The Seventh Noon

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"They was waitin' for you all right," agreed Bobby. "They seen you
comin'. They waits fer the easy marks."

"Yes," returned Donaldson, ignoring the latter's sarcasm. "They saw me
coming when yet I was a great way off. They knew me, so they waited.
I told them all to wait and some day I would come to them."

"D' yuh mean that ivory monkey waited?"

"For nearly a year."

Bobby did not reply, but his respect for Donaldson fell several degrees.

"There is one thing more, boy," exclaimed Donaldson; "I need flowers."

He ordered sent to his room two dozen rich lipped roses, a half dozen
potted plants, and a small conservatory of ferns. Then he started back
to the hotel.

It took the boy several trips to carry the bundles upstairs even when
they were piled to his eyes. When he finished, Donaldson held out his
hand.

"I 've had a mighty pleasant afternoon with you," he said. "And I hope
we 'll meet again. What's your number?"

"Thirty-four fifty-seven."

"Well, thirty-four fifty-seven, give us your hand in case we lose one
another for good."

The boy gingerly extended his grimy paw. When he removed it, he found
himself clutching a ten-dollar bill.

Donaldson remained in his room only long enough to arrange his
treasures and slip into his evening clothes. There was too much
outside to be enjoyed for him to appreciate yet the luxury of his
indoor surroundings. He had a passion for people, for crowds of
people. He had thought at first that he might attend the theatre, but
he realized now that the stage puppets were but faint reflections of
the stirring drama all about him--the playwright's plot less gripping
than that in which he himself was the central figure. To pass through
those doors would be more like stepping out of a theatre into the
leaden reality of life as he had seen it before yesterday.

For an hour or more he rubbed shoulders with the press that was on its
way to find relief from their own lives in the mimic lives of others
behind the footlights. To him in the Now it was comedy enough to watch
them as they filed in; it would have been an anticlimax to have gone
further. He craved good music, but a search of the papers did not
reveal any concert of note, so he sought one of the popular
restaurants, and, choosing a table in a corner, devoted himself to the
ordering of his dinner. He was hungry and took a childish delight in
selecting without first studying the price list.

When he had concluded, he took a more careful survey of the room. His
wandering gaze was checked by the profile of the woman whose eyes had
haunted him ever since he had first seen them in Barstow's laboratory.
It was Miss Arsdale, and opposite her sat a tall, thin-visaged young
man. As the latter turned and presented a full face view, Donaldson
was held by the peculiarity of his expression. His hot, beadlike eyes
burned from a white sensitive face that was almost emaciated; his thin
lips were set as though in grim resolution; while even his brown hair
refused to lend repose to the face, but, sticking out in cowlicks,
added to the whole effect of nervousness still further exaggerated by
the restless white hands. Over all, like a black veil, was an
expression as of one haunted by a great fear. The man both repelled
and interested Donaldson. There was a shiftiness about the eyes that
excited suspicion, and yet there was in them a silent plea that asked
for sympathy. Save for the eyes, the face had a certain poetic beauty
due to its fine modeling and its savage intensity. The longer
Donaldson studied it, the more sympathy he had for it. He had the
feeling that the fellow had gone through some such crisis as his own.

But it was difficult to define the girl's relationship to him. There
was not the slightest trace of family resemblance between them, and yet
the man was hardly of a type that she would choose for so intimate a
friend as her presence here with him suggested. She did not talk much,
but seemed rather to be on the alert to protect him as from some unseen
danger which appeared to hang over him. She followed his eyes wherever
they wandered, and clearly took but little pleasure in being here.

Donaldson found the oddly matched couple absorbing his interest not
only in the other guests but also in his dinner. He finished in almost
the undue haste with which ordinarily he devoured his dairy lunch and
with scarcely more appreciation of the superior quality of these richer
dishes. With his black coffee he rolled a cigarette. The familiar old
tobacco brought him back to himself again so that for a few minutes he
was able to give himself up to the swirling strains of the Hungarian
orchestra. But even through the delicious intoxication of the waltz,
the personality of this girl asserted itself to him. He got the
impression now that she herself was in some danger. He wished that he
had asked Barstow more about her. She had not noticed him as yet. He
had watched closely to see if she turned. As he studied her it seemed
certain that she was by no means enjoying herself in her present
company. If given half an opportunity he would go over and speak to
her.

