Her Forbidden Knight

Chapter IX Betrayed

The erring knights had for two months been divided into hostile camps, in support of two widely differing doctrines.

One division, consisting of Dumain, Driscoll, and Jennings, advanced the argument that it was no part of their duty to protect Lila against herself, and that if she chose to disregard their solemn warnings against Knowlton it was up to her.

The other division, to which Dougherty, Booth, and Sherman belonged, declared that they owed it to Miss Williams and to themselves to throw Knowlton from the top of the Flatiron Building, or cut him up into very small pieces, or tie him to a rock at the bottom of New York Bay.

They were all pretty good talkers, and they had many wordy discussions, renewed every time they saw Knowlton enter the lobby and take Lila out with him. They concocted many schemes, and at one time even went so far as to consider an offer from Sherman to procure the services of an East Side gang.

But they never did anything. They talked too much.

This was not without its utility. It furnished any amount of amusement to the Venus at the cigar stand.

If Dougherty approached to buy a cigar, or light one, she would whisper mysteriously, “Is he dead?” and pretend unbounded amazement when informed that Knowlton had been allowed to live a day longer. And all that was needed to start Dumain off on a frenzied oration was for her to observe scornfully: “Gee, I thought a Frenchman had some nerve!”

But most successful of all was her conundrum: “Why are the Erring Knights like the Republican party?” The answer, wrung from her after several days of entreaties and threats, was: “Because their protective system is on the fritz.”

But to the Erring Knights themselves the thing was no joke. They talked and schemed and discussed and argued. Dumain and Driscoll were strong for moderation, and succeeded in holding the others in check, sometimes even going so far as to threaten to support Knowlton when the others became unusually reckless in their suggestions. But the attacks of Booth and Dougherty, and especially Sherman, were persistent, and they began to weaken.

On the morning following the events narrated in the preceding chapter Dougherty entered the lobby earlier than usual and found Dumain and Jennings talking to Miss Hughes. Walking over to the cigar stand, he grunted, nodded to the Venus, and pointed with his finger to his particular brand.

“A little off-color?” said Miss Hughes, setting the box in front of him on the counter.

“Best you’ve got?” Dougherty grunted, selecting a cigar.

“Oh, I meant you!” she grinned. “The cigars are all right. You look like you’d been playing the title role at a leather wedding.”

“Huh!” Dougherty grunted.

“Let heem alone,” Dumain smiled. “He has zee temperament. He ees veree dangerous.”

This awakened Dougherty.

“Shut up!” he exploded. “When I’m like I am now I’m bad.”

Whereupon Dumain giggled and Jennings roared. Dougherty started for them, and they retreated to the leather lounge in the corner.

Soon Driscoll arrived, and, finding Dougherty gazing moodily out of the window, took him over to join the others, stopping on the way to say good morning to Lila.

“Pipe the gown!” said Dougherty, with a backward motion of the head as they halted in front of Dumain and Jennings.

“Where?”

“Miss Williams. She’s lit up like a cathedral. You know what that means.”

The others protested ignorance, and he went on to explain:

“She’s expecting Knowlton. Don’t tell me. I can see it. And if that guy comes around here today I’ll act up. Believe me, he’s through.”

That started them. The word “Knowlton” was enough. When Booth entered ten minutes later he found Dougherty holding his own valiantly against Dumain, Driscoll, and Jennings.

Booth brought fuel for the flame. His first words were: “I saw Knowlton last night.” Then, seeing that he had their attention, he added: “With Miss Williams.”

They stared at him and demanded particulars.

“It was by accident,” he went on. “A friend of mine said he had tickets to a show, and asked me to go. I went. Great jumping frogs! He said it was a show. Well, it was in a hall — the hall was all right — on Forty-second Street.

“Four little dagoes came out with violins. For two solid hours they sat there, looking kinda sick. What did they play? Search me. It sounded like a—”

“But what about Knowlton?”

“Oh, yes! Well, when I went in who did I see two rows ahead? Mr. John Knowlton and Miss Lila Williams, side by side. When the dagoes pulled off anything particularly awful they’d turn and look at each other as much as to say: ‘I heard that tune the last time I was in Heaven.’ And he called it a show!”

“That proves I was right,” said Dougherty, rising to his feet and glaring down at Dumain. “He’s been going up to her house maybe every night, and we’ve been sitting here like boobs. Just because he came to the hotel only once a month you thought that was all he saw her. And here he’s been — Do what you please. I’m going to get him.”

