clump of lilac bushes to the blackness of a rhododendron. The soft thud, thud of her heartbeats became uncomfortable. Presently the shadow flitted again from its shelter to cross another open space to reach the rear corner of the house. Rhoda knew her eyes had not played her false, nor her excited imagination created what was not.
Suddenly she was conscious of being unafraid. It was the intangible, the imponderable she feared, and here was something real. Mysterious, lurking, threatening to the ordinary mortal it might be, but not to her, for she was the daughter of Rhoda Fair and from her infancy had been acquainted with the lurking and the mysterious. Whoever it was, whatever it was, would not be harmful to her. Softly and without striking a light she descended the stairs. At the foot she listened, but there was no sound. . . . Her adventurous soul lifted to greet the adventure; she thrilled to it. Not now did she pause to feel alarm that this should be so, at the threat of this delight in the hazardous. She did not then consider down what paths this appetite might lead. There was no inward glancing, no self-analysis, only an exaltation, a wild, unrestrained, joyous excitement.
She moved through the dining-room, across the kitchen, and to the door which gave upon a rough, shed-like structure affixed to the rear of the house, and there she stood straining her ear for movement, for sound of breath, for slipping of foot. . . And then she whispered, "Who's there?"
There came immediate answer from the other side of the panel, so close that the moving lips seemed to be at her very ear.
"Jaunty Bailey. I'm in a jam."
She opened the door softly; a man slipped through, and she closed it again.
"What sort of a jam?" she asked.
"Never mind that. I've got to lie doggo and make a getaway."
"Why did you come here? Don't you know my mother is—dead?"
"I know." There was no word of sympathy or of comment.
"Are they after you?"
He shrugged his shoulders in the darkness. "I'm all right now. Got to plant some stuff and be quiet for a couple of hours, that's all—and catch the newspaper train out of the junction at three."
"You want to hide something—here?"
"Got to."
Something was beating upon her brain, a question demanding to be answered. How would her mother have conducted in these circumstances? What would her mother have expected of her? Where lay the dividing line between what Rhoda Fair would have done and would not have done?
"If my mother had been alive would you have come here?" she asked.
"Of course," he said, the jaunty note creeping into his voice, that indication of his personality which had given him his name.
"Fresh from—doing something?"
"Why not?"
"And she would have allowed you to hide the—the—"
"The technical term is swag," he said, with a little laugh. "Naturally she would."
"I don't believe it," said Rhoda. "The friends of mother's had to behave—in this town. She might help someone to get away, but she wouldn't—"
"Somebody'll call for it to-morrow or next day," he said, lightly, ignoring her protest. "You're certainly not going to see me landed with the goods on me! That would be a fine story to tell the boys."
Here it was, a question of loyalty, and how was she to distinguish where loyalty ended and the honorable time for refusal began? If only her mother had instructed her!
"I wish I could see you," the man said, suddenly.
"See me! Why?"
"Because," he said, in his gay voice, "there's nothing in the world I'd rather look at. . . . And I've only seen you four times," he added, regretfully. "The press of business interferes with my social duties," he said, whimsically.
"And this isn't exactly a social call," she said, gravely, "so let us stick to business."
"You make it difficult. I forget what I came for when I stand here trying to imagine how you look. A woman in the darkness is a mystery; but a beautiful woman in the darkness—"
"I don't think I'll let you do it," she said.
"What? You'd turn me down! . . . Well, I may get a couple of blocks," he said, "and I would hate to lose ten years out of this time of my life. . . . But if you say so—"
"Wait. Let me think. . . . I—oh, I wish I knew what she would have done."
Ten years! It was now that she could imagine Jaunty Bailey in the darkness as he had imagined her. Perhaps her power of summoning up images was more efficient than his, because she could see him clearly, distinctly, see the grace of him, the white teeth that were visible always through a smile, his slender, athletic, splendid body, and that quizzical, boyish face with something charming, something not to be tamed about it which often had made her wonder in her own fanciful way if his ears had not been pointed at birth and somehow made normal by artificial means. . . . It was unthinkable that such a creature as he should be shut away from the world, from" gayety, from the light of the sun, and from the liberty of movement. That, at all events, she must avert. . . . And, as a girl must do, she recalled his manner at each of their former meetings; how his eyes had devoured her, not in the manner of some men whose glance seemed to tear at the buttons of her dress, but with a sort of gay appreciation, a debonair homage which was never otherwise than gratifying. She recalled his manner, his words, the meaning he had put into remarks the most insignificant—and suddenly she realized that this young man had made love to her—after his own free fashion, perhaps, but in a manner attractive, compelling. He had stamped himself upon her memory. His image was there. . . . Either he was of those deliberately, calculating skillful men, or nature had given him a way with women.
To the glamour of an exotic, dramatic exterior add the glamour of personality, the glamour of what he was. He was no crude practitioner of crime, no utilizer of bag of sand or pipe of lead. There was a finesse and deftness and enjoyment about his feats which set him apart, and was not a little remindful of the impish humor which set twinkling high-lights upon the exploits of Rhoda Fair herself. Also his bearing and manners and education were those of a gentleman. He was acquainted with the little courtesies and would have been at home in a university club as much as in some back room where gathered a predatory flock. . . . A figure to fire the imagination!
"Why are you a crook?" she demanded, unexpectedly.
"Because I love it," he answered as quickly.
"What have you done? What—do you want to hide?"
"I'm making a collection of unset stones," he said, airily. "I've the reputation of a connoisseur—in some circles. Just picked up some specimens that attracted me."
