At first, it was hard for James Bansemer to believe that his henchmanhad not been mistaken. Droom's description of the lady certainlydid not correspond to what his memory recalled. Investigation,however, assured him that the Cables in the mansion near the lakewere the people he had known in New York. Bansemer took no one intohis confidence, not even Droom. Once convinced that the erstwhilefireman was now the rich and powerful magnate, he set to work uponthe machinery which was to extract personal gain from the secretin his possession. He soon learned that the child was a young womanof considerable standing in society, but there was no way for himto ascertain whether Frances Cable had told the truth to her husbandin those dreary Far West days.
Bansemer was rich enough, but avarice had become a habit. The flightfrom New York had deprived him of but little in worldly goods. Hisill-gotten gains came with him; and investments were just as easyand just as safe in Chicago as in New York. Now, he saw a chanceto wring a handsome sum from the rich woman whose only possessionhad been love when he first knew her. If the secret of Jane'sorigin still remained locked up in her heart, the effort would bean easy one. He learned enough of David Cable, however, to know thatif he shared the secret, the plan would be profitless and dangerous.
It was this uncertainty that kept him from calling at the Cable home;likewise, from writing a note which might prove a most disastrousfolly. Time and circumstance could be his only friends, and hewas accustomed to the whims of both. He read of the dinners andentertainments given by the Cables, and smiled grimly. Time hadworked wonders for them! Scandal, he knew, could undo all thatambition and pride had wrought. He could well afford to wait.
However, he did not have long to wait, for his opportunity cameone night in Hooley's Theatre. Graydon and he occupied seats inthe orchestra, near the stage and not far from the lower right-handboxes. It was during the busy Christmas holidays, but the "star"was of sufficient consequence to pack the house. The audience wasno end of a fashionable one. Time and again, some strange influencedrew his gaze to the gay party in one of the lower boxes. The faceof the woman nearest to him was not visible; but the two girls whosat forward, turned occasionally to look over the audience; and hesaw that they were pretty, one exceptionally so. One of the menwas grey-haired and strong-featured; the others were quite tooinsignificant to be of interest to him. The woman whose back hecould see did not look out over the audience. Her indifference wasso marked that it seemed deliberate.
At last, he felt that her eyes were upon him; he turned quickly.True enough, for with lips slightly parted, her whole attitudesuggestive of intense restraint, Mrs. Cable was staring helplesslyinto the eyes of the man who could destroy her with a word.
The one thing that flashed through Bansemer's brain was therealisation that she was far more beautiful than he had expectedher to be. There was a truly aristocratic loveliness in the ratherpiquant face, and she undeniably possessed "manner." Maturity hadimproved her vastly, he confessed with strange exultation; age hadbeen kinder than youth. He forgot the play, seldom taking his eyesfrom the back which again had been turned to him. Calculating, hereached the conclusion that she was not more than forty years ofage. More than once he made some remark to his son, only to surprisethat young man glancing surreptitiously at the face of the morebeautiful of the two girls. Even in this early stage, James Bansemerbegan to gloat over the beauty of this new-found, old acquaintance.
In the lobby of the theatre, as they were leaving, he deliberatelydoffed his hat and extended a pleasant hand to the wife of DavidCable. She turned deathly pale and there was a startled, piteouslook in her eyes that convinced him beyond all shadow of a doubt.There was nothing for her to do but introduce him to her husband.Two minutes later Graydon Bansemer and Jane Cable, strangers untilthen, were asking each other how they liked the play, and Fate wasat work.
A few weeks after this scene at the theatre young Mr. Bansemerdashed across the hall from the elevator and entered his father'soffice just as Elias Droom was closing up.
"Where's the governor, Mr. Droom?" he asked, deliberately brushingpast the old clerk in the outer office.
"Left some time ago," replied Droom, somewhat ungraciously, his blueeyes staring past the young man with a steadiness that suggestedreproach because he was out of the direct line of vision. "It isnearly six o'clock--he's never here after five."
"I know that he--I asked you if you knew of his whereabouts. Doyou--or not?" The self-confident, athletic youth did not stand inphysical awe of the clerk.
"No," was the simple and sufficient answer.
"Well then--I'm off," said Graydon a trifle less airily.
Droom's overcoat was on and buttoned up to his chin; his long feetwere encased in rubbers of enormous size and uncertain age. Theremust have been no blood in the veins of this grim old man, for theweather was far from cold and the streets were surprisingly dryfor Chicago.
