The Rose in the Ring

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"You deliberately put yourself in prison?" cried David.

"Just to postpone the hangin', kid, that's all."

"It's all rubbish, this talk of hanging," protested the other. "You're
too kind-hearted, Dick, to kill a fly."

"There'll be a rope around my guzzle some time, Davy, just as sure as
you're sittin' there," said Artful Dick, and, notwithstanding his
careless laugh, a perceptible gleam of terror showed in his eyes for
an instant. "But I'm wandering again. When I was up to Sing Sing I
tumbled to what was on Brad's mind. He thinks she turn him down for
Grand. The more he thought of it, the more full of the devil he got.
Just before I left the place he wrote me a long letter and slipped it
to me in a hunk of bread. He said he'd made up his mind to kill her
and Grand as soon as he got out. You can tell by a convict's looks
whether he's bluffin' or not. I tell you, Davy, I sees it in Brad's
face. He meant what he said. He's going to do it, as sure as fate. He
ain't got anything to live for and he ain't going to let the two of
'em live any longer than he does."

"And you say he's out? Dick, we must do something to prevent this
awful--"

"Sit down, Davy. You can't get a train till tomorrow. Besides, there's
time enough. The first thing I does after I leaves the coop was to
hustle down to see Joey. I put him on to Brad's bad talk, and he
promised to keep a sharp lookout for him. At that time Mrs. Braddock
was livin' in London, but Joey didn't know it. I found out later on
through Ernie. He got her whereabouts by pumpin' a coachman who worked
for her father, old man Portman. It seems that while she wouldn't take
money from the old man, she appealed to him to help her in gettin'
what was due her from the sale of the show. She went to Europe a
couple of months after she left the show, a school friend puttin' up
for her, I understand. Her dad was willin' to forgive her, after she'd
tied the can to Brad, but she says nix. She changed her name and took
charge of this school friend's children who were being educated in
London, givin' their mother a chance to chase around Europe without
bein' bothered by kids. When she got the dough out of old Bob Grand
she puts Christine in a school some 'eres and--"

"Thank God, and you, Dick, for this news," cried David fervently. "I
knew that she could do nothing but the right thing. Go on!"

"Well, about six months ago, her stepmother up and dies. The old man
promptly sends for her to come back and cheer his declinin' years, as
the novel writers say. Ernie writes all this to me and I gets the
letter a couple of months ago down in New Orleans, where I was
attendin' Mardi Gras, a sort of annual custom of mine, don't you know,
old chap, by Jove! I'm terrible careless about my correspondence,
which accounts for my neglectin' to write this to you. However, I'm
not so careless that I neglected to write this to Ruby--a thing I do
reg'lar every month, some months. Four days ago, in Looieville, I gets
two letters, one from her and one from Ernie. Ernie knows everything.
He's seen Christine nearly every day for three months, but she ain't
seen him. Poor devil of an Ernie! I made him what he is--I banged him
up for life."

"It was an accident, Dick. Don't take it--"

"Nix. It ain't no accident when you kick a four-year-old kid down a
flight of stairs. Well, anyhow, they both write me that Tom Braddock
is in New York and actin' terrible ugly. He's layin' for Bob Grand. As
luck would have it, the Colonel is off attendin' the races along the
spring circuit, and Ernie says he won't be back in New York for three
or four days. Mrs. Braddock has got her father down South some-'eres,
but the servants are expectin' 'em back this week."

"Then we may be in time. We must not lose a minute, Dick. If Tom
Braddock carries out his threat, we'll be to blame--you and I.
Christine,--where is she? What is she like? What do they say of her?"

"Ruby's been on the road, so she don't mention having seen her. And,
say, Davy, don't be sore at me for what I'm going to say now. It's
this way: Ernie made me promise never to tell you anything about her--
how she looks--how she acts, where she is, or anything. I've only told
you where her mother is, mind you. You'll have to guess about
Christie. You see, Davy, that boy's sure jealous of you yet. I--I--
guess you understand."

David nodded his head without speaking. He understood. There was
nothing for him to say. "I'll find her myself," he said, beginning to
pace the floor in his excitement. "She must be beautiful. She must be
all that her mother promised. But, Dick!"

He stopped short, struck by a sudden thought. "Why hasn't Mrs.
Braddock written to me? She promised. The five years have passed. We
were to see each other at the end of five--"

"Well, maybe you will, kid. Don't get peevish. I guess Mrs. Braddock
knows her business. Has it ever occurred to you that there might be
another Romeo lookin' at Christie? Five years is quite a spell. Girls
are fickle brutes."

