The City of Fire

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Percy Emerson had been arrested. He had run over a woman and a baby and
both were in a hospital in a critical condition. He would be held
without bail until it was seen whether they lived.

She drew in her breath with a frightened gasp and bit at her red lip
with her little sharp teeth. A pretty child with floating curls and
dainty apparel ran laughing across her way, its hand outstretched to a
tiny white dog that was dancing after her, and Opal gave a sharp cry
and tore the telegram into small bits. But when she opened the second
message her face paled under its delicate rouge as she read: "Mortimer
McMarter killed in an accident when his car collided with a truck. His
body lies at Saybrook Inn. We find your address on his person, with a
request to let you know if anything happens to him. What do you wish
done with the body?"

Those who watched her face as she read say that it took on an ashen
color and she looked years older. Her real spirit seemed to be looking
forth from those wide limpid eyes for an instant, the spirit of a
coward who had been fooling the world; the spirit of a lost soul who
had grown old in sin; the spirit of a soul who had stepped over the
bounds and sinned beyond her depth.

She looked about upon them all, stricken, appalled,--not sorry but just
afraid,--and not for her friends, but for herself! And then she gave a
horrid little lost laugh and dropping the telegram as if it had burned
her, she flung out her voice upon them with a blaze in her big eyes and
a snarl in her lute-voice:

"Well, I wasn't to blame was I? They all were grown men, weren't they?
It was up to them. _I'm_ going to get out of here! This is an
_awful_ place!"

She gave a shudder and turning swiftly fled to the elevator, catching
it just as the door was being shut, and they saw her rising behind the
black and gold grating and waving a mocking little white hand at them
as they watched her amazed. Then one of them stooped and picked up the
telegram. And while they still stood at the doorway wondering some one
pointed to a brilliant blue car that was sliding down the avenue across
the beach road.

"She has gone!" they said looking at one another strangely. Did she
really care then?

* * * * *

The dinner at Sabbath Valley parsonage was a good one. It was quite
different from any dinner Laurie Shafton had ever eaten before. It had
a taste that he hadn't imagined just plain chicken and mashed potatoes
and bread and butter and coffee and cherry pie could have.

Those were things he seldom picked out from a menu, and he met them as
something new and delicious, prepared in this wonderful country way.

Also the atmosphere was queer and interesting.

The minister had helped him into the dining-room, a cheery room with a
bay window looking toward the church and a window box of nasturtiums in
which the bees hummed and buzzed.

The girl came in and acknowledged the casual introduction of her father
with a quite sophisticated nod and sat down across from him. And there
was a _prayer_ at the beginning of the meal! Just as he was about
to say something graceful to the girl, there was a _prayer_. It
was almost embarrassing. He had never seen one before like this. At a
boarding school once he had experienced a thing they called "grace"
which consisted in standing behind their chairs while the entire
assembled hungry multitude repeated a poem of a religious nature. He
remembered they used to spend their time making up parodies on it--one
ran something about "this same old fish upon my plate," and rhymed with
"hate." He stared at the lovely bowed hair of the girl across the table
while it was going on, and got ready a remark calculated to draw her
smiles, but the girl lifted eyes that seemed so far away he felt as
though she did not see him, and he contented himself with replying to
his host's question something about the part of the chicken he liked
best. It was a queer home to him, it seemed so intimate. Even the
chicken seemed to be a detail of their life together, perhaps because
there was only one chicken, and one breast. Where he dwelt there were
countless breasts, and everybody had a whole breast if he wanted it, or
a whole chicken for the matter of that. Here they had to stop and ask
what others liked before they chose for themselves. This analysis went
queerly on in his mind while he sat waiting for his plate and wondering
over the little things they were talking about. Mrs. Severn said Miss
Saxon had been crying all through church, and she told her Billy had
been away all night. She was awfully worried about his going with that
baseball team.

A fleeting shadow passed over the girl's face:

"Billy promised me he would be there to-day," she said thoughtfully,
"something must have happened. I don't think Billy was with the
baseball team--" then her eyes travelled away out the window to the
distant hills, she didn't seem to see Laurence Shafton at all. It was a
new experience for him. He was fairly good looking and knew it.

Who the deuce was this Billy? And what did she care about Miss Saxon
crying? Did she care so much for Billy already? Would it be worth his
while to make her uncare?