[Illustration: _As he studied her it seemed certain that she was by no
means enjoying herself in her present company_]

He wished to see her eyes again. He remembered them distinctly. They
were not black--not gray, but black with the faintest trace of silver,
like starlight on a deep pool. The whites were very clear and blue
tinted. Just then she raised her head and looked at him as though she
had been called. At that moment the orchestra swept their strings in a
minor and swirled off in a mystic dance like that of storm ghosts in
the tree-tops. It caught him up with the girl and for a measure or so
bore them along like leaves, in a new comradeship. To them the light
laughter was hushed; to them the heavy smoke clouds vanished; to them
the Babel of other personalities was no more. They two had been lifted
out of this and carried hand in hand to some distant gypsy region. She
was the first to shake herself free. She started, nodded pleasantly to
him, and turned back to her companion, with a little shiver.

That was all, but it left Donaldson strangely moved. He paid his check
at once and prepared to leave, hoping that in passing her table he
might find his opportunity to stop a moment. But they too rose as he
was getting into his coat and passed out ahead, the young man evidently
trying to hurry her.

On the sidewalk Donaldson found them waiting at the curb for a big
automobile which swooped out of the dark to meet them. Making a
pretext of stopping to roll a cigarette, he paused. The girl stepped
into the machine, but her companion instead of following at once gave
an order to the chauffeur. The latter left his seat and the girl
expostulated. The chauffeur apparently hesitated, but, the younger man
insisting, he hurried past Donaldson into the cafe. Unconsciously
Donaldson moved nearer. He felt a foreboding of danger and a curious
sense of responsibility. He caught a glimpse of the white face of the
girl leaning forward towards her companion--heard her cry as the fellow
stepped into the chauffeur's seat--and, yielding to some impulse,
jumped to the running-board just as the man threw on the power.

The machine leaped forward with a shock that nearly tossed him off. To
save himself he sprang to the empty seat beside the girl. The man at
the wheel had apparently not noticed him; he had plenty to occupy his
mind to control the machine which was tearing along at the rate of
fifty miles an hour.

The girl leaned forward and gripped Donaldson's arm.

"You must stop him," she said. "He has lost himself again! Do you
understand? You must stop him!"

CHAPTER IV

_Kismet_

The machine swirled around a corner at a speed that swung the rear
wheels clear of the ground. It righted itself as a frightened dog
scrambles to his legs, and shot on up the avenue, which was for the
moment fortunately clear of other vehicles. It took a crossing at a
single leap, missed a dazed pedestrian by an inch, and shot on as mad a
thing as the man who ran it. It was clearly only a matter of minutes
that this could last. Bending low, the madman, with still enough
cunning left to know how to manage the machine, held it to its highest
speed. But his arm was weakening. He did not have the physical
strength to hold steady the vibrating steering gear. The big car began
to tack.

Donaldson saw the girl's eyes upon him. They were confident with an
instinct that is woman's sixth sense. A man has not lived until he has
seen that look in a woman's eyes. Nor has a man suffered until he
realizes that he must disappoint that look. Donaldson had never been
in an automobile in his life. He knew no more how to control one than
he did an aeroplane. And the arc-lights were flashing by at the rate
of one every four seconds--and a madman at the wheel--and a woman's
eyes upon him.

Donaldson was naturally a man of some courage, but it is doubtful if
under ordinary conditions this situation would not have brought the
cold sweat to his brow. As it was, he was conscious of only two
emotions; an appreciation of the grim humor which had called upon him
so early in his week to fulfill his oath, and a grinding resentment at
the Fate which had thrust him into a position where he should show so
impotent before those eyes. As far as personal fear went, it was nil.
He was as oblivious to possible pain, possible death, as though he were
now merely recalling a dream. Such contingencies had been decided the
moment he swallowed the scarlet syrup. Fear had been annihilated in
him because the most he had to lose was this next six days. He was too
good a gambler to resent, in a fair game, the turn of the cards against
him.