"For God's sake, Dick, if you _do_ know of anything like that, tell
me."

"Cross my heart, Davy, I _don't_ know, and that's straight."

"We _must_ catch the first train in the morning."

"Don't hop around like that, Davy; you'll upset something. You can't
hurry a train, kid. We'll catch it, all right. Sit down. Get a pipe
and take a smoke. Keep cool. That's our game, kid. If you go bumpin'
into old man Portman's house without bein' sure you're wanted, you
might get--well, I won't say what!"

"You're right, Dick. She may have forgotten me. She may have asked her
mother not to write to me. I've waited and hoped and counted on having
her--I've checked off the weeks and months and years. I wonder if you
can understand how it is when you care as much as I do, and always
have? No one knows. It's all in a fellow's own heart. It--"

"Oh, I've had a case or two myself, kid. It ain't nothin' new, this
crimp you've got," said Dick, putting his heels on the desk. "Adam had
it. So did Solomon, only he had it in so many places he got so he
didn't mind it. Think of them guys that have harems. Think of Brigham
Young. Why, kid, you don't know the first thing about love pains.
Think of the guy with the harem and _his_ guesswork! He's got something
to worry about, he has. It's awful when you've got to love a couple of
hundred of 'em at once, and them all hatin' you like poison. And old
Brigham--think of him settin' up all hours of the night, wonderin'
whether she loves him as much as she used to, and not being able to
remember just which _she_ he's thinkin' about. Brace up, kid. It's only
a rash you've got. If Christie has given you the shake just remember
how easy it was for Brigham to collect 'em. The woods are full of 'em."

"But, good Lord, Dick," cried David, laughing in spite of himself,
"I'm not a Mormon."

"Kid, every man's a Mormon at heart. Just cram that in your pipe. And
every woman, no matter how ugly she is, thinks she's a siren. It's in
the blood of both sexes, this Mormonism and sirenism. Oh, don't look
so surprised, kid. I got some of my views out of the dictionary, but
most of 'em came from observin' people as they look to me from my own
level. I have a way of bringin' everybody down to my own level, kid,
and I find, except for that commandment about stealin', we all have
about the same amount of cussedness in us some'eres. It's human nature
to be bad, or to want to be bad. We'd all be a little bit bad, from
time to time, if we wasn't afraid of being found out. Course, it comes
in different size doses. Some girls think it's terrible bad just to
wink at a feller, but they do it because it's bad and not because it's
sanctimonious, you bet. Then there are other girls who'd cut your
throat with a razor while you're asleep. You bet they wouldn't be
doing that if it was considered good. All men have got deviltry in
'em, and all women mischief. The women like the men for the deviltry,
and it's the mischief in women that plays the devil with the men. It
don't appear on the surface, but it's there just the same."

"What amazing philosophy," laughed David.

"I've been gettin' philosophy up in your attic, Davy," said Dick with
a quaint grin. "I read some'eres that all philosophers get in their
real work in attics. Now, I guess we'd better turn in. I don't think
you'll do much sleepin' to-night, so you'd--"

"First, Dick," interrupted David, rising to pull the old-fashioned
bell cord in the corner of the big chamber, "we'll have a bite of
supper. I want to introduce you to my servants."

"Hold on!" Dick came to his feet quickly. "It's my treat. You wait
here. I've got a fine supper goin' to waste up in the garret. I copped
it out early this evening. Poke up the fire there, Davy, and don't try
to foller me."

He was gone, the door to the hall closing gently behind him. There was
not a sound to be heard in the house. Outside the frogs were
chattering, and a nearby owl hooted dolefully. David stood still in
the center of the room, his gaze fixed on the hall door. He counted
the minutes, expecting, in spite of his preparedness, to be startled
when the door opened with ghostly ease to admit the lank figure of the
"dip." There was a certain sense of dread in the knowledge that
somewhere off in the dark, silent halls a stealthy, noiseless, almost
sinister thing was moving--moving with the swiftness and caution of a
weasel, but with all the merry purpose of a harlequin. David
experienced a grewsome, uncanny desire to shiver. He remembered Dick's
admonition and was about to turn to the fireplace, in which the logs
were no longer blazing.

Suddenly the door opened. He could have sworn that the knob had not
turned. There had not been the faintest sound, and yet Dick Cronk
stepped quickly, confidently into the room, a grin on his face. In one
hand he bore a fair-sized package, done up in a napkin.

"You are the ghostliest thing I've ever known," said David with a
nervous laugh of relief. "How do you do it?"

