And there was another, a great traction king, who kept mistresses in
Chicago and Paris and London, as well as in New York; he had one
just around the corner from his palatial home, and had an
underground passage leading to it. And the Major told with glee how
he had shown this to a friend, and the latter had remarked, "I'm too
stout to get through there."--"I know it," replied the other, "else
I shouldn't have told you!"

And so it went. One of the richest men in New York was a sexual
degenerate, with half a dozen women on his hands all the time; he
would send them cheques, and they would use these to blackmail him.
This man's young wife had been shut up in a closet for twenty-four
hours by her mother to compel her to marry him.--And then there was
the charming tale of how he had gone away upon a mission of state,
and had written long messages full of tender protestations, and
given them to a newspaper correspondent to cable home "to his wife."
The correspondent had thought it such a touching example of conjugal
devotion that he told about it at a dinner-party when he came back;
and he was struck by the sudden silence that fell. "The messages had
been sent to a code address!" chuckled the Major. "And every one at
the table knew who had got them!"

A few days after this, Montague received a telephone message from
Siegfried Harvey, who said that he wanted to see him about a matter
of business. He asked him to lunch at the Noonday Club; and Montague
went--though not without a qualm. For it was in the Fidelity
Building, the enemy's bailiwick: a magnificent structure with halls
of white marble, and a lavish display of bronze. It occurred to
Montague that somewhere in this structure people were at work
preparing an answer to his charges; he wondered what they were
saying.

The two had lunch, talking meanwhile about the coming events in
Society, and about politics and wars; and when the coffee was served
and they were alone in the room, Harvey settled his big frame back
in his chair, and began:--

"In the first place," he said, "I must explain that I've something
to say that is devilish hard to get into. I'm so much afraid of your
jumping to a wrong conclusion in the middle of it--I'd like you to
agree to listen for a minute or two before you think at all."

"All right," said Montague, with a smile. "Fire away."

And at once the other became grave. "You've taken a case against
this company," he said. "And Ollie has talked enough to me to make
me understand that you've done a plucky thing, and that you must be
everlastingly sick of hearing from cowardly people who want you to
drop it. I'd be very sorry to be classed with them, for even a
moment; and you must understand at the outset that I haven't a
particle of interest in the company, and that it wouldn't matter to
me if I had. I don't try to use my friends in business, and I don't
let money count with me in my social life. I made up my mind to take
the risk of speaking to you about this case, simply because I happen
to know one or two things about it that I thought you didn't know.
And if that's so, you are at a great disadvantage; but in any case,
please understand that I have no motive but friendship, and so if I
am butting in, excuse me."

When Siegfried Harvey talked, he looked straight at one with his
clear blue eyes, and there was no doubting his honesty. "I am very
much obliged to you," said Montague. "Pray tell me what you have to
say."

"All right," said the other. "It can be done very quickly. You have
taken a case which involves a great many sacrifices upon your part.
And I wondered if it had ever occurred to you to ask whether you
might not be taken advantage of?"

"How do you mean?" asked Montague.

"Do you know the people who are behind you?" inquired the other. "Do
you know them well enough to be sure what are their motives in the
case?"

Montague hesitated, and thought. "No," he said, "I couldn't say that
I do."

"Then it's just as I thought," replied Harvey. "I've been watching
you--you are an honest man, and you're putting yourself to no end of
trouble from the best of motives. And unless I'm mistaken, you're
being used by men who are not honest, and whom you wouldn't work
with if you knew their purposes."

"What purposes could they have?"

"There are several possibilities. In the first place, it might be a
'strike' suit--somebody who is hoping to be bought off for a big
price. That is what nearly every one thinks is the case. But I
don't; I think it's more likely some one within the company who is
trying to put the administration in a hole."

"Who could that be?" exclaimed Montague, amazed.

"I don't know that. I'm not familiar enough with the situation in
the Fidelity--it's changing all the time. I simply know that there
are factions struggling for the control of it, and hating each other
furiously, and ready to do anything in the world to cripple each
other. You know that their forty millions of surplus gives an
enormous power; I'd rather be able to swing forty millions in the
Street than to have ten millions in my own right. And so the giants
are fighting for the control of those companies; and you can't tell
who's in and who's out--you can never know the real meaning of
anything that happens in the struggle. All that you can be sure of
is that the game is crooked from end to end, and that nothing that
happens in it is what it pretends to be."