He stepped past her and out upon the running board, feeling his way
along to the empty seat. The machine swayed dizzily. The wind tore
off his hat and tugged at his coat, nearly dragging him to the ground
which flowed beneath him as smoothly as a fly belt. He could not have
made that distance yesterday with the assurance of to-day. He swung
himself into the empty seat.

He had but one thing in mind; he knew that these big machines, in spite
of their tremendous power, were as nicely adjusted as watches. They
had their vital spots, their hearts. If only he could find this
vulnerable place! At his feet he saw a small wooden box fastened to
the dash-board. He did not know what it was, but on a blind chance he
kicked it again and again until it splintered beneath his heels. The
machine swerved across the road and he fought with the crazed man for
the possession of the wheel. He was strong and he had this much at
heart, but the other had the super-human strength of the crazed. Even
as they struggled the machine began to slow down and within a few
hundred yards came to a standstill. In destroying the coil box he had
reached the heart.

The driver turned upon him, but Donaldson managed to secure a good grip
and dragged the fellow to the ground. The latter was up in a minute
and faced him with that gleam of devilish hatred that marks the foiled
maniac. The girl started to separate the two men, but it was
unnecessary; she saw the murder fade from her companion's face before
the calm untroubled gaze of the other. She saw his strained body
relax, she saw his fists unclench, and she saw him shrink back to her
side trembling in fright. The demon in him had been quelled by the
unflinching eyes of the sane man.

There was, luckily, no gathering of a crowd, for no one had witnessed
the struggle in the machine. A few steps beyond, the blue and red
lights of a drugstore stained the sidewalk. The girl seized the man's
arm and turned to Donaldson.

"He is my brother," she explained. "We must leave the machine and get
him home at once. Can we order a cab from somewhere?"

"At the drugstore we can telephone for one and also reach your garage."

"Would you mind attending to it?" she asked anxiously. "We will wait
here,--in the car."

He hesitated.

"I don't like to leave you here alone," he said.

"I shall be quite safe--really."

"But in the drugstore it is warmer, and--"

"No, no," she broke in hurriedly. "I--I would much rather not."

Without further parley he took the address of the garage where the
machine had been hired, and walked on to the drugstore. He was back
again in five minutes, relieved to find her safe and the brother still
quiet. While waiting for the cab it occurred to him that he should
also have telephoned for a physician to meet them when they reached the
house. But Miss Arsdale objected at once to this.

"I think we had better not. But if you would--it's asking a great deal
of you--if you yourself would ride back with us."

"I had intended to do that," he assured her.

The cab arrived within a few minutes, and she gave an address off
Riverside Drive. It took half an hour to make the run. On the journey
the three remained silent save for a few commonplaces, for conversation
seemed to have a disquieting effect upon young Arsdale. The lighted
houses flashed past the carriage windows in the soft spring dark,
looking like specks of gold upon black velvet. A certain motherliness
pervaded the night; there was a suggestion of birth everywhere.
Donaldson responded to it with a growing feeling of anticipation.
Sitting here confronting this girl he was swept back to a primal joy of
things, to a sense of new worlds. He felt for a moment as though back
again with her in that gypsy kingdom into which the music had borne
them.

The cab swung from the boulevard and, after following for a few moments
a somewhat tortuous course among side streets, stopped before an iron
gate which stretched across the drive leading to the house. Either
side of the gate a high hedge extended. The three stepped out and
Donaldson paused a moment before dismissing the cabby. The girl saw
his hesitancy and in her turn seemed rapidly to revolve some question
in her own mind. A quick motion on the part of her brother determined
her. In the shadow of the house he began to show ill-boding symptoms.

"I wonder if--if you would come in for a minute," she asked in an
undertone.

Without answer he dismissed the driver and followed her through a small
gate in the hedge, down a short walk, to a brown-stone house with its
entrance on a level with the ground. The house was unlighted and the
lower windows were covered with wooden shutters. In the midst of its
brilliantly lighted neighbors it looked severe and inhospitable. The
girl drew a key from her purse and, opening the door, stepped inside
and switched on the lights. Donaldson found himself in a large,
cheerful looking hall finished in Flemish oak. A broad Colonial
staircase led from the end and swung upstairs in a graceful turn which
formed a landing. The floor was covered with rugs which he recognized
as of almost priceless value. Several oil portraits in heavy frames
ornamented the walls. It took but a glance to see that they were of
the same family and to recognize in all their thin faces an expression
that he had caught in young Arsdale himself--a haunting fear as of some
family tragedy. Through an uncurtained door to the right opened what
appeared to be a library, while to the left--Donaldson turned his back
for a moment upon Arsdale. And the man, freed from the eyes, threw
himself upon Donaldson's shoulder. The woman shouted a warning, but it
was too late. She clutched at her brother's clothes, pulling with all
her strength, crying,

"Ben! Ben!"