"Simple twist of the wrist," said Dick, employing a phrase of the day.
"Gee, how tired you must be, after pokin' up the fire like that!"

David hastened to do his part of the pantomime. When he turned from
the replenished fireplace a cold supper was spread on the desk, the
napkin serving as a tablecloth. There were knives, forks and spoons,
and a china plate apiece. A pitcher of milk stood at one end, a bottle
of claret at the other, with tumblers beside them. In the center of
the board was a plate of fried chicken, some young onions, freshly
baked bread, salt, pepper, and, most wonderful of all,--Aunt Fanny's
newest marble-cake, huge and aggressive.

The master of the house stared open-mouthed at this amazing feast.
Where had it all come from? How had it been transported?

"Well, I'll be hanged!" he gasped.

Dick shuddered. "Don't say that! It gives me the Willies. Sit down,
friend, and make yourself at home. Ah! This is real comfort! Don't you
think I'd make some woman a fine husband? I'm no slouch as a provider,
am I?"

It was after two o'clock when Artful Dick Cronk whispered good night
and slipped out into the hall. He carried with him all the plates,
cutlery and remnants of the midnight feast, having remarked in advance
that a careful operator never left anything "half finished." It was
his purpose to restore every article except the food, to the place
from which he had taken it. He and David chuckled joyously over the
fresh amazement of Aunt Fanny in the morning; she had been living in a
state of dread for three appalling days, as it was.

The next morning Dick appeared at breakfast with his host. He rescued
Zuley Ann's greatly prized silver watch from the steaming coffee urn,
and picked Jeff's pocket-book from the mouth of a lamp chimney,
afterwards restoring the thirty-eight cents it contained. Strangely
enough, he took the coins from the wool on Jeff's head. If ever a
negro's wool undertook to stand on end it was at that moment. Zuley
Ann's eyes were permanently enlarged. I have it on excellent
authority.

At eight o'clock they were off for Richmond and the New York express.

CHAPTER III

THE MAN WHO SERVED HIS TIME

Long before the train reached the station in New York, David and Dick
parted company. The shrewd but whimsical scamp presented at
considerable length the problem of virtue and vice stalking arm in
arm, as it were, through the streets of New York; he pictured, with
extreme unction, the doleful undoing of virtue and the practiced
escape of vice.

"Kid," said he, "the first cop that laid eyes on us meanderin' down
Broadway would land on us like a rat-terrier. Being a clever devil,
I'd hook it and give him the slip. But you, kid! Where would you be,
little innocent? How far would virtue and justice carry you up an
alley with a cop at your coat tails? Nix, kid. We go it alone after we
leave Newark. That's the trouble with this world. Nothing's plumb
square. Now, here's the point: Virtue's all right if it trots alone.
But just let Virtue hook up with Vice for ten minutes, unsuspecting
like, and see what the world says. Kid, that little ten minutes of bad
company would upset a lifetime of continuous Sundays. 'Specially in
the eyes of a cop. A cop ain't acquainted with virtue. My advice to
the young and innocent is to avoid evil companions and cops. It's a
long ways to heaven, and lonesome traveling at that, but it's only a
step to hell, and the crowdin' is something awful. It's mighty nigh
impossible to turn back once you get started, on account of the mob.
I'm not saying you won't run across worse guys than I am at the swell
hotel you'll stop at, but they ain't on speaking terms with the
police."

David went to one of the big hotels patronized by all well to do
Southerners of the day. At the railway station he looked about for the
philosophic jailbird, but he was not to be seen. The Virginian drove
to the hotel, conscious of a strange loneliness, now that the
resourceful rogue was not at his elbow. He found some consolation in
Dick's promise to communicate with him before the close of the
following day, when doubtless he would be able to furnish news of
interest, if not of importance.

The next morning saw David on his way to the home of Joey Noakes, far
down town and to the west of Washington Square. He knew the house. He
had been there before. A narrow, quaint little place it was,
reminiscent in an exterior sort of way of the motley gentleman who
solemnly called it his castle. You climbed a tall stoop flanked on
either side by flower boxes, and rattled a heavy knocker that had all
the marks of English antiquity,--and English servility,--and then you
waited for the trim little housemaid, who betimes was a slavey below
stairs and not permitted to answer the knocker until she had donned
her cap and apron and rolled down her sleeves--and slipped on her
cuffs, for that matter. If you were an unpleasantly long time in
gaining admittance, you might be sure that she was also changing her
shoes or perhaps brushing her hair. In any event, after you knocked it
was some time before she opened the door, and then you were
immediately impressed by the conviction that her brightly shining face
had scarcely recovered from the application of a convenient "wash
rag," and that she seemed deplorably out of breath. But she was neat
and clean and quite English.