"I am closing the office for the day," said Droom. For no apparentreason a smile spread over the lower part of his face and Graydon,bold as he was, turned his eyes away.
"I thought I'd stop in and pick up the governor for a ride home inmy motor," said he, turning to the door.
"Yours is one of the first out here, I suppose," came from the thinlips of the old clerk.
Graydon laughed.
"Possibly. The company charges a nickel a ride--half a dime--Goingdown, sir?" Graydon had rung for the elevator and was waiting infront of the grating.
A look containing a curious compound of affectionate reproach anda certain senile gratification at being made the object of theboy's condescending raillery crossed Droom's countenance. Without,however, answering his question, he slowly and carefully closed thedoor, tried it vigorously, and joined Bansemer at the shaft. WithDroom, words were unnecessary when actions could speak for themselves.
"Still living over in Wells Street, Mr. Droom?" went on Graydon,thoroughly at home with the man whom he had feared and despised bystages from childhood up.
"It's good enough for me," said Droom shortly. "'Tisn't MichiganAvenue, the Drive or Lincoln Park Boulevard, but it's just as swellas I am--or ever hope to be."
"There's nothing against Wells Street but--it got ashamed of itselfwhen it crossed the river."
"They call it Fifth Avenue," sneered Droom, "but it isn't THE Avenue,is it?" Bansemer was surprised to note a tone of affectionate pridein the question.
"No indeed!"
"Oh, there's only one, Mr. Graydon," said the old clerk, quitewarmly; "our own Fifth Avenue."
"I had no idea you cared so much for swagger things, Mr. Droom,"observed the other, genuinely surprised.
"Even Broadway is heaven to me," said Droom, some of the raspgone from his voice. "Good-bye; I go this way," he said when theyreached the sidewalk a little later. The young man watched hisgaunt figure as it slouched away in the semi-darkness.
"By George, the old chap is actually homesick!" muttered he. "Ididn't think it was in him."
Droom had rooms over a millinery shop in Wells Street. There was abedroom at the back and a "living-room" in front, overlooking thestreet from the third story of the building. Of the bedchamber thereis but little to say, except that it contained a bed, a washstand,a mirror, two straight-backed chairs and a clothes-press. Droomwent out for his bath--every Saturday night. The "living-room,"however, was queer in more ways than one. In one corner, on a chestof drawers, stood his oil stove, while in the opposite corner, abig sheet-iron heater made itself conspicuous. Firewood was piledbehind the stove winter and summer, Droom lamenting that one couldnot safely discriminate between the seasons in Chicago. The chestof drawers contained his stock of provisions, his cooking and tableutensils, his medicine and a small assortment of carpenter's tools.He had no use for an icebox.
A bookcase, old enough to warm the heart of the most ardent antiquarian,held his small and unusual collection of books. Standing side byside, on the same shelf, were French romances, unexpurgated, and theHoly Bible, much bethumbed and pencilled. There were schoolbo
oksalongside of sentimental love tales, Greek lexicons and quaintold fairy stories, law books and works on criminology; books onbotany, geology, anatomy, and physics. In all, perhaps, there weretwo hundred volumes. A life of Napoleon revealed signs of almostconstant usage. There were three portraits of the Corsican on thedingy green walls.
The strange character of the man was best shown by the picturesthat adorned--or rather disfigured the walls. Vulgar photographsand prints were to be seen on all sides. Mingled with these cheapcreations were excellent copies of famous Madonnas, quaint Scripturaldrawings, engravings of the Saviour, and an allegorical colouredprint which emphasised the joys of heaven. There was also a badlydrawn but idealised portrait of Droom, done in crayon at the age oftwenty. This portrait was one of his prized possessions. He lovedit best because it was a bust and did not expose his longitudinaldefects. If Droom ever had entertained a feminine visitor in hisapartments, there is no record of the fact. But few men had seenthe interior of his home, and they had gone away with distressed,perplexed sensibilities.
He cooked his own meals on the oil stove, and, alone, ate them fromthe little table that stood near the heater. Occasionally, he wentout to a near-by eating house for a lonely feast. His rooms usuallyreeked with the odour of boiled coffee, burnt cabbage and grease,pungent chemicals and long-suffering bed linen. Of his "front" room,it may be said that it was kitchen, dining-room, parlour, library,workshop, laboratory and conservatory. Four flower-pots in whichas many geraniums existed with difficulty, despite Droom's constantand unswerving care, occupied a conspicuous place on the window-sillsoverlooking the street. He watched aver them with all the tendersolicitude of a lover, surprising as it may appear when one pausesto consider the vicious exterior of the man.