"Mrs. Carter wasn't out," said Mrs. Severn as she poured coffee, "I
hope she's not having more trouble with her neuralgia."

The minister suddenly looked up from his carving:

"Did Mark come back yesterday, Marilyn?"

The girl drew a quick breath and brought back her eyes from the hills,
but she did not look at the young man: "No, father he didn't come."

Who the deuce was _Mark_? Of course there would be several, but
there was always _one_. Billy and Mark! It was growing interesting.

But Billy and Mark were not mentioned again, though a deep gravity
seemed to have settled into the eyes of the family since their names
had come up. Laurie decided to speak of the weather and the roads:

"Glorious weather we're having," he chirped out condescendingly, "But
you certainly have the limit for roads. What's the matter with the
highway? Had a Detour right in the best part of the road. Bridge down,
it said, road flooded! Made the deuce of a time for me--!"

"Bridge?" remarked Marilyn looking up thoughtfully.

"Flood?" echoed the minister sharply.

"Yes. About two miles back where the highway crosses this valley. Put
me in some fix. Had a bet on you know. Date with a lady. Staked a lot
of money on winning, too. Hard luck," Then he looked across at
Marilyn's attentive face. Ah! He was getting her at last! More on that
line.

"But it'll not be all loss," he added gallantly with a gesture of
admiration toward her, "You see I didn't have any idea I was going to
meet _you_."

But Marilyn's eyes were regarding him soberly, steadily, analytically,
without an answering smile. It was as if she did not like what he had
said--if indeed she had heard it at all--as if she were offended at it.
Then the eyes look on an impersonal look and wandered thoughtfully to
the mountains in the distance. Laurie felt his cheeks burn. He felt
almost embarrassed again, like during the prayer. Didn't the girl know
he was paying her a compliment? Or was she such a prude that she
thought him presuming on so slight an acquaintance? Her father was
speaking:

"I don't quite understand," 'he said thoughtfully. "There is no bridge
within ten miles, and nothing to flood the road but the Creek, which
never was known to overflow its banks more than a few feet at most. The
highway is far above the valley. You must have been a bit turned
around."

The young man laughed lightly:

"Well, perhaps I had a jag on. I'm not surprised. I'd been driving for
hours and had to drink to keep my nerve till morning. There were some
dandy spilling places around those mountain curves. One doesn't care to
look out and see when one is driving at top speed."

Heavens! What had he said now? The girl's eyes came round to look him
over again and went through to his soul like a lightning flash and away
again, and there was actually scorn on her lips. He must take another
line. He couldn't understand this haughty country beauty in the least.

"I certainly did enjoy your music," he flashed forth with a little of
his own natural gaiety in his voice that made him so universal a
favorite.

The girl turned gravely toward him and surveyed him once more as if she
were surprised and perhaps had not done him justice. She looked like
one who would always be willing to do one justice. He felt encouraged:

"If it hadn't been for this blamed foot of mine I'd have hobbled over
to the--service. I was sorry not to hear the music closer."

"There is another service this evening," she said pleasantly, "Perhaps
father can help you over. It is a rather good organ for so small a
one." She was trying to be polite to him. It put him on his metal. It
made him remember how rude he had been to her father the night before.

"Delightful organ I'm sure," he returned, "but it was the organist that
I noticed. One doesn't often hear such playing even on a good organ."

"Oh, I've been well taught," said the girl without self-consciousness.
"But the children are to sing this evening. You'll like to hear the
children I'm sure. They are doing fairly well now."

"Charmed, I'm sure," he said with added flattery of his eyes which she
did not take at all because she was passing her mother's plate for more
gravy. How odd not to have a servant pass it!

"You come from New York?" the host hazarded.

"Yes," drawled the youth, "Shafton's my name, Laurence Shafton, son of
William J., of Shafton and Gates you know," he added impressively.

The host was polite but unimpressed. It was almost as though he had
never heard of William J. Shafton the multi-millionaire. Or was it?
Dash the man, he had such a way with him of acting as though he knew
everything and _nothing_ impressed him; as though he was just as
good as the next one! As though his father was something even greater
than a millionaire! He didn't seem to be in the least like Laurie's
idea of a clergyman. He couldn't seem to get anywhere with him.