As for that, everything about the establishment was English. The
window-boxes, from basement to garret; the way the curtains hung in
rigid complaisance; the significant name-plate on the middle panel of
the door: "Joseph Grinaldi, Esq."; the minute plot of grass alongside
the steps that led to the basement, with a treasured rose-bush in the
corner thereof. You were positive, without looking, that Joey had a
back yard which he called a garden, and that it possessed everything
desirable except a vista--and he would have that if it were not for
"the houses in between," to say nothing of the high board fence he had
built to keep out all prowling beasts--including humanity--with the
double exception of cats and sparrows. Although it was a typical,
hemmed-in New York house, you wouldn't have thought of calling the
chimneys anything but pots, nor would you have called the shingles by
any other name than slates.

Joey was at home. He was expecting David, which accounts for the
prompt appearance of the sprightly maid, and the genial shout of
welcome from the top of the stairs.

"Come in, my lad," called Joey, bounding down the steps with all the
resilience of a youth of twenty. "My crimes, I'm 'appy to see you."

They shook hands warmly, the little maid bobbing her head in rhythmic
appreciation.

"You knew I was coming?" asked David, following the old man into the
"drawing-room."

"I found a note under the door this morning, David, left there
mysterious-like during the night. It was left by the fairies, I
daresay, although the 'and-writing was scarcely wot you'd call
dainty." Joey pulled a knowing wink.

"Dick Cronk," announced David. "He came up with me. Braddock is in the
city, Joey."

"Sit down in that chair by the winder, David. So! Wot a 'andsome chap
you've got to be! My eye! Ruby will be proper crazy about you. I beg
pardon: you mentioned Tom Braddock. Well, he was a setting right thore
where you are not more than twenty-four hours ago."

"You don't mean it!"

"Ruby will be in before long," rambled the old clown, thoroughly
enjoying himself. "She's off to the market. Do you know, Davy, she's a
most wonderful manager, that girl o' mine. We've been in from the road
for nearly a month now--closed the most prosperous season on record at
Rochester, New York, on the 17th of May--and Ruby 'ad the 'ouse
running like it 'ad been oiled inside o' two hours arfter we got off
the cars. She's a--Oh, we was talking of Brad, wasn't we? Well, let me
see. Oh, yes, he was 'ere yesterday. And now you're 'ere to-day. It's
marvelous 'ow things do go. Brad asked arfter you."

"I suppose so," said David impatiently. "But, tell me, Joey, what is
his game? What is he in New York for?"

The old clown did not answer at once. He pursed his lips and stared in
a troubled sort of way at the leg of David's chair. Then he began to
fill his pipe. His hand trembled noticeably.

Saving the snowy whiteness of his hair, Grinaldi did not appear to be
an hour older than in the days of Van Slye's. His merry, wrinkled face
was as ruddy, as keen, as healthy as it ever had been. No one would
have called him sixty-five, and yet he was beyond that in years.

"He's 'ere for no good purpose, I'm afraid," said he, at last. "In a
way, I'm kind o' sorry for Brad, David. He'd 'a' been a different sort
o' man if it 'adn't been for Bob Grand. If ever a chap 'ad an evil
genius, Brad 'ad one in that man. I suppose Dick told you Brad's been
up for two or three year, doing time. Not but wot he deserved it, the
way he treated Mary, but it don't seem just right that Bob Grand
should be the one to send 'im up. Mary 'ad nothink to do with it, but
you can't make Brad believe that. He's got it in 'is 'ead that she's
been working with Grand all along. I talked to 'im for two hours
yesterday, but I couldn't shake 'im. He's a broken man--but he's a
determined one. The time served up at Sing Sing 'ad one benefit to it:
it dried up all the whiskey that was in 'im. He came out of there with
'is eyes and 'is mind as clear as whistles, and he's not the feller
you used to know, David. He's twenty years older, and his face ain't
no longer bloated; it's haggard and full o' lines. His hair is nearly
as white as mine. And 'ere's the great thing about 'im: he ain't
drinking a drop. He says he never will drink another drop, so long as
he lives. Do you know why?"

The old man leaned forward and spoke with a serious intentness that
sent a cold chill to the heart of his young friend.

"He says he ain't going to take any chances on bungling the job he's
set out to do," went on Joey slowly. "He wants to be plumb sober when
he does it, so's it will be done proper."

"You mean--murder?"

"That's just it, David. He's going to kill Bob Grand."

