Part 34 (1/2)

”Did you shoot him?” he asked, grimly.

s.h.i.+vering, choking, speechless, Lilas stared at him. Her hair was disarranged; it hung in wisps and strings over her neck and brow; her eyes were dull and distended, like those of a person just recovering from the effects of an anesthetic. It was doubtful if she even recognized him. A repet.i.tion of his question brought no reply.

Seizing her roughly, he shook her, muttering savagely:

”If I were sure, by G.o.d, I'd strangle you!”

She remained limp; her expressionless stare did not change.

Merkle heard a stir behind him and found Jimmy Knight's blanched face peering in at him. Even fright could not entirely rob the younger man's features of their sly inquisitiveness.

”Mr. Hammon's calling you,” said Jim, then blinked at the wretchedly disheveled woman.

”Here!” Merkle beckoned him with a jerk of his head. ”This girl must get away from here. She'll ruin everything in her condition.

Try to put her in some kind of shape while Lorelei packs her bag.

We had better get her out of the country if we can.”

Jim's quick eyes took in the articles on the dressing-table. ”Ha!

Dope,” he exclaimed. ”She's a c.o.ker--she's filled herself up. But, say--you don't really think she--did it, do you?”

”I don't know what to think. It's just as bad, either way.

Hammon's wife and daughters must never know. Now, quick. See what you can do with her.”

Merkle returned to the library, sent Lorelei in to her brother's a.s.sistance, then scanned his friend's face anxiously. But Hammon had not moved; the sweat still stood upon his lips and forehead, his jaws were still set like stone.

”No scandal, John,” he exclaimed. ”No scandal--whatever happens-- on account of my girls.”

”You're worse hit than you'll admit,” Merkle said, gently.

”No, no. I'm all right. I'm not even suffering.” His pallor belied his words, but he went on with even better self-control than Merkle's: ”There's paper and ink yonder. Take these notes, will you? Things are in bad shape on the Street, and--you never can tell what may happen, so we'd better play safe.”

Merkle seated himself and took the wounded man's dictation as best he could; but his hand shook badly.

From down the hall came hysterical meanings as Lilas Lynn struggled in a drugged and drunken breakdown.

The moments dragged interminably.

Several months before, Bob Wharton during one of his hilarious moments had conceived the brilliant notion of hiring a four- wheeler and driving a convivial party of friends from place to place. The success of his exploit had been so gratifying that he had repeated the performance, but he was in a far different mood now as he left the Elegancia. The shock of Lorelei's announcement, the sight of his stricken friend, had sobered him considerably, yet he was not himself by any means. At one moment he saw and reasoned clearly, at the next his intoxication benumbed his senses and distorted his mental vision. These periods alternated with some regularity, as if the wine-fumes rose in waves; but he centered his attention upon the task ahead of him and hastened his sluggish limbs.

One word--”murder”--stuck in his memory; it kept repeating itself.

He remembered Jimmy Knight's sentence directed at Lorelei. ”D'you want to go to court?”

Lorelei was his wife, Bob reflected, dizzily--quite clearly he remembered marrying her. It was plainly as necessary, therefore, to s.h.i.+eld her as to remove Jarvis Hammon and smother this accident. Or was it an accident, after all? Perhaps Lilas had shot the fellow. If that were true, then she ought to be arrested-- certainly. But somebody had said, ”She'll saddle it onto Lorelei to save herself.” After all, it couldn't be murder, for hadn't Hammon said that he shot himself? Bob decided there could be no such need for haste, now that the truth was known, so he slackened his zigzag progress. If n.o.body had been murdered, why hire a cab at all? Then he began to run again, remembering that Hammon needed a doctor. This was a fine wedding night, indeed. For once in his life he wished himself sober.

Broadway, that pulsating artery of New York life, was still flowing a thin stream of traffic despite the lateness of the hour, and Bob's mind had become clearer by the time he reached it.

He signaled to the first horse-drawn vehicle that pa.s.sed, but it was occupied, and the driver paid no heed to his call. Several taxi-cabs whirled past, both north and south bound, but he knew better than to hire them, so he waited as patiently as he could while those billows of intoxication continued to ebb and flow through his brain, robbing him of that careful judgment which he fought to retain.