Part 9 (1/2)
”This killing followed a row over a game of cards. I heard the row; I saw the shooting; and it's up to me to lay my cards down on the table.
I'll give up what I know!”
”You'll do nothing of the sort!” said Thorne threateningly.
”I'll do nothing else!” retorted Pemmican hotly.
”If Murgatroyd comes here,” suggested Broderick, ”or sends for you, you keep mum--do you understand? That's your game! We'll take care of you the same as we are going to take care of the captain. He's true blue; and you've got to be true blue.” And pointing toward Thorne, he added:--
”There's Thorne--he's your counsel, too. You do as he says, and he'll take care of you.”
”I can take care of myself,” returned Pemmican, doggedly, ”and I'm going to do it. I'm going to tell the truth about this thing to Murgatroyd!”
There was another knock upon the door--a short, sharp, curt, commanding knock. Pemmican sprang to the door, unlocked it and threw it open.
Three men entered: One was Mixley; another McGrath--both detectives in the employ of the prosecutor's office in the court-house; and the third man was William Murgatroyd, the newly elected prosecutor of the pleas.
V
The yellow light of the early June afternoon grew softer as it sank into, and was absorbed by, the deepening dusk; but to Miriam Challoner, propped up with red silk cus.h.i.+ons in a strange att.i.tude of expectancy, these things had ceased to matter; for out of her life a living presence had gone, leaving a void more harsh than death. For weeks now she had patiently waited, her ear strained at every sound, trying to a.s.sociate it somehow with her husband's return; the servants seemed to tread on tiptoe, as they went about their duties; the house was curiously hushed as though listening, always listening.
The room that she was in was beautifully proportioned and panelled in dull red; there were numerous divans well furnished with cus.h.i.+ons and upholstered in the same hue as the walls; and as her eyes wandered over its rare pictures, bronzes and costly knick-knacks, she was reminded of the early days of her married life, when it had been her purpose to make this--Lawrence's room--as attractive and pleasing to him as money could make it. Fate, indeed, had played havoc with their lives; nothing was left but the memory of the happiness that once had been hers.
”Oh, why doesn't he come!” she cried, an agony of despair in her voice, and began to pace the room in nervous agitation.
At that moment a man noiselessly entered the room. She did not hear him until, suddenly looking round, she saw Stevens, the butler, advancing respectfully toward her. For an instant it startled her; disappointment and embarra.s.sment struggled within her; finally she asked somewhat fretfully:--
”What are you doing here, Stevens--I did not ring--I----”
Stevens held the silver salver before her, on which were several letters. Taking them apathetically from him, she sank back limp among the cus.h.i.+ons, her nerves on edge as she proceeded to scan each in turn.
There were nine in all--the last of which she quickly tore open as the sole missive fraught with possibility. But she was doomed to disappointment; and handing them back to him, she told him to put them on the desk.
The man complied, and then stood quietly at attention.
”And, Stevens,” she added falteringly, ”send Foster to me at once.”
Stevens turned on the instant and found Foster in a pa.s.sage-way, shuddering.
”What's the matter with you?” he whispered, at the same time placing his arm about her.
”What are you doing?” exclaimed Foster with indignation, but made no attempt to release herself from his embrace. ”Don't you hear the newsboys? What are they saying?” she went on, nestling closer to him.
”Listen!”
They did not have long to wait, for just then the hoa.r.s.e, raucous voices of the newsboys calling early specials reached their ears; but such words as were at first distinguishable seemed of no importance to them.
Then like a bolt from the blue rang out the words:
CHALLONER CAUGHT IN CHICAGO!