CHAPTER III
THE MOCKING BIRD
After centuries of unconsciousness, Gavin Brice began toreturn, bit by bit, to his senses.
The first thing he knew was that the myriad shooting stars inhis head had changed somehow into a myriad shooting pains. Hewas in torment. And he was deathly sick.
His trained brain forced itself to a semblance of sanity, andhe found himself piecing together vaguely the things that hadhappened to him. He could remember seeing Milo Standishstrolling toward the veranda in the shaft of light from thewindow, then the black figure which detached itself from theshrubbery and sprang on the unheeding man, and his own attemptto turn aside the arm that wielded the knife.
But everything else was a blank.
Meanwhile, the countless shooting pains were merging into oneintolerable ache. Brice had no desire to stir or even to openhis eyes. The very thought of motion was abhorrent. The mereeffort at thinking was painful. So he lay still.
Presently, he was aware of something that touched his head.And he wondered why the touch did not add to his hurt, but wassoothing. Even a finger's weight might have been expected tojar his battered skull.
But there was no jar to this touch. Rather was it cooling andof infinite comfort. And now he realized that it had beencontinuing for some time.
Again he roused his rebellious brain to action, and knew atlast what the soothing touch must be. Some one was bathinghis forehead with cool water. Some one with a lightlymagnetic touch. Some one whose fingers held healing in theirsoft tips.
And, just above him, he could hear quick, light breathing,breathing that was almost a sob. His unseen nurse was takingher job not only seriously but compassionately. That wasevident. It did not jibe with Gavin's slight experience withtrained nurses. Wherefore, it puzzled him.
But, perplexity seemed to hurt his brain as much as did theeffort to piece together the shattered fragments of memory.So he forbore to follow that train of thought. And, again, hestrove to banish mentality and to sink back into the mercifulsenselessness from which youth and an iron-and-whaleboneconstitution were fighting to rouse him.
But, do what he would to prevent it, consciousness wascreeping more and more in upon him. For, now, he could notonly follow the motions of the wondrously gentle hand on hisforehead, but he could tell that his head was not on theground. Instead, it was resting on something warm, and itwas elevated some inches above the grass. He recalled awar-chromo of a wounded soldier whose head rested on the kneeof a Red Cross nurse,--a nurse who sat on the furrowed earthof a five-color battlefield, where all real life armyregulations forbade her to set foot.
Was he that soldier? Was he still in the hell of the Flanderstrenches? He had thought the war was over, and that he wasback in America,--in America and on his way South on some oddand perilous business whose nature he could not now recall.
Another few seconds of mental wandering, and he was himselfagain, his mind functioning more and more clearly. Withreturning strength of brain came curiosity. Where was he?How did he chance to be lying here, his head in some sobbingwoman's lap? It didn't make sense!
With instinctive caution, he parted his eyelids, ever soslightly, and sought to peer upward through his thick lashes.The effort was painful, but less so than he had feared.Already, through natural buoyancy or else by reason of theunseen nurse's ministrations, the throbbing ache was becomingalmost bearable.
At first, his dazed eyes could make out nothing. Then hecould see, through his lashes, the velvety dark blue of thenight sky and the big white Southern stars shining through asoft cloud. Inconsequentially, his vagrant mind recalledthat, below Miami, the Southern Cross is smudgily visible onthe horizon, somewhere around two in the morning. And hewondered if he could descry it, if that luminous cloud werenot in the way.
Then, he knew it was not a cloud which shimmered between hiseyes and the stars. It was a woman's filmy hair.
And the woman was bending down above him, as he lay with hishead on her knee. She was bending down, sobbing softly toherself, and bathing his aching head with water from a bowl ather side.
He was minded to rouse himself and speak, or at least to get aless elusive look at her shadowed face, when running footstepssounded from somewhere. And again by instinct, Brice shut hiseyes and lay moveless.
The footsteps were coming nearer. They were springy andrhythmic, the footsteps of a powerful man.
Then came a panting voice out of the darkness
"Oh, there you are!" it exclaimed. "He got away. Got away,clean. I reached the head of the path, not ten feet behindhim. But, in there, it's so black I couldn't see anythingahead of me. And I had no light, worse luck! So he--"
A deep-throated growl interrupted him,--a growl so fierce andmenacing that Gavin once more halfparted his eyes, in suddencuriosity.