"And you were seen?"
"Well, there was a watchman—absolutely without tact. Intrusive sort of a fellow. Noisy, too. But I was almost ready to go, anyhow. . . . There was no chance to identify me, if that's your worry. Nevertheless, if they met me in town and I had these stones in my pocket it might set them to thinking. You know how it is."
"But they followed you."
"On foot, ahorseback, in motor cars and airplanes," he said.
"And traced you here?"
"If I thought so I wouldn't linger," he said, and she knew he was smiling. "No, not even those eyes of yours which I can't see could hold me. . . . Here are the rocks," he said, casually, handing her a small package which she took mechanically. And, as she felt the weight of them in her hand, there came a rap upon the front door, not an ordinary rapping, but a special, significant sound such as only a policeman can make. Bailey's hand clutched her wrist, and they stood in silence.
"If they're at the front they're at the rear," he whispered. "It's up to you."
In that instant she forgot everything but the game, the adventure, the thrill of playing, and the danger of it. She stretched out her hand through the darkness until she felt his hand and gave it a little, reassuring pressure; then she freed herself from his clasp and was gone. Silently as a shadow she mounted the stairs, and, throwing up a window over the porch, leaned out to demand who was there.
"That you, Rhoda?" asked a voice.
"Yes. Who is it?"
"Lieutenant Rhul."
"What do you want?"
"Come down and let me in. I want to talk to you."
"Just a second," Rhoda said with no quaver in her voice, but with resentment in her heart, resentment against the police, who, in all the years her mother lived in that house, had never approached its door on business! It had been a house above suspicion, but now, the moment her mother was dead, they dared to come, dared to suspect, dared to pry. . . . It enraged her.
She threw a gown of silk over her dress and loosened her hair before she descended. Then, carrying the package of jewels in her hand, she pressed the button which made light in the hall below and went down to open the door.
"What do you want?" she asked, sharply.
"Anybody here?" demanded the officer.
"Myself."
"Look here," said the man, "your mother was a wise woman and never once did she step off the sidewalk. We always knew where she was at. . . . "
"Did you come out at midnight to tell me that?"
"We came out at midnight on the heels of a yegg. He headed this way—"
"What has that to do with me?"
"Why, it looked as if he was headin' here."
"Why should he?" Rhoda asked. "Am I to be annoyed every time the police let a burglar slip away from them."
"Most of 'em is your friends."
She shrugged her shoulders, meantime holding the package conspicuously before her. "Come in," she said, "and let's have it out once for all." At which she turned her back and led the way into the parlor. "Now out with it. What does this mean?"
"Then he didn't come here—lookin' for getaway money, maybe?"
"Did you try next door? Or down the street? There are a hundred houses on this avenue—why pick this one?"
"Don't lose your temper," said the officer.
"Who is it?" Rhoda asked. "Anybody I know?"
"I'm lookin' for information, not givin' it."
"Oh," she said with a little grimace, "so you don't even know whom you're chasing. . . . Let me ask you this, Lieutenant. In a case like this, what would my mother have done?"
"Kept her hands clean—and the crooks knew it and never expected anything else."
"Why, then, expect anything else from me?"
"We knew her. We don't know anythin' about you—and till we do—"
"Oh," she said with a queer inflection, "so that's it. Is there any reason to suspect me? Have I, ever in my life, done anything of interest to the police? Why should you suppose—how am I different from any other girl?"
"You're different this way," said Rhul, doggedly, "you're your mother's daughter and you're pals with half the crooks in America."
"And so I've got to submit to this sort of thing?"
"Until we're sure."
Rhoda nodded. Her face was placid, under control, but her heart burned at the injustice of it—what, to her, was the injustice of it, forgetting that, at this very instant, a fugitive stood hol
ding his breath on the other side of a thin partition—and that she was shielding him.
"Then I suppose you want to search the house." She shrugged her shoulders. "Go ahead. . . . Better start with this," she said, holding out the package. "Maybe I've the—what do you call it?—swag in here."
He got up clumsily, but fixed her with grim, official look. "Anyhow," he said, "you watch your step. . . . Just the same, he did come this way." He moved toward the door and she could see the workings of his not subtle mind, could see by his reasoning—that it was clear the fugitive was not here, but that did not mean he would not come, and a watch would be set. She closed the door after him gently.
Once more she ascended the stairs, and for a time moved about the room so that her shadow would be apparent to watching eyes without as she came between the light and the drawn shades of the windows. Then she put the room in darkness and softly descended the stairs to the man who waited there for her, feeling her way to his side and directing him to follow her. In her room they seated themselves on the floor with their backs against a doorless, windowless partition, and then, and only then, did a whisper pass between them. . . . She could feel by the movement of his shoulders that he was laughing, and she liked him for it. As for herself, she was furious, humiliated, in a frame of mind so rebellious as to spell danger for herself. "You shook those rocks under his very beak," said Bailey. "I could hear every word."
"It's—it's unfair! I won't stand it. I won't, I won't, I won't."
"The police'll be disappointed if you turn out a good citizen," he said, provocatively.
"How will you get away? They'll watch, of course."
"Don't let that bother you," he said, airily. "Just you put those rocks where the sun won't shine on them, and I'll do the rest. . . . It's all in fun," he ended, with a chuckle.
"Where did you get them?"
He told her, and then, his lips close to her, whispered of other matters. "You're wasted," he said. "You've got all your mother had. . . . Rhoda, you and I would be the world's greatest team—and what a life we'd have."
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