Montague listened, half dazed, and feeling as if the ground he stood
on were caving beneath his feet.

"What do you know about those who brought you this case?" asked his
companion, suddenly.

"Not much," he said weakly.

Harvey hesitated a moment. "Understand me, please," he said. "I've
no wish to pry into your affairs, and if you don't care to say any
more, I'll understand it perfectly. But I've heard it said that the
man who started the thing was Ellis."

Montague, in his turn, hesitated; then he said, "That is
correct--between you and me."

"Very good," said Harvey, "and that is what made me suspicious. Do
you know anything about Ellis?"

"I didn't," said the other. "I've heard a little since."

"I can fancy so," said Harvey. "And I can tell you that Ellis is
mixed up in life-insurance matters in all sorts of dubious ways. It
seems to me that you have reason to be most careful where you follow
him."

Montague sat with his hands clenched and his brows knitted. His
friend's talk had been like a flash of lightning; it revealed huge
menacing forms in the darkness about him. All the structure of his
hopes seemed to be tottering; his case, that he had worked so hard
over--his fifty thousand dollars that he had been so proud of! Could
it be that he had been tricked, and had made a fool of himself?

"How in the world am I to know?" he cried.

"That is more than I can tell," said his friend. "And for that
matter, I'm not sure that you could do anything now. All that I
could do was to warn you what sort of ground you were treading on,
so that you could watch out for yourself in future."

Montague thanked him heartily for that service; and then he went
back to his office, and spent the rest of the day pondering the
matter.

What he had heard had made a vast change in things. Before it
everything had seemed simple; and now nothing was clear. He was
overwhelmed with a sense of the utter futility of his efforts; he
was trying to build a house upon quicksands. There was nowhere a
solid spot upon which he could set his foot. There was nowhere any
truth--there were only contending powers who used the phrases of
truth for their own purposes! And now he saw himself as the world
saw him,--a party to a piece of trickery,--a knave like all the
rest. He felt that he had been tripped up at the first step in his
career.

The conclusion of the whole matter was that he took an afternoon
train for Albany; and the next morning he talked the matter out with
the Judge. Montague had realized the need of going slowly, for,
after all, he had no definite ground for suspicion; and so, very
tactfully and cautiously he explained, that it had come to his ears
that many people believed there were interested parties behind the
suit of Mr. Hasbrook; and that this had made him uncomfortable, as
he knew nothing whatever about his client. He had come to ask the
Judge's advice in the matter.

No one could have taken the thing more graciously than did the great
man; he was all kindness and tact. In the first place, he said, he
had warned him in advance that enemies would attack him and slander
him, and that all kinds of subtle means would be used to influence
him. And he must understand that these rumours were part of such a
campaign; it made no difference how good a friend had brought them
to him--how could he know who had brought them to that friend?

The Judge ventured to hope that nothing that anyone might say could
influence him to believe that he, the Judge, would have advised him
to do anything improper.

"No," said Montague, "but can you assure me that there are no
interested parties behind Mr. Hasbrook?"

"Interested parties?" asked the other.

"I mean people connected with the Fidelity or other insurance
companies."

"Why, no," said the Judge; "I certainly couldn't assure you of
that."

Montague looked surprised. "You mean you don't know?"

"I mean," was the answer, "that I wouldn't feel at liberty to tell,
even if I did know."

And Montague stared at him; he had not been prepared for this
frankness.

"It never occurred to me," the other continued, "that that was a
matter which could make any difference to you."

"Why--" began Montague.