From beside his feet, Bobby Burns was rising. The collie hadcrouched there, evidently, with some idea of guarding Bricefrom further harm. He did not seem to have resented thewoman's ministrations. But he was of no mind to let this mancome any closer to his stricken idol.
Brice was sore tempted to reach out his hand and give thecollie a reassuring pat and to thank him for the loyal guardhe had been keeping. Now, through the mists of memory, herecalled snarls and the bruising contact of a furry body,during the battle he so, dimly remembered, and that once hisfoe had cried, out, as though at the impact of rending teeth.
Yes, Bobby Burns, presumably, had learned a lesson since hisinterested but impersonal surveillance of Gavin's bout withthe beach comber, earlier in the afternoon. He had begun tolearn that when grown men come to a clinch, it is not mereplay.
And Brice wanted to praise the gallant young dog for comingto his help. But, as before, instinct and professionalexperience bade him continue to "play dead."
"What's that?" he heard the man demand, in surprise, as Bobbysnarled again and stood threateningly between him and theprostrate Brice.
The woman answered. And at the first sound of her voice, fullmemory rushed back on Gavin in a flood. He knew where he was,and who was holding, his head on her knee. The knowledgethrilled him, unaccountably. With mighty effort he held tohis, pose of inert senselessness.
"That's Bobby Burns," he heard Claire saying in reply to herbrother's first question. "He's guarding Mr. Brice. When Iran out here with the water and the cloths, I found himstanding above him. But--oh, Milo--"
"Brice?" snapped Milo Standish, glowering on the fallen manhis sister was brooding over. "Brice? Who's Brice? D'youmean that chap? Lucky I got him, even if the other one didgive me the slip! Let me take a look at him. If I hadn'thappened to be bringing the monkey-wrench from the garage tofix that shelf-bolt in the study, I'd never have been able toget even one of them. I yanked free of them, while they weretrying to down me, and I let this one have it with the wrench.Before I could land on the other--"
"Milo!" she broke in, after several vain attempts to still hisvainglorious recital. "Milo! You've injured--maybe you'vekilled--the man who saved you from being stabbed to death!Yet you--"
"What are you talking about?" he demanded, bewildered. "Thesetwo men set on me in the dark, as I was coming from--"
"This man, here--Mr. Brice--" she flamed, "has saved you frombeing killed. Oh, go and telephone for a doctor! Quickly!And send one of the maids out here with my smelling salts.He--"
"Thanks!" returned her brother, making no move to obey. "Butwhen I phone, it'll be to the police. Not to a doctor. Idon't know what notion you may have gotten of this fracas.But--"
"Oh, we're wasting such precious time!" she cried. "Listen!I heard a shout. I was on my way to the veranda to see whatwas detaining you. For I had heard your car come in, quite awhile before that. I opened the door. And I was just in timeto see some man spring on you, with a knife in his hand. ThenMr. Brice came running from the gateway, just as the man threwyou down and lifted his knife to stab you. Mr. Brice draggedhim away from you and throttled him
, and knocked the knife outof his hand. I could see it ever so plainly. For it was allin that big patch of light. Just like a scene on a stage.Then, Mr. Brice got to his feet, and swung the man to oneside, by the throat. And as he did, you jumped up, too, andhit him on the head with that miserable wrench. As he fell, Icould see the other man stagger off toward the path. He wasso weak, at first, he could hardly move. I cried out to you,but you were so busy glaring down at the man who had savedyour life that you didn't think to start after the other onetill he had gotten strength enough to escape from you. Then Iwent for water to--"
"Good Lord!" groaned Standish, agape. "You're--you'resure--dead sure you're right?"
"Sure?" she echoed, indignantly. "Of course I'm sure. I--"
"Hold that measly dog's collar," he broke in. "So! I don'tcare to be bitten. I've had my share of knockabout stuff, forone day."
Stooping, he picked up Brice as easily as though Gavin hadbeen a baby, and with rough tenderness carried him toward thehouse.
"There are a lot of things, about all this, that I don'tunderstand," he continued, irritably, as Claire and the stillgrowling but tight-held Bobby followed him to the veranda."For instance, how that dog happens to be here and trying toprotect a total stranger. For, Bobby only got to Miami, fromNew Jersey, by this morning's train. He can't possibly knowthis man. That's one thing. Another is, how this--Brice, didyou say his name is?--happened to be Johnny-on-the-spot whenthe other chap tried to knife me. And how you happen to knowhim by name. He's dressed more like a day-laborer than likeany one you'd be likely to meet .... But all that can wait.The thing now is to find how badly he's hurt."