Donaldson slipped upon the polished floor and Arsdale, throwing his arm
about his victim's neck, secured a very effective strangle hold. It
looked bad for Donaldson. On the smooth waxed floor he could secure no
purchase by which to regain his feet and he could not reach the fellow
with either fist. He was as helpless as though he had the Old Man of
the Mountain upon his back. The world began to swim before his eyes;
the cries of the girl to sound in the distance. Then he smelled the
biting aroma of spirits of ammonia and felt the clutch upon his throat
loosen. He broke free, got upon his feet and found Arsdale rubbing his
smarting eyes while the girl stood over him, frightened at what she had
done, with the empty bottle in her hand.

"I've blinded him!" she cried, drawing back in horror.

"Thanks. You 've also prevented him from killing me."

"Don't say that--not kill!"

"But the man is n't responsible."

"That is true, but--even when he is like this he would n't do any harm."

His throat was still sore from the press of the fellow's fingers, but
he nodded politely.

Donaldson perceived that she was fighting off a fear. It made the
danger seem even more imminent. He had noted with surprise that no
servants had appeared. This gave a particularly uncanny atmosphere to
the big house, making it look as deserted as though empty of furniture.

"We must get him upstairs and into bed," she said. "Will you help him?"

The man was choking and writhing upon the floor in his pain. Donaldson
stooped and wiped off his eyes. Then he placed his arm about him and
half dragged and half carried him up the stairs as she led the way.
She preceded them up two flights, switching on the lights at each
landing, and entered a small, simply furnished room in the middle of
the house,--a room, Donaldson was quick to note, having only a skylight
for a window. Here he dashed cold water into the man's face and placed
him on the bed. As soon as the pain subsided, Miss Arsdale
administered two spoonfuls of a darkish brown medicine which seemed to
have instantly a quieting effect.

It was the sight of the bottle that again recalled to Donaldson the
fact of his own peculiar position in life. Even at the risk of
appearing rude, he was forced to look at his watch. It was a few
minutes after eleven o'clock. Well, what of it? Had not these hours
been full--had he not had more of real living than during the entire
last decade? He had faced death twice, he had met a woman, and he now
stood at the threshold of a mystery that seemed to demand him. There
was no other interest in his life to occupy him--nothing to prevent him
from throwing himself heart and soul into the case, lending what aid
was possible to this woman. Furthermore, he was clear of all selfish
interests; he need bother himself with no queries of what this might be
worth to him. But it was worth something, it was worth something to
have a woman look at him as this girl had done--with unquestioning
trust in a crisis.

She glanced up as he replaced his watch.

"Oh," she exclaimed, "I must detain you no longer!"

"My time is absolutely yours," he reassured her. "I was merely curious
to know how old I have grown."

She did not understand.

"I 'm eleven hours old."

Again she did not understand, but in turning to care for her brother
she ceased to puzzle over the enigma. Shortly afterwards the patient
closed his eyes and fell into a deep sleep. Immediately the girl led
the way on tiptoe from the room. She locked the door behind her and
preceded Donaldson downstairs.

Once below there seemed nothing for him to do but to leave, but, quite
aside from the fact that he felt himself to be really needed here, he
was as reluctant to depart as a man is to awake from a pleasant dream.
She had picked up a white silk Japanese shawl and thrown it about her
shoulders.

He turned to her with the question,

"Is there nothing more I can do for you? Is there no one I may summon
to help you?"

"I can manage very well now, thank you."

"But you can't stay here alone with the boy in this condition."

"Why not?"

Her reply came like a rebuke of his impetuous presumption.

"It is hardly safe for you," he declared more quietly.

"It is perfectly safe," she answered evenly.

"I suppose there are servants in the house upon whom you can call," he
hazarded.