"Pray understand me, Mr. Montague," said the Judge. "It seemed to me
that this was obviously a just case, and it seemed so to you. And
the only other matter that I thought you had a right to be assured
of was that it was seriously meant. Of that I felt assured. It did
not seem to me of any importance that there might be interested
individuals behind Mr. Hasbrook. Let us suppose, for instance, that
there were some parties who had been offended by the administration
of the Fidelity, and were anxious to punish it. Could a lawyer be
justified in refusing to take a just case, simply because he knew of
such private motives? Or, let us assume an extreme case--a
factional fight within the company, as you say has been suggested to
you. Well, that would be a case of thieves falling out; and is there
any reason why the public should not reap the advantage of such a
situation? The men inside the company are the ones who would know
first what is going on; and if you saw a chance to use such an
advantage in a just fight--would you not do it?"

So the Judge went on, gracious and plausible--and so subtly and
exquisitely corrupting! Underneath his smoothly flowing sentences
Montague could feel the presence of one fundamental thought; it was
unuttered and even unhinted, but it pervaded the Judge's discourse as a
mood pervades a melody. The young lawyer had got a big fee, and he had a
nice easy case; and as a man of the world, he could not really wish to
pry into it too closely. He had heard gossip, and felt that his
reputation required him to be disturbed; but he had come, simply to be
smoothed down the back and made at ease, and enabled to keep his fee
without losing his good opinion of himself.

Montague quit, because he concluded that it was not worth while to
try to make himself understood. After all, he was in the case now,
and there was nothing to be gained by a breach. Two things he felt
that he had made certain by the interview--first, that his client
was a "dummy," and that it was really a case of thieves falling out;
and second, that he had no guarantee that he might not be left in
the lurch at any moment--except the touching confidence of the
Judge in some parties unknown.






CHAPTER XIX





Montague came home with his mind made up that there was nothing he
could do except to be more careful next time. For this mistake he
would have to pay the price.

He had still to learn what the full price was. The day after his
return there came a caller--Mr. John C. Burton, read his card. He
proved to be a canvassing agent for the company which published the
scandal-sheet of Society. They were preparing a de luxe account of
the prominent families of New York; a very sumptuous affair, with a
highly exclusive set of subscribers, at the rate of fifteen hundred
dollars per set. Would Mr. Montague by any chance care to have his
family included?

And Mr. Montague explained politely that he was a comparative
stranger in New York, and would not belong properly in such a
volume. But the agent was not satisfied with this. There might be
reasons for his subscribing, even so; there might be special cases;
Mr. Montague, as a stranger, might not realize the important nature
of the offer; after he had consulted his friends, he might change
his mind--and so on. As Montague listened to this series of broad
hints, and took in the meaning of them, the colour mounted, to his
cheeks--until at last he rose abruptly and bid the man good
afternoon.

But then as he sat alone, his anger died away, and there was left
only discomfort and uneasiness. And three or four days later he
bought another issue of the paper, and sure enough, there was a new
paragraph!

He stood on the street-corner reading it. The social war was raging
hotly, it said; and added that Mrs. de Graffenried was threatening
to take up the cause of the strangers. Then it went on to picture a
certain exquisite young man of fashion who was rushing about among
his friends to apologize for his brother's indiscretions. Also, it
said, there was a brilliant social queen, wife of a great banker,
who had taken up the cudgels.--And then came three sentences more,
which made the blood leap like flame into Montague's cheeks:

"There have not been lacking comments upon her suspicious ardour. It
has been noticed that since the advent of the romantic-looking
Southerner, this restless lady's interest in the Babists and the
trance mediums has waned; and now Society is watching for the
denouement of a most interesting situation."

To Montague these words came like a blow in the face. He went on
down the street, half dazed. It seemed to him the blackest shame
that New York had yet shown him. He clenched his fists as he walked,
whispering to himself, "The scoundrels!"

He realized instantly that he was helpless. Down home one would
have thrashed the editor of such a paper; but here he was in the
wolves' own country, and he could do nothing. He went back to his
office, and sat down at the desk.

"My dear Mrs. Winnie," he wrote. "I have just read the enclosed
paragraph, and I cannot tell you how profoundly pained I am that
your kindness to us should have made you the victim of such an
outrage. I am quite helpless in the matter, except to enable you to
avoid any further annoyance. Please believe me when I say that we
shall all of us understand perfectly if you think that we had best
not meet again at present; and that this will make no difference
whatever in our feelings."