They had reached the veranda, and Standish carried his burdenthrough an open doorway, which was blocked by a knot ofexcitedly inquisitive servants. A sharp word from Standishsent them whisperingly back to the kitchen regions. Milo laidBrice down on a wicker couch in the broad, flagged hallway,and ran his fingers over the bruised head.
Gavin could hear Claire, in a nearby room, telephoning.
"Hold on, there!" called Standish, as his sister gave theoperator a number. "Wait! As well as I can tell, at aglance, there doesn't seem to be any fracture. He's justknocked out. That's all. A mild concussion of the brain, Ishould think. Don't call a doctor, unless it turns out to bemore serious. It's bad enough for the servants to be allstirred up like this, and to blab--as they're certain to--withoutletting a doctor in on it, too. The less talk we cause, thebetter."
Reluctantly, Claire came away from the telephone andapproached the couch.
"You're sure?" she asked, in doubt.
"I've had some experience with this sort of thing, on theother side," he answered. "The man will come to himself inanother few minutes. I've loosened his collar and belt andshoelaces. He--"
"Have you any idea who could have tried to kill you?" sheasked, shuddering.
"Yes!" he made sullen answer. "And so have you. Let it go atthat."
"You--you think it was one of--?"
"Hush!" he ordered, uneasily. "This fellow may not be quiteas unconscious as he looks. Sometimes, people get theirhearing back, before they open their eyes. Come into thelibrary, a minute. I want to speak to you. Oh, don't looklike that, about leaving him alone! He'll be all right, Itell you! His pulse is coming back, strong. Come in here."
He laid one big arm on her slight shoulder and led her,half-forcibly, into the adjoining room. Thence, Gavin couldhear the rumble of his deep voice. But he could catch no wordthe man said, though once he heard Claire speak in vehementexcitement, and could hear Milo's harsh interruption and hiscommand that she lower her voice.
Presently, the two came back into the hall. As Standishneared the couch, Gavin Brice opened his eyes, withconsiderable effort, and blinked dazedly up at the giganticfigure in the torn and muddy white silk suit.
Then Brice's blinking gaze drifted to Claire, as she stood,pale and big-eyed, above him. He essayed a feeble smile ofrecognition, and let his glance wander in well-acted amazementabout the high-veiled hallway.
"Feeling better?" queried Milo. "Here, drink this."
Gavin essayed to speak. His pose was not wholly assumed. Forhis head still swam and was intolerably painful.
He sipped at the brandy which Standish held to his sagginglips. And, glancing toward Claire, he smiled, a somewhatwavery and wan smile.
"Don't try to say anything!" she begged. "Wait till you arefeeling better."
"I'm I'm all right," he assured her, albeit rather shakily,his voice seeming to come from a distance. "I got a rap overthe head. And it put me out, for a while. But--I'mcollecting the pieces. I'll be as good as--as new, in a fewminutes."
The fragments of dialogue between brother and sister hadsupplemented his returning memory. Mentally, he was himselfagain, keen, secretive, alert, every bit of him warily onguard. But he cursed the fact that Standish had drawn Claireinto the library, out of earshot, when he spoke of the man whohad attacked him.
Then, with a queer revulsion of feeling, he cursed himself foran eavesdropper, and was ashamed of having listened at all.For the first time, he began to hate the errand that hadbrought him to Florida.
Bobby Burns caused a mild diversion, as Brice's voice trailedaway. At Gavin's first word, the collie sprang from hisself-appointed guard-post at the foot of the couch, and camedancing up to the convalescent man, thrusting his cold noserapturously against Brice's face, trying to lick his cheek,whimpering in joy at his idol's recovery.
With much effort Gavin managed to stroke the wrigglinglyactive head, and to say a reassuring word to his worshiper.Then, glancing again at Claire, he explained:
"I'd done about a mile toward Miami when he overtook me.There was no use in trying to send him home. So I broughthim. Just as we got to the gate, here--"
"I know," intervened Claire, eager to spare him the effort ofspeech. "I saw. It was splendid of you, Mr. Brice! Mybrother and I are in your debt for more than we can ever hopeto pay."