Dumain and Driscoll were genuinely shocked. They had really thought that Knowlton had not seen Lila except the few times he had called at the hotel; Booth’s tale was a revelation. Besides, they had already begun to weaken in their support of Knowlton. And perhaps now they were too late.

“Where’s Sherman?” Dougherty was saying. “I can count on him.”

“And us,” chorused the others.

“Wait a minute,” said Dumain. “I tell you. We owe something to her. Well, I go and ask her — never mind what I ask her. Anyway, you wait. Eet weel take me only a minute. Go to zee billiard room.”

“That’s nonsense,” Dougherty protested.

But the others persuaded him that Dumain was right and led him off to the billiard room, while the little Frenchman took his courage between his teeth and crossed to Lila’s desk.

Lila was indeed, as Dougherty had expressed it, “lit up.” She wore a dress of very soft and very dark brown, relieved at the cuffs and throat and down the front of the waist by bits of cream lace.

Her eyes glowed, too, and her lips were parted as though in happy expectancy. It will be remembered that at twelve o’clock she was to lunch with Knowlton.

As Dumain approached her desk she looked up and smiled brightly.

“You are veree chic,” said Dumain, surveying her with admiration.

“What is French for ‘blarney’?” Lila demanded.

“No,” said Dumain; “really, you are.” Then: “Were you at home last night?” he blurted out.

Lila showed her surprise at the question, answering:

“Why — no. I attended a concert.”

Then Dumain plunged in.

“I know,” he said. “Wiz zat Knowlton.”

Lila was silent. It had been many days since they had spoken to her of Knowlton.

“Were you not?” Dumain demanded.

She said: “Yes.”

The little Frenchman continued:

“You must excuse me eef I speak frankly. Long ago we said he was not good, yet you continue to see heem. Dear lady, do you not theenk we know? Eet ees for you we care.”

“But why?” Lila demanded. “You know, Mr. Dumain, if anyone else spoke to me like this I should be angry. But I know you mean to be kind, and I cannot offend you. But I must if you speak this way about Mr. Knowlton. He, too, is my friend.”

“Only zat?” Dumain demanded.

“Only — what do you mean?”

“Only a friend?”

“What — what else should he be?”

“Mon Dieu!” Dumain exploded, angry at what he thought her assumption of ignorance. “What else? What do you theenk a man like Knowlton wants with a prettee girl like you? Friendship! Ha! Zee kind of friendship zat—”

But the sight of Lila’s pale cheeks and flashing eyes stopped him. She did not speak, nor was it necessary. Dumain withstood the fire of her glance for a short second, then fled precipitately.

He found the others waiting for him in the billiard room, which at this early hour — eleven o’clock — was empty. They gathered around him, demanding an account of his success.

“Zee only theeng to do,” said Dumain, “ees to finish Knowlton. She ees veree angry. For two months I have thought it best to wait, and now — she loves heem. Eet ees een her eyes. He ees one big scoundrel!”

“That’s the first sensible thing I’ve heard you say for a long time,” observed Dougherty.

“I guess I’m with you,” said Driscoll.

“I’m on,” came from Jennings.

“What did she say?” asked Booth.

“Nozzing,” said Dumain. “She just looked. Eet made a hole through me. Eet ees no good to talk to her.”

At that moment Sherman entered the billiard room.

“No need to convert you,” shouted Jennings, hailing him.

“What’s that?” asked Sherman, stopping beside the group.

“Why, about Knowlton. We’ve decided to fix him. He was with Miss Williams last night.”

“Do you call that news?” asked Sherman scornfully.

“Why, how did you know?”

“I saw them. Do you think because you’re blind everyone else is? Also, he was with her Wednesday night and Monday.”

“Where?” Dougherty demanded.

“Never mind where. Anyway, they were together. I suppose you’re ready to listen to me now,” Sherman sneered. “After I’ve done all the work and set the trap for him, you’re quite willing to spring it.”

“Don’t get heady,” Dougherty advised. “What is this trap stuff? And what do you mean by ‘work’? If you were so Johnnie Wise, why didn’t you put us next?”

“And have Dumain or Driscoll running off to slip the information to Mr. Knowlton?” sneered Sherman. “Hardly. I’m not that kind. At last I’ve got Knowlton where I want him. I’ll make him look like a monkey — all I’ve got to do is pull the string. You guys that love him so much had better hurry around and tell him good-by.” As he said this last, Sherman, glancing keenly around, could observe no sign of sympathy or pity for Knowlton on the faces that were eagerly surrounding him.

“But what are you talking about?” they demanded.