This letter Montague sent by a messenger; and then he went home.
Perhaps ten minutes after he arrived, the telephone bell rang--and
there was Mrs. Winnie.

"Your note has come," she said. "Have you an. engagement this
evening?"

"No," he answered.

"Well," she said, "will you come to dinner?"

"Mrs. Winnie--" he protested.

"Please come," she said. "Please!"

"I hate to have you--" he began.

"I wish you to come!" she said, a third time.

So he answered, "Very well."

He went; and when he entered the house, the butler led him to the
elevator, saying, "Mrs. Duval says will you please come upstairs,
sir." And there Mrs. Winnie met him, with flushed cheeks and eager
countenance.

She was even lovelier than usual, in a soft cream-coloured gown, and
a crimson rose in her bosom. "I'm all alone to-night," she said, "so
we'll dine in my apartments. We'd be lost in that big room
downstairs."

She led him into her drawing-room, where great armfuls of new roses
scattered their perfume. There was a table set for two, and two big
chairs before the fire which blazed in the hearth. Montague noticed
that her hand trembled a little, as she motioned him to one of them;
he could read her excitement in her whole aspect. She was flinging
down the gauntlet to her enemies!

"Let us eat first and talk afterward," she said, hurriedly. "We'll
be happy for a while, anyway."

And she went on to be happy, in her nervous and eager way. She
talked about the new opera which was to be given, and about Mrs. de
Graffenried's new entertainment, and about Mrs. Ridgley-Clieveden's
ball; also about the hospital for crippled children which she wanted
to build, and about Mrs. Vivie Patton's rumoured divorce. And,
meantime, the sphinx-like attendants amoved here and there, and the
dinner came and went. They took their coffee in the big chairs by
the fire; and the table was swept clear, and the servants vanished,
closing the doors behind them.

Then Montague set his cup aside, and sat gazing sombrely into the
fire. And Mrs. Winnie watched him. There was a long silence.

Suddenly he heard her voice. "Do you find it so easy to give up our
friendship?" she asked.

"I didn't think about it's being easy or hard," he answered. "I
simply thought of protecting you."

"And do you think that my friends are nothing to me?" she demanded.
"Have I so very many as that?" And she clenched her hands with a
sudden passionate gesture. "Do you think that I will let those
wretches frighten me into doing what they want? I'll not give in to
them--not for anything that Lelia can do!"

A look of perplexity crossed Montague's face. "Lelia?" he asked.

"Mrs. Robbie Walling!" she cried. "Don't you suppose that she is
responsible for that paragraph?"

Montague started.

"That's the way they fight their battles!" cried Mrs. Winnie. "They
pay money to those scoundrels to be protected. And then they send
nasty gossip about people they wish to injure."

"You don't mean that!" exclaimed the man.

"Of course I do," cried she. "I know that it's true! I know that
Robbie Walling paid fifteen thousand dollars for some trumpery
volumes that they got out! And how do you suppose the paper gets its
gossip?"

"I didn't know," said Montague. "But I never dreamed--"

"Why," exclaimed Mrs. Winnie, "their mail is full of blue and gold
monogram stationery! I've known guests to sit down and write gossip
about their hostesses in their own homes. Oh, you've no idea of
people's vileness!"

"I had some idea," said Montague, after a pause.--"That was why I
wished to protect you."

"I don't wish to be protected!" she cried, vehemently. "I'll not
give them the satisfaction. They wish to make me give you up, and
I'll not do it, for anything they can say!"

Montague sat with knitted brows, gazing into the fire. "When I read
that paragraph," he said slowly. "I could not bear to think of the
unhappiness it might cause you. I thought of how much it might
disturb your husband--"

"My husband!" echoed Mrs. Winnie.

There was a hard tone in her voice, as she went on. "He will fix it
up with them," she said,--"that's his way. There will be nothing
more published, you can feel sure of that."

Montague sat in silence. That was not the reply he had expected, and
it rather disconcerted him.

"If that were all--" he said, with hesitation. "But I could not
know. I thought that the paragraph might disturb him for another
reason--that it might be a cause of unhappiness between you and
him--"

There was a pause. "You don't understand," said Mrs. Winnie, at
last.