"Nonsense!" he protested. "I made a botch of the whole thing.I ought--"
"No," denied Milo. "It was I who made a botch of it. I oweyou not only my life but an apology. It was my blow, not theother man's, that knocked you out. I misunderstood, and--"
"That's all right!" declared Gavin. "In the dim light it's amiracle we didn't all of us slug the wrong men. I--"
He stopped. Claire had been working over something on a tablebehind him. Now she came forward with a cold compress for hisabraded scalp. Skillfully, she applied it, her dainty fingerswondrously deft.
"Red Cross?" asked Brice, as she worked.
"Just a six-month nursing course, during the war," she said,modestly, adding: "I didn't get across."
"I'm sorry," said Gavin. "I mean, for the poor chaps whomight have profited by such clever bandaging .... Yes, that'sa very dull and heavy compliment. I know it. But--there's alot of gratitude behind it. You've made this throbbing oldhead of mine feel ever so much better, Miss Standish."
Milo was looking bewilderedly from one to the other, as iftrying to understand how this ill-clad man chanced to be onsuch terms of acquaintanceship with his fastidious littlesister. Claire read his look of inquiry, and said:
"Mr. Brice found Bobby Burns, this afternoon, and brought himhome to me. It was nice of him, wasn't it? For it took himever so far out of his way."
Gavin noted that she made no mention of his having come to theStandish home by way of the hidden path. It seemed to himthat she gave him a glance of covert appeal, as thoughbeseeching him not to mention it. He nodded, ever soslightly, and took up the narrative, as she paused for words.
"I saw Miss Standish and yourself, at Miami, this morning,"said he, "and the collie, here, on the back seat of your car.Then, this afternoon, as I was walking out in this direction,I saw the dog again. I recognized him, and I guessed he hadstrayed. So he and I made friends. And as we were strollingalong together, we met Miss Standish. At least, I met her.Bobby met a
prematurely gray Persian cat, with the dreamyBagdad name of 'Simon Cameron.' By the time the dog and catcould be sorted out from each other--"
"Oh, I see!" laughed Milo. "And I don't envy you the job ofsorting them. It was mighty kind of you to--"
He broke off and added, with a tinge of anxiety:
"You say you happened to be walking near here. Are you aneighbor of ours?"
"Not yet," answered Gavin, with almost exaggerated simplicity."But I was hoping to be. You see I was out looking for a jobin this neighborhood."
"A job?" repeated Milo, then, suspiciously: "Why in thisneighborhood, rather than any other? You say you were atMiami--"
"Because this chanced to be the neighborhood I was wanderingin," replied Gavin. "As I explained to Miss Standish, I'drather do some kind of outdoor work. Preferably farm work.That's why I left Miami. There seemed to be lots of farms andgroves, hereabouts."
"Yet you were on your way back toward Miami, when Bobbyovertook you? Rather a long walk, for--"
"A long walk," gravely agreed Brice. "But safer sleepingquarters when one gets there. Up North, one can take achance, and sleep in the open, almost anywhere except on ayellow-jacket's nest. Down here, I've heard, rattlesnakes areapt to stray in upon one's slumbers. Out in the country, atleast. There aren't any rattlesnakes in the Royal Palm'sgardens. Besides, there's music, and there's the fragrance ofnight jasmine. Altogether, it's worth the difference of tenor twelve miles of tramping."
"You're staying at the Royal Palm, then?"
"Near it," corrected Brice. "To be exact, in the darkestcorner of its big gardens. The turf is soft and springy. Thesolitude is perfect, too--unless some nightwatchman gets toovigilant."
He spoke lightly, even airily, through his pain and weakness.But, as before, his every faculty was on guard. A born andtrained expert in reading human nature, he felt this giantsomehow suspected him and was trying to trap him in aninaccuracy. Wherefore, he fenced, verbally, calmly confidenthe could outpoint his clumsier antagonist.