The talk drifted on at the table, ebbing and flowing about the two
ladies as the tide touches a rising strand and runs away. The girl and
her mother answered his questions with direct steady gaze, and polite
phrases, but they did not gush nor have the attitude of taking him
eagerly into their circle as he was accustomed to being taken in
wherever he went. Nothing he said seemed to reach further than kindly
hospitality. When that was fulfilled they were done and went back to
their own interests.

Marilyn did not seem to consider the young man a guest of hers in any
sense personally. After the dinner she moved quietly out to the porch
and seated herself in a far chair with a leather bound book, perhaps a
Bible, or prayer book. He wasn't very familiar with such things. She
took a little gold pencil from a chain about her neck and made notes on
a bit of paper from what she read, and she joined not at all in the
conversation unless she was spoken to, and then her thoughts seemed to
be elsewhere. It was maddening.

Once when a tough looking little urchin went by with a grin she flew
down off the porch to the gate to talk with him; she stood there some
time in earnest converse. What could a girl like that find to say to a
mere kid? When she came back there was a look of trouble in her eyes,
and by and by her father asked if Harry had seen _Billy,_ and she
shook her head with a cloud on her brow. It must be _Billy_ then.
Billy was the one! Well, dash him! If he couldn't go one better than
Billy he would see! Anyhow Billy didn't have a sprained ankle, and a
place in the family! A girl like that was worth a few days' invalidism.
His ankle didn't hurt much since the minister had dressed it again. He
believed he could get up and walk if he liked, but he did not mean to.
He meant to stay here a few days and conquer this young beauty. It was
likely only her way of vamping a man, anyway, and a mighty tantalizing
one at that. Well, he would show her! And he would show Billy, too,
whoever Billy was! A girl like that! Why,--A girl like that with a face
like that would grace any gathering, any home! He had the fineness of
taste to realize that after he got done playing around with Opal and
women like her, this would be a lady any one would be proud to settle
down to. And why not? If he chose to fall in love with a country
nobody, why could'nt he? What was the use of being Laurie Shafton, son
of the great William J. Shafton, if he couldn't marry whom he would?
Shafton would be enough to bring any girl up to par in any society in
the universe. So Laurie Shafton set himself busily to be agreeable.

And presently his opportunity arrived. Mrs. Severn had gone in the
house to take a nap, and the minister had been called away to see a
sick man. The girl continued to study her little book:

"I wish you would come and amuse me," he said in the voice of an
interesting invalid.

The girl looked up and smiled absently:

"I'm sorry," she said, "but I have to go to my Sunday-school class in a
few minutes, and I was just getting my lesson ready. Would you like me
to get you something to read?"

"No," he answered crossly. He was not used to being crossed in any
desire by a lady, "I want you to talk to me. Bother the Sunday-school!
Give them a vacation to-day and let them go fishing. They'll be
delighted, I'm sure. You have a wonderful foot. Do you know it? You
must be a good dancer. Haven't you a victrola here? We might dance if
only my foot weren't out of commission."

"I don't dance, Mr. Shafton, and it is the Sabbath," she smiled
indulgently with her eyes on her book.

"Why don't you dance? I could teach you easily. And what has the
Sabbath got to do with it?"

"But I don't care to dance. It doesn't appeal to me in the least. And
the Sabbath has everything to do with it. If I did dance I would not do
it to-day."

"But why?" he asked in genuine wonder.

"Because this is the day set apart for enjoying God and not enjoying
ourselves."

He stared.

"You certainly are the most extraordinary young woman I ever met," he
said admiringly, "Did no one ever tell you that you are very
beautiful."

She gave him the benefit of her beautiful eyes then in a cold amused
glance:

"Among my friends, Mr. Shafton, it is not considered good form to say
such things to a lady of slight acquaintance." She rose and gathered up
her book and hat that lay on the floor beside her chair, and drew
herself up till she seemed almost regal.

Laurie Shafton stumbled to his feet. He was ashamed. He felt almost as
he had felt once when he was caught with a jag on being rude to a
friend of his mother's:

"I beg your pardon," he said gracefully, "I hope you will believe me, I
meant no harm."

"It is no matter," said the girl graciously, "only I do not like it.
Now you must excuse me. I see my class are gathering."

She put the hat on carelessly, with a push and a pat and slipped past
him down the steps and across the lawn. Her dress brushed against his
foot as she went and it seemed like the touch of something ethereal. He
never had felt such an experience before.