"Joey, we must prevent that!" exclaimed David, rising and beginning to
pace the floor. "There is time to stop him. Grand is not in the city.
We must get Braddock away. Think what it would mean to--to Christine
and her mother! Why, it's--"

"Brad ain't going to stop to think about 'ow it will affect them. He's
only got one idea in his 'ead. He'll 'ave it out with Mary beforehand,
if he gets the chance, but he won't do 'er bodily injury. He swears he
won't do that. He admits he's done 'er enough 'arm. Do you know wot he
told me?--and he cried like a baby when he told me, too. David, he
actually sold 'is wife to Bob Grand when he gave up the show."

"Good heaven, Joey!"

"He told me so 'isself, sitting right there. But he says he 'ad sunk
so low in them days, pushed along by Grand, that there wasn't anything
too mean for 'im to do. He told me he stole your pocket-book--and a
lot of other cruel nasty things he did besides. But he said it was
whiskey--and I believe 'im. You see, David, I knowed 'im when he was
as straight as a string, and a manly chap he was, too--even if 'is
father was an old scamp. He ain't making any excuses for 'isself--not
a bit of it. He says he's a scoundrel."

David sat down limply, stunned by the news of Tom Braddock's
depravity.

"But if he is sober and in his right senses, he must feel the most
poignant remorse after that one terrible act," cried the young man.
"He surely must know that she did not fall into the trap--that she
actually fled to escape it. He knows all this, Joey. I think he loved
her--in his way. I know he loved Christine. We must get at him from
that side--the side of his love for the girl, the side of fairness. If
he feels remorse, as you say, all is not lost to him. Where can we
find him to-day, Joey? To-morrow may be too late."

"Wot does Dick say?" asked the old clown, puffing at his pipe. His
calmness served its purpose. David stared and then relaxed.

"To tell you the truth, I'd forgotten Dick. Before we parted
yesterday, it was understood between us that I was to do nothing until
I had heard from him. He promised to find Braddock and report to me--
by letter. Of course, he did not know that you had seen him, or he
would have come last night to talk it over with you in--"

Joey held up his hand and shook his head. "Oh, no, he wouldn't, David.
Dick thinks too much of me to come 'ere. You see, it would never do
for him to be seen frequentin' this 'ouse. I've _invited_ him 'ere,
I'll say that; but he's too square to come. He says it would injure me,
and my 'ouse would be watched as long as I live in it. And, besides, it
wouldn't be right to Ruby. Once or twice he 'as sneaked in as a peddler
or a plumber, by arrangement, poor chap, but never openly."

To David's annoyance, Joey went into a long dissertation on the
inscrutable virtues of Dick Cronk, concluding with the sage but
somewhat ambiguous remark that it not only "takes a thief to catch a
thief," but that an honest man is usually a thief when he is caught in
the company of thieves.

"You see, Davy, we ain't with the circus now. We're at 'ome in our own
'ouse, and things is different. A circus is one thing and a man's
castle is another. Leastwise, that's wot Dick says. He says I'm too
old to be caught in bad company. I'd die before I could live it down.
He's an odd chap, he is. And now, in regard to Brad, just you keep
cool until you 'ears from Dick. You can't afford to stir up a row. Old
man Portman and Mary and Christine won't thank you for stirring things
up. They're not anxious to 'ave a scandal. If you go arfter Brad too
rough, it will percipitate matters instead of 'olding them back. And
he'll know to onct that you are acting for his wife--a sort of go-
between, don't you see. That will make it the wuss for 'er. So, just
'old yourself in, David. Now, let's talk about somethink else.
Yourself, for instance."

David resignedly settled back, and was at once involved in an exchange
of personal narrative.

"I 'ave retired from the stage," remarked Joey, putting his thumbs in
the armholes of his velvet waistcoat. "I am too old to go clowning it
any longer. This was my last season. I've got a comfortable income,
thanks to you, David, and I'm going to spend the rest of my days in
peace and quiet--if you call New York quiet, wot with the church bells
and the milkmen. Three seasons in the pantomime, doing all the one-
night stands in this bloomin' country, is enough for Joey. If you
'adn't staked me when I was stony broke three years ago, Davy, I'd be
in the poor 'ouse now, I daresay. You saved the show for me and I'm
properly grateful to you, even though you won't let me mention it.
Next season Ruby will go out with the show, but I'm getting a new
clown. That is, she'll go unless something important 'appens to
pervent."

He screwed up his eye very mysteriously.

"What is likely to happen, Joey?"

"Well," said he, "girls do get married."

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