"You don't look like the kind of man who need sleep out ofdoors," replied Standish, speaking slowly, as one who chooseshis every word with care, and with his cold blue eyesunobtrusively scanning Gavin's battered face. "That's thebedroom for bums. You aren't a bum. Even if your manner, andthe way you fought out yonder, didn't prove that. A bumdoesn't walk all this way and back, on a hot day, unless for ahandout. And you--"
"But a handout is just what I asked for," Gavin caught him up."When I brought Bobby Burns back I traded on the triflinglittle service by asking Miss Standish if I could get a jobhere. It was impertinent of me, I know. And I was sorry assoon as I'd done it. But she told me, in effect, that youwere 'firing, not hiring.' So I--"
"Why did you want a job with me?" insisted Standish. "Ratherthan with any of a dozen farmers or country house people alonghere?"
And, this time, any fool could have read the stark suspicionin his tone and in the hard blue eyes.
"For several reasons," said Brice, coolly. "In thefirst place, I had brought home your dog. In the second, Ihad taken a fancy to him, as he had to me, and it would bepleasant working at a place where I could be with such a chum.In the third place, Miss Standish was kind enough to saypretty much the same things about me that you've just said.She knew I wasn't a tramp, who might be expected to decampwith the lawn-mower or the spoons. Another landowner mightnot have been so complimentary, when I applied for work andhad no references. In the fourth, you seem to have a largerand more pretentious place here than most of your nearneighbors. I--I can't think of any better reasons, just now."
"H'm!" mused Standish, frowning down on the recumbent man, andthen looking across in perplexity at Claire.
What he read in the girl's eyes seemed to shame him, just alittle. For, as he turned back to Gavin, there was anapologetic aspect on his bearded face. Brice decided to forcethe playing. Before his host could speak or Claire couldinterfere, he rose to a sitting position, with some effort andmore pain, and, clutching the head of the couch, lurched tohis feet.
"No, no!" called Claire, running forward to support him as heswayed a bit. "Don't try to stand! Lie down again! You'reas white as a ghost."
But Gavin drew courteously away from her supporting arm andfaced Milo.
"I can only thank you," said he, "for patching me up so well.I'm a lot better, now. And I've a long way to go. So, I'llbe starting. Thanks, again, both of you. I'm sorry to haveput you to so much bother." He reeled, cleverly, caught atthe couch-head again, and took an uncertain step toward thedoor. But now, not only Claire but her brother barred hisway.
"Don't be an idiot!" stormed Milo. "Why, man, you couldn'twalk a hundred yards, with that groggy head on your shoulders!You're all beaten up. You'll be lucky if you're on your feetin another three days. What sort of cur do you think I am, tolet you go like this, after all you've done for me, to-night?You'll stay with us till to-morrow, anyhow. And then, if youstill insist on going back to Miami, I'll take you there inthe car. But you're not going a step from here, to-night.I--"
Gavin strove to mutter a word of disclaimer, to take anotherwavering stride toward the front door. But his knees gaveaway under him. He swayed forward, and must have fallen, hadnot Milo Standish caught him.
"Here," Milo bade his sister, as he laid the limp body back onthe couch. "Go and tell the maids to get the gray room readyas quickly as possible. I'll carry him up there. It wasrotten of me to go on catechizing him, like that, and lettinghim see he was unwelcome. But for him, I'd be--"
"Yes," answered Claire, over her shoulder, as she hurried onher errand. "It was 'rotten.' And more than that. I kepttrying to signal you to stop. You'll you'll give him work,here, won't you, please?"
"We'll talk about that, afterward," he said, ungraciously. "Isuppose it's the only thing a white man can do, after the chaprisked his life for me, to-night. But I'd rather give him tentimes his wages--money to get out and keep out."
"Thanks, neighbor!" said Brice, to himself, from the depths ofhis stage-faint. "I've no doubt you would. But the cards arerunning the other way."
Again, his eyes apparently shut, he watched through slittedlids the progress of Claire, as she passed out of the hall,toward the kitchen quarters. She was leading the reluctantBobby Burns away, by the collar. Standish was just behindher, and had his back turned to Gavin. But he glanced at him,suddenly, over his shoulder, and then strode swiftly forwardto close the door which Claire had left open behind her on herway to the kitchen wing of the house.
Something in the big man's action aroused in Brice the mysticsixth sense he had been at much pains to develop,--a sensewhich often enabled him to guess instinctively at an opponent'snext probable move. As Milo took his first step toward the opendoor, Brice went into action.
Both hands slipped into his pockets, and out again. As hewithdrew them, one hand held his battered but patently solidgold watch. The other gripped his roll of bills and as muchof his small change as he had been able to scoop up in onerapid grab.