Without turning his head he could see her hands, as they lay upon
her knees. She was moving them nervously. "You don't understand,"
she repeated.

When she began to' speak again, it was in a low, trembling voice. "I
must tell you," she said; "I have felt sure that you did not know."

There was another pause. She hesitated, and her hands trembled; then
suddenly she'hurried on.--"I wanted you to know. I do not love my
husband. I am not bound to him. He has nothing to say in my
affairs."

Montague sat rigid, turned to stone. He was half dazed by the words.
He could feel Mrs. Winnie's gaze fixed upon him; and he could feel
the hot flush that spread over her throat and cheeks.

"It--it was not fair for you not to know," she whispered. And her
voice died away, and there was again a silence. Montague was dumb.

"Why don't you say something?" she panted, at last; and he caught
the note of anguish in her voice. Then he turned and stared at her,
and saw her tightly clenched hands, and the quivering of her lips.

He was shocked quite beyond speech. And he saw her bosom heaving
quickly, and saw the tears start into her eyes. Suddenly she sank
down, and covered her face with her hands and broke into frantic
sobbing.

"Mrs. Winnie!" he cried; and started to his feet.

Her outburst continued. He saw that she was shuddering violently.
"Then you don't love me!" she wailed.

He stood trembling and utterly bewildered. "I'm so sorry!" he
whispered. "Oh, Mrs. Winnie--I had no idea--"

"I know it! I know it!" she cried. "It's my fault! I was a fool! I
knew it all the time. But I hoped--I thought you might, if you
knew--"

And then again her tears choked her; she was convulsed with pain and
grief.

Montague stood watching her, helpless with distress. She caught hold
of the arm of the chair, convulsively, and he put his hand upon
hers.

"Mrs. Winnie--" he began.

But she jerked her hand away and hid it. "No, no!" she cried, in
terror. "Don't touch me!"

And suddenly she looked up at him, stretching out her arms. "Don't
you understand that I love you?" she exclaimed. "You despise me for
it, I know--but I can't help it. I will tell you, even so! It's the
only satisfaction I can have. I have always loved you! And I
thought--I thought it was only that you didn't understand. I was
ready to brave all the world--I didn't care who knew it, or what
anybody said. I thought we could be happy--I thought I could be free
at last. Oh, you've no idea how unhappy I am--and how lonely--and
how I longed to escape! And I believed that you--that you might--"

And then the tears gushed into Mrs. Winnie's eyes again, and her
voice became the voice of a little child.

"Don't you think that you might come to love me?" she wailed.

Her voice shook Montague, so that he trembled to the depths of him.
But his face only became the more grave.

"You despise me because I told you!" she exclaimed.

"No, no, Mrs. Winnie," he said. "I could not possibly do that--"

"Then--then why--" she whispered.--"Would it be so hard to love me?"

"It would be very easy," he said, "but I dare not let myself."

She looked at him piteously. "You are so cold--so merciless!" she
cried.

He answered nothing, and she sat trembling. "Have you ever loved a
woman?" she asked.

There was a long pause. He sat in the chair again. "Listen, Mrs.
Winnie"--he began at last.

"Don't call me that!" she exclaimed. "Call me Evelyn--please."

"Very well," he said--"Evelyn. I did not intend to make you
unhappy--if I had had any idea, I should never have seen you again.
I will tell you--what I have never told anybody before. Then you
will understand."

He sat for a few moments, in a sombre reverie.

"Once," he said, "when I was young, I loved a woman--a quadroon
girl. That was in New Orleans; it is a custom we have there. They
have a world of their own, and we take care of them, and of the
children; and every one knows about it. I was very young, only about
eighteen; and she was even younger. But I found out then what women
are, and what love means to them. I saw how they could suffer. And
then she died in childbirth--the child died, too."

Montague's voice was very low; and Mrs. Winnie sat with her hands
clasped, and her eyes riveted upon his face. "I saw her die," he
said. "And that was all. I have never forgotten it. I made up my
mind then that I had done wrong; and that never again while I lived
would I offer my love to a woman, unless I could devote all my life
to her. So you see, I am afraid of love. I do not wish to suffer so
much, or to make others suffer. And when anyone speaks to me as you
did, it brings it all back to me--it makes me shrink up and wither."