She looked a bit embarrassed.

"If I should need any one there is my old housekeeper, Marie," she
answered.

Marie was upstairs, sick in bed with rheumatism, too feeble to move
without help. But to confess this fact to him would be almost to force
him to stay. As welcome a relief as it would be to have him remain
until she had administered the medicine once more, she shrank from
placing him in a position where he would have no alternative.

She roused herself from the temptation and extended her hand.

"Thank you is a weak phrase for all you 've done," she said.

"It is enough."

He took the hand but he did not say good night. So she withdrew it,
her cheeks a bit redder, her eyes, a trick they had when brilliant,
growing silver.

He had been studying her keenly, and now removing his overcoat, he said
decidedly,

"I shall stay a little longer."

She seemed to hesitate a moment, meeting his eyes quite frankly. Then,
with a little sigh of relief she stepped into the library.

CHAPTER V

_The Inner Woods_

In the fireplace there were birch logs ready to be kindled. At her
suggestion he put a match to them for the cheeriness they gave while
she lighted a green shaded lamp which radiated a soft glow over the
heavy mahogany library table upon which it stood. The room slowly
warmed out of the gloom and shadows as though the three walls closed in
nearer to the fire. Just outside the radius of warmth the bookbindings
shone gold in the dark. In a frame six inches deep the ghostly
outlines of a portrait of Horace Arsdale flickered near and away as the
flames rose and fell.

Miss Arsdale came to a chair a little to the left of Donaldson,
brushing back from her eyes the soft hair which in the firelight shone
like burnished copper. He smiled at the strange chance which led her
to seat herself almost directly in front of the grandfather's clock, so
that facing her he faced the pendulum which ticked out to him the cost
of each new picture he had of her. It was now within a few minutes of
midnight--one half of his first day gone before he had more than raised
the glass to his lips. He felt for a moment the petulant annoyance of
a man imposed upon--as though Time were playing him unfairly; until
today the hours had dragged heavily enough; now they sped like arrows.

[Illustration: _Facing her he faced the pendulum which ticked out to
him the cost of each new picture he had of her_]

And yet he did not count the time as ill spent. Though he had
anticipated nothing of this sort, he found himself enjoying the
situation with as deep a satisfaction as anything which had so far
occurred in the swift hours which had sped by since noon. Outside lay
the quick-moving throngs which he so loved, in his room there waited
for him the gentle marine, the bit of brown ivory, the luxury of deep
blooming roses, and yet he was not conscious of missing them. Those
things had been waiting for him all through the long tedious years, and
this--well perhaps this, too, had been waiting for him. He wondered if
this effect was produced by the surroundings which were much as he
would have chosen them if he had possessed the means from the first.
The sober good taste of the room, its quiet richness, its air of being
a part of several generations of men of culture pleased him.

He turned to the girl again. She too was one with this past of the
room. The straight nose with its shell-like nostrils as sensitive to
her thoughts as her eyes, the sharp cut corners of her mouth, and the
fine hair over her white forehead dated back to women whose features
had long been refined through their souls. All that he wished to crowd
into a week, they had possessed for a hundred years or more. It showed
even in this girl who had not yet come into the fulness of her
womanhood.

She sat uneasily far forward on her chair, leaning toward the flames as
though fearful of what might happen next. The light played upon her
hair and her white face, making her seem almost a thing of some
lighter, spirit world.

"I don't feel that I ought to detain you," she said, breaking the
silence which he for his part would have been willing to continue,
"but"--she looked up at him with a half-shamed smile--"I have n't the
courage to refuse your kindness."

"You have the right to accept it merely as a woman," he assured her.

"But I should n't need help," she answered with some spirit. "I don't
know what has come over me. I 'm just afraid of being alone."

"It is n't good for any one to be alone."

"You know?"

He answered slowly,

"Yes, I know."

Did any one know better? The curse of it had driven him to secure at
any cost the broader comradeship of men and women which, if it does not
come through some more subtle means such as she now seemed to suggest
to him, can be found in that cruder relationship always at the command
of those with some fortune. The thought swept over him that if he had
known her before yesterday, he could never have felt alone again. But
what had he to do with yesterday any more than with to-morrow?

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