On the stand at the head of the couch reposed a fat tobaccojar and pipes. The jar was more than half full. Into it,Gavin Brice dumped his valuables, and with a clawing motion,scraped a handful of loose tobacco over them. Then hereturned to his former inertly supine posture.
The whole maneuver had not occupied three seconds. And, bythe time Standish had the door closed and had started backtoward the couch, the watch and money were safe-hidden. Atthat, there had been little enough time to spare. It had beena matter of touch-and-go. Nothing but the odd look he hadread in Milo's face as Standish had glanced at him over hisshoulder, would have led Brice to take such a chance. But,all at once, it had seemed a matter of stark necessity.
The narrow escape from detection set his strained nerves totwitching. He muttered to himself:
"Come along then, you man-mountain! You wanted to get yoursister out of the way, so you could go through my clothes andsee if I was lying about bein
g flat broke and if I had anyincriminating papers on me. Come along, and search! If Ihadn't brains enough to fool a chucklehead, like you, I'd goout of the business and take in back-stairs to clean!"
Milo was approaching the couch, moving with a stealthylightness, unusual in so large a man. Leaning over thesupposedly unconscious Gavin, he ran his fingers deftlythrough Brice's several pockets. In only two was he lucky tofind anything.
From a trousers pocket he exhumed seventy-eight cents. Fromthe inner pocket of the coat he extracted a card, postmarked"New York City," and addressed to "Gavin Brice, GeneralDelivery, Miami, Florida." The postcard was inscribed, in ascrawling hand:
"Good time and good luck and good health to you, from us all.Jack O'G."
Gavin knew well the contents of the card, having written itand mailed it to himself on the eve of his departure from theNorth. It was as mild and noncommittal a form ofidentification as he could well have chosen.
Standish read the banal message on the soiled card, thenrestored cash and postal to their respective pockets. Afterwhich he stood frowning down in puzzled conjecture on themoveless Gavin.
"Well, old chap!" soliloquized Brice. "If that evidencedoesn't back up all I said about myself, nothing will. But,for the Lord's sake, don't help yourself to a pipeful oftobacco, till I have time to plant the loot deeper in thejar!"
He heard the light footfalls of women, upstairs, where Claire,in person, seemed to be superintending the arrangement of hisroom. At the sound, a twinge of compunction swept Brice.But, at memory of her brother's stealthy ransacking of anunconscious guest's clothes, the feeling passed, leaving onlya warm battlethrill.
Drowsily, he opened his eyes, and stared with blank wonder upat Milo. Then, shamefacedly, he mumbled:
"I--I hope I wasn't baby enough to--to keel over, Mr.Standish?"
"That's all right," answered Milo. "It was my fault. I was aboor. And, very rightly, you decided you didn't care to stayany longer under my roof. But your strength wasn't up to yourspirit. So you fainted. I want to apologize for speaking asI did. I'm mighty grateful to you, for your service to me,this evening. And my sister and I want you to stay on here,for the present. When you're feeling more like yourself,we'll have a chat about that job. I think we can fix it, allright. Nothing big, of course. Nothing really worth yourwhile. But it may serve as a stopgap, till you get a chanceto look around you."
"If nothing better turns up," suggested Brice, with a weakeffort at lightness, "you might hire me as a bodyguard."
"As a--a what?" snapped Milo, in sharp suspicion, thegeniality wiped from face and voice with ludicrous suddenness."A--?"
"As a bodyguard," repeated Gavin, not seeming to note thechange in his host. "If you're in the habit of being setupon, often, as you were, this evening you'll be better offwith a good husky chap to act as-"
"Oh, that?" scoffed Milo, in ponderous contempt. "That wasjust some panhandler, who thought he might knock me over, frombehind, and get my watch and wallet. The same thing isn'tlikely to happen again in a century. Florida is the mostlaw-abiding State in the Union. And Dade County is perhapsthe most law-abiding part of Florida. One would need abodyguard in New York City, more than here. There have been alot of holdups there."
