Part 72 (1/2)

Firing as they ran, detectives leaped out of the car and gave chase, and so it was that the young gentleman in bedroom slippers and pajamas, standing in his car and s.h.i.+elding his eyes against the glare, saw a curious thing.

First of all, the roof blazed up brightly, and he perceived a human figure, hanging by its hands from the eaves and preparing to drop. The young gentleman in pajamas was feeling rather out of things by that time, so he made a hasty exit from his car toward the barn, losing a slipper as he did so, and yelling in a slightly hysterical manner. It thus happened that he and the dropping figure reached the same spot at almost the same moment, one result of which was that the young gentleman in pajamas found himself struck a violent blow with a doubled-up fist, and at the same moment his bare right foot was tramped on with extreme thoroughness.

The young gentleman in pajamas reeled back dizzily and gave tongue, while standing on one foot. The person he addressed was the state constable, and his instructions were to get the fugitive and kill him.

But the fugitive here did a very strange thing. Through the handkerchief which it was now seen he wore tied over his mouth, he told the running policeman to go to perdition, and then with seeming suicidal intent rushed into the burning barn. From it he emerged a moment later, dragging a figure bound hand and foot, blackened with smoke, and with its clothing smoldering in a dozen places; a figure which alternately coughed and swore in a strangled whisper, but which found breath for a loud whoop almost immediately after, on its being immersed, as it promptly was, in a nearby horse-trough.

Very soon after that the other cars arrived. They drew up and men emerged from them, variously clothed and even more variously armed, but all they saw was the ruined embers of the barn, and in the glow five figures. Of the five one lay, face up to the sky, as though the prostrate body followed with its eyes the unkillable traitor soul of one Cusick, lately storekeeper at Friends.h.i.+p. Woslosky, wounded for the second time, lay on an automobile rug on the ground, conscious but sullenly silent. On the driving seat of an automobile sat a young gentleman with an overcoat over a pair of silk pajamas, carefully inspecting the toes of his right foot by the light of a match, while another young gentleman with a white handkerchief around his head was sitting on the running board of the same car, dripping water and rather dazedly staring at the ruins.

And beside him stood a gaunt figure, blackened of face, minus eyebrows and charred of hair, and considerably torn as to clothing. A figure which seemed disinclined to talk, and which gave its explanations in short, staccato sentences. Having done which, it relapsed into uncompromising silence again.

Some time later the detectives returned. They had made no further captures, for the refugees had known the country, and once outside the light from the burning barn search was useless. The Chief of Police approached w.i.l.l.y Cameron and stood before him, eyeing him severely.

”The next time you try to raid an anarchist meeting, Cameron,” he said, ”you'd better honor me with your confidence. You've probably learned a lesson from all this.”

w.i.l.l.y Cameron glanced at him, and for the first time that night, smiled.

”I have,” he said; ”I'll never trust a pigeon again.” The Chief thought him slightly unhinged by the night's experience.

CHAPTER XL

Edith Boyd's child was prematurely born at the Memorial Hospital early the next morning. It lived only a few moments, but Edith's mother never knew either of its birth or of its death.

When w.i.l.l.y Cameron reached the house at two o'clock that night he found Dan in the lower hall, a new Dan, grave and composed but very pale.

”Mother's gone, w.i.l.l.y,” he said quietly. ”I don't think she knew anything about it. Ellen heard her breathing hard and went in, but she wasn't conscious.” He sat down on the horse-hair covered chair by the stand. ”I don't know anything about these things,” he observed, still with that strange new composure. ”What do you do now?”

”Don't worry about that, Dan, just now. There's nothing to do until morning.”

He looked about him. The presence of death gave a new dignity to the little house. Through the open door he could see in the parlor Mrs.

Boyd's rocking chair, in which she had traveled so many conversational miles. Even the chair had gained dignity; that which it had once enthroned had now penetrated the ultimate mystery.

He was shaken and very weary. His mind worked slowly and torpidly, so that even grief came with an effort. He was grieved; he knew that. Some one who had loved him and depended on him was gone; some one who loved life had lost it. He ran his hand over his singed hair.

”Where is Edith?”

Dan's voice hardened.

”She's out somewhere. It's like her, isn't it?”

w.i.l.l.y Cameron roused himself.

”Out?” he said incredulously. ”Don't you know where she is?”

”No. And I don't care.”

w.i.l.l.y Cameron was fully alert now, and staring down at Dan.