“Do you think I’ll tell you?” asked Sherman scornfully.

They protested that they were fully as hostile toward Knowlton as he could possibly be, and suggested that he might find their assistance useful. Sherman admitted that they were possibly correct.

“Well, then, what is it?” they demanded. “Where’s the trap?”

Still Sherman hesitated. He knew perfectly well that he could easily perfect his plans and carry them out without assistance; but he had a reason, and a strong one, for letting the Erring Knights in on it. The question was, would anyone of them warn Knowlton? He glanced again keenly around the circle of faces, and said for a feeler:

“I know enough to put him behind the bars.”

“What’s the dope?” asked Dougherty, frowning.

“Counterfeiting,” replied Sherman, evidently satisfied with his scrutiny.

“Round ones?”

“No. Paper.”

He was immediately besieged with questions:

“Was it tens? He always had ’em.”

“How do you know?”

“Is he in with the aristocrats?”

“Does he make it or sow it?”

“He gets it from a Western gang, through a guy called Red Tim,” said Sherman. “They’ve been closing in on ’em for two months, and Red Tim beat it last night. He can’t be found this morning, though he was seen on Broadway at midnight. That makes it harder for us.”

“How?” inquired Dougherty.

“It makes it harder to get anything on him,” Sherman explained. “Red Tim was probably the only one that ever saw Knowlton. He would have peached in a minute; but now he’s gone, and the only way to get anything on Knowlton is to catch him with the goods on. And you’d be taking a chance. If you grabbed him he might happen to be clean.”

“But that has nothing to do with us,” Dougherty objected. “We don’t want to grab him.”

“No, I suppose you want him to make his getaway,” Sherman sneered.

Dougherty stared at him.

“What else would we want?” he demanded. “Do you think we want to peach? No, thank you. We may be none too good, but we won’t hang a guy up, no matter who he is. Anyway, we want him to beat it. Ain’t that what we’ve been after all along — to get him away from here? All we’ve got to do is to see that he does make his getaway.”

Sherman’s face was a study. Filled with chagrin at having miscalculated and with rage at the possible frustration of his designs, he controlled himself with difficulty.

“And you think that will work?” he demanded, while his voice trembled. “How would you go about it?”

“Easee,” put in Dumain. “We tell heem either he goes or we what you call eet report. We tell heem what we know. We prove eet to heem. Zen he goes. No more Knowlton.”

“Sure,” Sherman sneered. “How easy! No more Knowlton, eh? Do you know what he’d do? He’d go home, burn up all his nice little paper, come back, and tell us to go to the deuce.”

“Veree well,” Dumain agreed. “Zen we make heem go. We would no longer what you call fool wiz heem. Because now we know he ees no fit for her.”

“You tried that once before. Did he go? If it hadn’t been for me bringing him down with a piece of bronze he’d have gone out laughing at us,” Sherman retorted. “I tell you, the only thing to do is to lock him up.”

But at this there was a general clamor. On this point the Erring Knights, with the exception of Sherman, seemed to be all of one mind. They would not “peach.”

What they contemplated doing was perhaps a species of blackmail — but we are getting into deep water. With them it was no subtle question of ethics; it was simply an instinctive belief that one was excusable and the other was not.

Sherman found himself the sole member of a helpless minority. He argued and pleaded and threatened, but they were immovable. Too late he realized his mistake in having taken the others into his confidence, and, while prolonging the discussion as far as possible, his brain was busily working to discover a way to retrieve his error.

If he persisted he saw plainly that the others would turn against him and warn Knowlton. Craftily he sought to recover the lost ground.

He began slowly to yield to the others’ arguments, and he perceived that they were swallowing the bait.

“I owe him no more than you do,” he said in answer to a question from Dumain.

“Then why are you so anxious to see him jugged?” Dougherty demanded.

“I’m not,” replied Sherman with a show of exasperation. “All I want is to get him away from here. My way is sure and yours isn’t.”

“But it is,” put in Driscoll. “Dumain and I have been responsible for letting it go as far as it has, but do you think we’ll do it again? Anyway, what does it matter what you want? We’ll do as we please.”

“That’s right,” said Sherman bitterly. “I do all the work and furnish the information, and this is what I get. Sure, what does it matter what I want?”

“Well, you’re right about that,” Dougherty admitted. “But we can’t see this other thing — we simply can’t do it. And our way is just as good if we stick.”

“But you won’t stick.”

“What about it, boys?” Dougherty queried.

There came a chorus of oaths and protestations to the effect that John Knowlton would now, then, and forever find the lobby of the Lamartine extremely uninhabitable.