Gavin did not reply. His silence seemed to annoy Milo whoburst forth again, this time with a tinge of open amusement inhis contempt:
"Besides--even if there were assassins lurking behind everybunch of palmetto scrub, in the county--do you honestly thinka man of your size could do very much toward protecting me?I'm not bragging. But I'm counted one of the strongest menin--"
"To-night," said Brice, drily, "I managed to be of some slightuse. Pardon my mentioning it. If I hadn't been there, you'dbe carrying eight inches of cold steel, between your shoulders.And--pardon me, again--if you'd had the sense to stay out ofthe squabble a second or so longer, the man who tackled youwould be either in jail or in the morgue, by this time. I'mnot oversized. But neither is a stick of dynamite. Anautomatic pistol isn't anywhere as big as an old-fashionedblunderbuss. But it can outshoot and outkill the blunderbuss,with very little bother. Think it over. And, while you'rethinking, stop to think, also, that a 'panhandler' doesn't dohis work with a knife. He doesn't try to stab a man to death,for the sake of the few dollars the victim may happen to havein his pockets. That sort of thing calls for pluck and ironnerves and physical strength. If a panhandler had those, hewouldn't be a panhandler. Any more than that chap, to-night,was a panhandler. My idea of acting as a bodyguard for youisn't bad. Think it over. You seem to need one."
"Why do you say that?" demanded Milo, in one of his recurrentflashes of suspicion.
"Because," said Gavin, "we're living in the twentieth centuryand in real life, not in the dark ages and in a dime novel.Nowadays, a man doesn't risk capital punishment, lightly, forthe fun of springing on a total stranger, in the dark, with arazor-edge knife. Mr. Standish, no man does a thing like thatto a stranger, or without some mighty motive. It is nobusiness of mine to ask that motive or to horn in on yourprivate affairs. And I don't care to. But, from your looks,you're no fool. You know, as well as I do, that that was nopanhandler or even a highwayman. It was an enemy whose motivefor wanting to murder you, silently and surely, was strongenough to make him willing to risk death or capture. Now,when you say you don't need a bodyguard--Well, it's your ownbusiness, of course. Let it go at that, if you like."
Long and silently Milo Standish looked down at the nonchalantinvalid. Above, the sounds of women's steps and an occasionalsnatch of a sentence could be heard. At last, Milo spoke.
"You are right," said he, very slowly, and as if measuring hisevery word. "You are right. There are one or two men whowould like to get this land and this house and--and otherpossessions of mine. There is no reason for going intoparticulars that wouldn't interest you. Take my word. Thosereasons are potent. I have reason to suspect that the assaulton me, this evening, is concerned with their general plan toget rid of me. Perhaps--perhaps you're right, about my needof a bodyguard. Though it's a humiliating thing for a grownman--especially a man of my size and strength--to confess.We'll talk it over, tomorrow, if you are well enough."
Brice nodded, absently, as if wearied with the exertion oftheir talk. His eyes had left Milo's, and had concentrated onthe man's big and hairy hands. As Milo spoke of thesupposititious criminals who desired his possessions enough todo murder for them, his fists clenched, tightly. And toBrice's memory came a wise old adage:
"When you think a man is lying to you, don't watch his face.Any poker-player can make his face a mask. Watch his hands.Ten to one, if he is lying, he'll clench them."
Brice noted the tightening of the heavy fists. And he wasconvinced. Yet, he told himself, in disgust, that even achild of six would scarce have needed such confirmation thatthe clumsily blurted tale was a lie.
He nodded again, as Milo looked at him with a shade ofanxiety.
The momentary silence was broken by footsteps on the stairs.Claire was descending. Brice gathered his feet under him andsat upright. It was easier, now, to do this, and his head hadrecovered its feeling of normality, though it still achedferociously.
At the same instant, through the open doorway, from across thelawn in the direction of the secret path, came the quaveringlysweet trill of a mocking bird's song. Despite himself,Gavin's glance turned toward the doorway.
"That's just a mocker," Milo explained, loudly, his facereddening as he looked in perturbation at his guest. "Sweet,isn't he? They often sing, off and on, for an hour or twoafter dark."
"I know they do," said Gavin (though he did not say it aloud)."But in Florida, the very earliest mocking bird doesn't singtill around the first of March. And this isn't quite themiddle of February. There's not a mocking bird on thePeninsula that is singing, yet. The very dulcet whistler, outyonder, ought to make a closer study of ornithology. He--"
Brice's unspoken thought was shattered. For, unnoticed
byhim, Milo Standish had drawn forth, with tender care, anexquisitely carved and colored meerschaum pipe from a case onthe smoking-stand, and was picking up the fat tobacco jar.