He paused, and the other caught her breath.

"Understand me," she said, her voice trembling. "I would not ask any
pledges of you. I would pay whatever price there was to pay--I am
not afraid to suffer."

"I do not wish you to suffer," he said. "I do not wish to take
advantage of any woman."

"But I have nothing in the world that I value!" she cried. "I would
go away--I would give up everything, to be with a man like you. I
have no ties--no duties--"

He interrupted her. "You have your husband--" he said.

And she cried out in sudden fury--"My husband!"

"Has no one ever told you about my husband?" she asked, after a
pause.

"No one," he said.

"Well, ask them!" she exclaimed. "Meantime, take my word for it--I
owe nothing to my husband."

Montague sat staring into the fire. "But consider my own case," he
said. "_I_ have duties--my mother and my cousin--"

"Oh, don't say any more!" cried the woman, with a break in her
voice. "Say that you don't love me--that is all there is to say!
And you will never respect me again! I have been a fool--I have
ruined everything! I have flung away your friendship, that I might
have kept!"

"No," he said.

But she rushed on, vehemently--"At least, I have been honest--give
me credit for that! That is how all my troubles come--I say what is
in my mind, and I pay the price for my blunders. It is not as if I
were cold and calculating--so don't despise me altogether."

"I couldn't despise you," said Montague. "I am simply pained,
because I have made you unhappy. And I did not mean to."

Mrs. Winnie sat staring ahead of her in a sombre reverie. "Don't
think any more about it," she said, bitterly. "I will get over it. I
am not worth troubling about. Don't you suppose I know how you feel
about this world that I live in? And I'm part of it--I beat my
wings, and try to get out, but I can't. I'm in it, and I'll stay in
till I die; I might as well give up. I thought that I could steal a
little joy--you have no idea how hungry I am for a little joy! You
have no idea how lonely I am! And how empty my life is! You talk
about your fear of making me unhappy; it's a grim jest--but I'll
give you permission, if you can! I'll ask nothing--no promises, no
sacrifices! I'll take all the risks, and pay all the penalties!"

She smiled through her tears, a sardonic smile. He was watching her,
and she turned again, and their eyes met; again he saw the blood
mount from her throat to her cheeks. At the same time came the old
stirring of the wild beasts within him. He knew that the less time
he spent in sympathizing with Mrs. Winnie, the better for both of
them.

He had started to rise, and words of farewell were on his lips; when
suddenly there came a knock upon the door.

Mrs. Winnie sprang to her feet. "Who is that?" she cried.

And the door opened, and Mr. Duval entered.

"Good evening," he said pleasantly, and came toward her.

Mrs. Winnie flushed angrily, and stared at him. "Why do you come
here unannounced?" she cried.

"I apologize," he said--"but I found this in my mail--"

And Montague, in the act of rising to greet him, saw that he had the
offensive clipping in his hand. Then he saw Duval give a start, and
realized that the man had not been aware of his presence in the
room.

Duval gazed from Montague to his wife, and noticed for the first
time her tears, and her agitation. "I beg pardon," he said. "I am
evidently trespassing."

"You most certainly are," responded Mrs. Winnie.

He made a move to withdraw; but before he could take a step, she had
brushed past him and left the room, slamming the door behind her.

And Duval stared after her, and then he stared at Montague, and
laughed. "Well! well! well!" he said.

Then, checking his amusement, he added, "Good evening, sir."

"Good evening," said Montague.

He was trembling slightly, and Duval noticed it; he smiled genially.
"This is the sort of material out of which scenes are made," said
he. "But I beg you not to be embarrassed--we won't have any scenes."

Montague could think of nothing to say to that.

"I owe Evelyn an apology," the other continued. "It was entirely an
accident--this clipping, you see. I do not intrude, as a rule. You
may make yourself at home in future."

Montague flushed scarlet at the words.

"Mr. Duval," he said, "I have to assure you that you are mistaken--"

The other stared at him. "Oh, come, come!" he said, laughing. "Let
us talk as men of the world."