Sherman appeared to weaken.

“Go slow, go slow, or they’ll suspect,” he was saying to himself.

The others pressed harder and assaulted him from all sides at once. Finally, “Well, have it your own way,” he said with a shrug of the shoulders.

The others applauded.

“But there’s one thing I want to say,” Sherman continued, “and that is, don’t say anything to Knowlton till tomorrow.”

“And why?” said Dougherty.

“Because I’ve got a private detective on his trail, and I want to call him off. And there’s another reason, which you don’t need to know. What are you going to do — wait till he shows up here?”

“What do you think?”

“I’d wait for him here till tomorrow night, and then, if he hasn’t come, go to his rooms. But remember, not a word till tomorrow.”

“All right,” Dougherty agreed. “And now, who’ll be spokesman?”

Sherman rose to his feet, glancing at his watch.

“Count me out,” he said, turning to go. “That’s your job. Dougherty. See you later.”

He sauntered carelessly into the lobby, spoke to Lila and the Venus at the cigar stand, then wandered out into the street.

For a block he strolled along slowly, glancing in at the shop windows, and now and then to the rear. But as soon as he had rounded a corner, out of sight of the hotel, he broke into long, rapid strides.

He had made one mistake, he told himself; he would not make another.

His first thought, after the visit of his detective the night before, was to immediately betray Knowlton to the police. But it was certain that whoever betrayed Knowlton would earn the undying hatred of Lila Williams, and Sherman had therefore sought to bestow that office on one of the Erring Knights.

And they — fools, he said scornfully — had decided to speak to Knowlton instead.

But there was still a chance. He had gotten Dougherty to agree to wait until the following day, and before that time he hoped to have the game in his own hands, if only Dougherty would stick to his agreement, and there was no reason to think otherwise.

He hastened his step. At the subway station on Twenty-third Street he boarded a downtown train.

Fifteen minutes later he was seated in the outer office of a dingy suite whose windows looked out on that curious labyrinth south of the Brooklyn Bridge, and beyond, the East River.

An attendant approached.

“He will see you now, sir.”

Sherman rose and followed him to an inner room.

The room was uncarpeted and bare save for two wooden chairs, a massive steel safe, and a roll-top desk. On one of the chairs, placed in front of the desk, was seated a heavy, red-faced man with carroty hair. He dismissed the attendant with a curt nod before he spoke to Sherman.

“What’s up now, Billy?”

Sherman, knowing that he had to deal with a busy man, told him in as few words as possible what the reader already knows concerning Knowlton. The other listened to the end with an impassive face.

“You say he was seen with Red Tim last night?” he asked, when Sherman had finished.

“Yes. At Manx’s café on Twenty-eighth Street and Broadway.”

“And Red Tim had a bundle! Who was the idiot that saw him? Why didn’t he arrest him?”

“Private. He was working for me. He didn’t want to put Knowlton next.”

“Ah! This is personal, then?”

“What if it is?” Sherman returned. “Does that make any difference?”

“No-o,” said the other slowly. “But I don’t see how we can get him. What evidence have we got? Red Tim can’t be found. You say Knowlton refused a bundle last night. Of course, if he had taken that, and had it on him—”

“That isn’t necessary,” Sherman interrupted. “Why didn’t he take that last night? Because he already had all he could handle. He’s stuffed with it. Look here.” He drew forth a wallet and took from it a stack of bills. “This was his. I got it — never mind how.”

“All tens, eh?” said the other, taking the bills. “And beauties!” He examined them curiously. “But how can we prove they were found on him?”

“I can swear to it,” said Sherman. “And that isn’t all. He’s sure to have more on him now. And he’s sure to have a bunch stowed away in his rooms. If you get him there, unexpected, you’ll have all the evidence you need and more, too.”

The man at the desk appeared to be lost in thought.

“What is the address of his rooms?” he asked finally.

Sherman gave him the number of the house on West Thirtieth Street.

“What floor?”

“Second.”

“Do you know anything of his habits? When will he be there?”

“Between seven o’clock and a quarter to eight in the evening.”

“Anyone living with him?”

“No.”

“Flat in his name?”

“Yes. John Knowlton.”

The man at the desk had taken a fountain pen from his pocket and was writing on a pad of paper. He tore off the sheet he had written on, placed it in a drawer of the desk, returned the pen to his pocket, and gazed thoughtfully out of the window for some time.

Then he turned to Sherman, saying:

“We’ll get Mr. Knowlton tonight.”