She walked swiftly to a group of boys, ugly, uncomely, overgrown kids,
the same who had followed her after church, and met them with
eagerness. He felt a jealous chagrin as he watched them follow her into
the church, an anger that she dared to trample upon him that way, a
fierce desire to get away and quaff the cup of admiration at the hand
of some of his own friends, or to quaff some cup, _any_ cup, for
he was thirsty, thirsty, _thirsty_, and this was a dry and barren
land. If he did stay and try to win this haughty country beauty he
would have to find a secret source of supply somewhere or he never
would be able to live through it.

The Sunday-school hour wore away while he was planning how to revenge
himself, but she did not return. She lingered for a long time on the
church steps talking with those everlasting kids again, and after they
were gone she went back into the church and began to play low, sweet
music.

It was growing late. Long red beams slanted down the village street
across the lawn, lingered and went out. A single ruby burned on one of
the memorial windows like a lamp, and went purple and then gray. It was
growing dusk, and that girl played on! Dash it all! Why didn't she
quit? It was wonderful music, but he wanted to talk to her. If he
hobbled slowly could he get across that lawn? He decided to try. And
then, just as he rose and steadied himself by the porch pillar, down
the street in a whirl of dust and noisy claxon there came a great blue
car and drew up sharp in front of the door, while a lute-like voice
shouted gaily: "Laurie, Laurie Shafton, is that you?"

IX

After Billy had listened a long time he took a single step to relieve
his cramped toes, which were numb with the tensity of his strained
position. Stealthily as he could he moved his shoe, but it seemed to
grind loudly upon the cement floor of the cellar, and he stopped frozen
in tensity again to listen. After a second he heard a low growl as if
someone outside the house were speaking. Then all was still. After a
time he heard the steps again, cautiously, walking over his head, and
his spine seemed to rise right up and lift him, as he stood trembling.
He wasn't a bit superstitious, Billy wasn't. He knew there was no such
thing as a ghost, and he wasn't going to be fooled by any noises
whatsoever, but anybody would admit it was an unpleasant position to be
in, pinned in a dark unfamiliar cellar without a flash light, and steps
coming overhead, where only a dead man or a doped man was supposed to
be. He cast one swift glance back at the cobwebby window through which
he had so recently arrived, and longed to be back again, out in the
open with the bells, the good bells sounding a call in his ears. If he
were out wouldn't he run? Wouldn't he even leave his old bicycle to any
fate and _run_? But no! He couldn't! He would have to come back
inevitably. Whoever was upstairs in that house alone and in peril he
must save. Suppose--!--His heart gave a great dry sob within him and he
turned away from the dusty exit that looked so little now and so
inadequate for sudden flight.

The steps went on overhead shuffling a little louder, as they seemed
further off. They were climbing the stair he believed. They wore rubber
heels! _Link_ had worn rubber heels! And Shorty's shoes were
covered with old overshoes! Had they come back, perhaps to hide from
their pursuers? His heart sank. If that were so he must get out somehow
and go after the police, but that should be his last resort. He didn't
want to get any one else in this scrape until he knew exactly what sort
of a scrape it was. It wasn't square to anybody--not square to the
doped man, not square to himself, not even square to Pat and the other
two, and--yes, he must own it,--not square to _Cart_. That was his
first consideration, Cart! He must find Cart. But first he must find
out somehow who that man was that had been kidnapped.

It seemed an age that he waited there in the cellar and everything so
still. Once he heard a door far up open, and little shuffling noises,
and by and by he could not stand it any longer. Getting down softly on
all fours, he crept slowly, noiselessly over to the cellar stairs, and
began climbing, stopping at every step to listen. His efforts were much
hampered by the milk bottle which kept dragging down to one side and
threatening to hit against the steps. But he felt that milk was
essential to his mission. He dared not go without it. The tools were in
his other pocket. They too kept catching in his sleeve as he moved
cautiously. At last he drew himself to the top step. There was a crack
of light under the door. Suppose it should be locked? He could saw out
a panel, but that would make a noise, and he still had the feeling that
someone was in that house. A cellar was not a nice place in which to be
trapped. One bottle of milk wouldn't keep him alive very long. The
haunted house was a great way from anywhere. Even the bells couldn't
call him from there, once anybody chose to fasten him in the cellar,
and find the loose window and fasten it up--!