"I say that you are mistaken," said Montague again.

The other shrugged his shoulders. "Very well," he said genially. "As
you please. I simply wish to make matters clear to you, that's all.
I wish you joy with Evelyn. I say nothing about her--you love her.
Suffice it that I've had her, and I'm tired of her; the field is
yours. But keep her out of mischief, and don't let her make a fool
of herself in public, if you can help it. And don't let her spend
too much money--she costs me a million a year already.--Good
evening, Mr. Montague."

And he went out. Montague, who stood like a statue, could hear him
chuckling all the way down the hall.

At last Montague himself started to leave. But he heard Mrs. Winnie
coming back, and he waited for her. She came in and shut the door,
and turned toward him.

"What did he say?" she asked.

"He--was very pleasant," said Montague.

And she smiled grimly. "I went out on purpose," she said." I wanted
you to see him--to see what sort of a man he is, and how much 'duty'
I owe him! You saw, I guess."

"Yes, I saw," said he.

Then again he started to go. But she took him by the arm. "Come and
talk to me," she said. "Please!"

And she led him back to the fire. "Listen," she said. "He will not
come here again. He is going away to-night--I thought he had gone
already. And he does not return for a month or two. There will be no
one to disturb us again."

She came close to him and gazed up into his face. She had wiped her
tears away, and her happy look had come back to her; she was
lovelier than ever.

"I took you by surprise," she said, smiling. "You didn't know what
to make of it. And I was ashamed--I thought you would hate me. But
I'm not going to be unhappy any more--I don't care at all. I'm glad
that I spoke!"

And Mrs. Winnie put up her hands and took him by the lapels of his
coat. "I know that you love me," she said; "I saw it in your eyes
just now, before he came in: It is simply that you won't let
yourself go. You have so many doubts and so many fears. But you will
see that I am right; you will learn to love me. You won't be able to
help it--I shall be so kind and good! Only don't go away--"

Mrs. Winnie was so close to him that her breath touched his cheek.
"Promise me, dear," she whispered--"promise me that you won't stop
seeing me--that you will learn to love me. I can't do without you!"

Montague was trembling in every nerve; he felt like a man caught in
a net. Mrs. Winnie had had everything she ever wanted in her life;
and now she wanted him! It was impossible for her to face any other
thought.

"Listen," he began gently.

But she saw the look of resistance in his eyes, and she cried "No
no--don't! I cannot do without you! Think! I love you! What more can
I say to you? I cannot believe that you don't care for me--you HAVE
been fond of me--I have seen it in your face. Yet you're afraid of
me--why? Look at me--am I not beautiful to look at I And is a
woman's love such a little thing--can you fling it away and trample
upon it so easily? Why do you wish to go? Don't you understand--no
one knows we are here--no one cares! You can come here whenever you
wish--this is my place--mine! And no one will think anything about
it. They all do it. There is nothing to be afraid of!"

She put her arms about him, and clung to him so that he could feel
the beating of her heart upon his bosom. "Oh, don't leave me here
alone to-night!" she cried.

To Montague it was like the ringing of an alarm-bell deep within his
soul. "I must go," he said.

She flung back her head and stared at him, and he saw the terror and
anguish in her eyes. "No, no!" she cried, "don't say that to me! I
can't bear it--oh, see what I have done! Look at me! Have mercy on
me!"

"Mrs. Winnie," he said, "you must have mercy on ME!"

But he only felt her clasp him more tightly. He took her by the
wrists, and with quiet force he broke her hold upon him; her hands
fell to her sides, and she stared at him, aghast.

"I must go," he said, again.

And he started toward the door. She followed him dumbly with her
eyes.

"Good-bye," he said. He knew that there was no use of any more
words; his sympathy had been like oil upon flames. He saw her move,
and as he opened the door, she flung herself down in a chair and
burst into frantic weeping. He shut the door softly and went away.

He found his way down the stairs, and got his hat and coat, and went
out, unseen by anyone. He walked down the Avenue-and there suddenly
was the giant bulk of St. Cecilia's lifting itself into the sky. He
stopped and looked at it--it seemed a great tumultuous surge of
emotion. And for the first time in his life it seemed to him that he
understood why men had put together that towering heap of stone!