Droom was frugal. He was, in truth, a miser. If anyone had asked himwhat he expected to do with the money he was putting away in thebank, he could not have answered, calculating as he was by nature.He had no relative to whom he would leave it and he had no inclinationto give up the habit of active employment. His salary was small,but he managed to save more than half of it--for a "rainy day," ashe said. He did his reading and experimenting by kerosene light,and went to bed by candle light, saving a few pennies a week inthat way. The windows in his apartment were washed not oftener thanonce a year. He was seldom obliged to look through them during theday, and their only duty at night was to provide ventilation--andeven that was characteristically meagre.
He was a man of habit--not habits. A pipe at night was his onlyform of dissipation. It was not too far for him to walk home fromthe office of evenings, and he invariably did so unless the weatherwas extremely unpleasant. So methodical was he that he never hadwalked over any other bridge than the one in Wells Street, comingand going.
Past sixty-five years of age. Broom's hair still was black and snaky;his teeth were as yellow and jagged as they were in the seventies,and his eyes were as blue and ugly as ever. He had not aged withJames Bansemer. In truth, he looked but little older then when wemade his acquaintance. The outside world knew no more of Droom'sprivate transactions than it knew of Bansemer's. Up in the horridlittle apartment in Wells Street the queer old man could do as hewilled, unobserved and unannoyed. He could pursue his experimentswith strange chemicals, he could construct odd devices with hiskit of tools, and he could let off an endless amount of inventiveenergy that no one knew he possessed.
When he left Graydon Bansemer on the sidewalk in front of theoffice building, he swung off with his long strides towards theWells Street bridge. His brain had laid aside everything that hadoccupied its attention during office hours and had given itselfover to the project that hastened his steps homeward. His supperthat night was a small one and hurriedly eaten in order that hemight get to work on his new device. Droom grinned and cackled tohimself all alone up there in the lamplight, for he was perfectingan "invention" by which the honest citizen could successfully putto rout the "hold-up" man that has made Chicago famous.
Elias Droom's inventive genius unfailingly led him toward devicesthat could inflict pain and discomfiture. His plan to get thebetter of the wretched, hard-working hold-up man was unique, if notentirely practical. He was constructing the models for two littlebulbs, made of rubber and lined with a material that would resistthe effects of an acid, no matter how powerful. On one end of eachbulb, which was capable of holding at least an ounce of liquid,there was a thin syringe attachment, also proof against acids. Theselittle bulbs were made so that they could be held in the palm ofthe hand. By squeezing them suddenly a liquid could be shot fromthe tube with considerable force.
The bulbs were to contain vitriol.
When the hold-up man gave the command to "hold up your hands," thevictim had only to squeeze the bulb as the hands went up, and, ifaccurately aimed, the miscreant would get the stream of the deadlyvitriolic fluid in his eyes and--here endeth the first lesson.Experience alone could do the rest.
Young Bansemer hurried to their apartments on the North Side. Hefound his father dressed and ready to go out to dinner.
"Well, how was everything to-day?" asked James Bansemer from hiseasy chair in the library. Graydon threw his hat and gloves on thetable.
"Terribly dull market, governor," he said. "It's been that way fora week. How are you feeling?"
"Fit to dine with a queen," answered the older man, with a smile."How soon can you dress for dinner, Gray?"
"That depends on who is giving the dinner."
"Some people you like. I found the note here when I came in a littleafter five. We have an hour in which to get over there. Can you beready?"
"Do you go security for the affair?" asked Graydon.
"Certainly. You have been there, my boy, and I've not heard youcomplain."
"You mean over at---"
"Yes, that's where I mean," said the other, breaking in quietly.
"I think I can be ready in ten minutes, father."
While he was dressing, his father sat alone and stared reflectivelyat the small blue gas blaze in the grate. A dark, grim smileunconsciously came over his face, the inspiration of a triumphantjoy. Twice he read the dainty note that met him on his return fromthe office.
"What changes time can make in woman!" he mused; "and what changesa woman can make in time! For nearly a year I've waited for thisnote. I knew it would come--it was bound to come. Graydon has hadeverything up to this time, while I have waited patiently in thebackground. Now, it is my turn."
"All right, father," called Graydon from the hall. "The cab is atthe door."
Together they went down the steps, arm in arm, strong figures.
"To Mr. David Cable's," ordered Bansemer, the father, complacently,as he stepped into the carriage after his son.
CHAPTER VII
MRS. CABLE ENTERTAINS