Such thoughts poured a torrent of hot fire through his brain while his
cold fingers gripped the door knob, and slowly, fiercely, compellingly,
made it turn in its socket till its rusty old spring whined in
complaint, and then he held his breath to listen again. It seemed an
age before he dared put any weight upon that unlatched door to see if
it would move, and then he did it so cautiously that he was not sure it
was opening till a ray of light from a high little window shot into his
eyes and blinded him. He held the knob like a vise, and it was another
age before he dared slowly release the spring and relax his hand. Then
he looked around. He found himself in a kind of narrow butler's pantry
with a swinging door opposite him into the room at the back, and a
narrow passage leading around the corner next the door. He peeked
cautiously, blinkingly round the door jamb and saw the lower step of
what must be back stairs. There were no back stairs in Aunt Saxon's
house, but before his mother died Billy Gaston had lived in the city
where they always had back stairs. That door before him likely led to
the dining-room. He took a careful step, pushed the swing door half an
inch and satisfied himself that was the kitchen at the back. No one
there. Another step or two gave him the same assurance about the
dining-room and no one there. He surveyed the distance to the foot of
the back stairs. It seemed long. What he was afraid of was that light
space at the foot of those stairs. He was almost sure there was a hall
straight through to the front door, and he had a hunch that that front
door was open. If he passed the steps and anyone was there they would
see him, and yet he wanted to get up those stairs now, right away,
before anything more happened. It was too still up there to suit him.
With trembling fingers he untied his shoe strings, and slipped off his
shoes, knotting the strings together and slinging the shoes around his
neck. He was taking no chances. He gripped the revolver with one hand
and stole out cautiously. When he reached the end of the dining-room
wall he applied an eye toward the opening of light, and behold it was
as he had suspected, a hall leading straight through to the front door,
and Shorty, with his full length profile cut clear against the morning,
standing on the upper step keeping lookout! He dodged back and caught
his breath, then made a noiseless dart toward those stairs. If Shorty
heard, or if he turned and saw anything he must have thought it was the
reported ghost walking, so silently and like a breath passed Billy up
the stair. But when he was come to the top, he held his breath again,
for now he could distinctly hear steps walking about in the room close
at hand, and peering up he saw the door was open part way. He paused
again to reconnoitre and his heart set up an intolerable pounding in
his breast.

He could dimly make out the back of a chair, and further against a
patch of light where the back window must be he could see the foot
board of a bed, the head of which must be against the opposite wall The
door was open about a third of the way. There was a key in the lock.
Did that mean that they locked the man in? It would be a great thing to
get hold of that key!

A moan in the direction of the bed startled him, and prodded his weary
mind. He gave a quick silent spring across in front of the door and
flattened himself against the wall. He knew he had made a slight noise
in his going, and he felt the stillness in the room behind the half
open door. Link had heard him. It was a long time before he dared stir
again.

Link seemed to lay down something on the floor that sounded like a dish
and start toward the door. Billy felt the blood fly to the top of his
head. If Link came out he was caught. Where could he fly? Not down
stairs. Shorty was there, with a gun of course. Would it do to snap
that door shut and lock Link in with the prisoner? No telling what he
might do, and Shorty would come if there was an outcry. He waited in an
agony of suspense, but Link did not come out yet. Instead he tiptoed
back to the bed again, and seemed to be arranging some things out of a
basket on a little stand by the bed. Billy applied an eye to the crack
of the door and got a brief glimpse. Then cautiously he put out his
stubby fingers and grasped that key, firmly, gently; turning, slipping,
little by little, till he had it safe in his possession. Several times
he thought Link turned and looked toward the door. Once he almost
dropped the key as he was about to set it free from the lock, but his
anxious fingers were true to their trust, and the key was at last drawn
back and safely slid into Billy's pocket. Then he looked around for a
place to hide. There were rooms on the front, and a door was open. He
could slide in there and hide. It was dark, and there might be a
closet. He cast one eye through the door crack and beheld in the dim
light Link bending over the inert figure on the bed with a cup and
spoon in his hand. Perhaps they were giving him more dope! If he only
could stop it somehow! The man was doped enough, sleeping all that
time! But now was the time for him and the key to make an exit.

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