Then he went on home.

He found Alice dressing for a ball, and Oliver waiting for her. He
went to his room, and took off his coat; and Oliver came up to him,
and with a sudden gesture reached over to his shoulder, and held up
a trophy.

He drew it out carefully, and measured the length of it, smiling
mischievously in the meanwhile. Then he held it up to the light, to
see the colour of it.

"A black one!" he cried. "Coal black!" And he looked at his brother,
with a merry twinkle in his eyes. "Oh, Allan!" he chuckled.

Montague said nothing.






CHAPTER XX





It was about a week from the beginning of Lent, when there would be
a lull in the city's gaieties, and Society would shift the scene of
its activities to the country clubs, and to California and Hot
Springs and Palm Beach. Mrs. Caroline. Smythe invited Alice to join
her in an expedition to the last-named place; but Montague
interposed, because he saw that Alice had been made pale and nervous
by three months of night-and-day festivities. Also, a trip to
Florida would necessitate ten or fifteen thousand dollars' worth of
new clothes; and these would not do for the summer, it
appeared--they would be faded and passe by that time.

So Alice settled back to rest; but she was too popular to be let
alone--a few days later came another invitation, this time from
General Prentice and his family. They were planning a railroad
trip--to be gone for a month; they would have a private train, and
twenty five people in the party, and would take in California and
Mexico--"swinging round the circle," as it was called. Alice was
wild to go, and Montague gave his consent. Afterward he learned to
his dismay that Charlie Carter was one of those invited, and he
would have liked to have Alice withdraw; but she did not wish to,
and he could not make up his mind to insist.

These train trips were the very latest diversion of the well-to-do;
a year ago no one had heard of them, and now fifty parties were
leaving New York every month. You might see a dozen of such
hotel-trains at once at Palm Beach; there were some people who lived
on board all the time, having special tracks built for them in
pleasant locations wherever they stopped. One man had built a huge
automobile railroad car, shaped like a ram, and having accommodation
for sixty people. The Prentice train had four cars, one of them a
"library car," finished in St. lago mahogany, and provided with a
pipe-organ. Also there were bath-rooms and a barber-shop, and a
baggage car with two autos on board for exploring purposes.

Since the episode of Mrs. Winnie, Oliver had apparently concluded
that his brother was one of the initiated. Not long afterward he
permitted him to a glimpse into that side of his life which had been
hinted at in the songs at the bachelors' dinner.

Oliver had planned to take Betty Wyman to the theatre; but Betty's
grandfather had come home from the West unexpectedly, and so Oliver
came round and took his brother instead.

"I was going to play a joke on her," he said. "We'll go to see one
of my old flames."

It was a translation of a French farce, in which the marital
infidelities of two young couples were the occasion of many mishaps.
One of the characters was a waiting-maid, who was in love with a
handsome young soldier, and was pursued by the husband of one of the
couples. It was a minor part, but the young Jewish girl who played
it had so many pretty graces and such a merry laugh that she made it
quite conspicuous. When the act was over, Oliver asked him whose
acting he liked best, and he named her.

"Come and be introduced to her," Oliver said.

He opened a door near their box. "How do you do, Mr. Wilson," he
said, nodding to a man in evening dress, who stood near by. Then he
turned toward the dressing-rooms, and went down a corridor, and
knocked upon one of the doors. A voice called, "Come in," and he
opened the door; and there was a tiny room, with odds and ends of
clothing scattered about, and the girl, clad in corsets and
underskirt, sitting before a mirror. "Hello, Rosalie," said he.

And she dropped her powder-puff, and sprang up with a cry--"Ollie!"
'In a moment more she had her arms about his neck.

"Oh, you wretched man," she cried. "Why don't you come to see me any
more? Didn't you get my letters?"

"I got some," said he. "But I've been busy. This is my brother, Mr.
Allan Montague."

The other nodded to Montague, and said, "How do you do?"--but
without letting go of Oliver. "Why don't you come to see me?" she
exclaimed.

"There, there, now!" said Oliver, laughing good-naturedly. "I
brought my brother along so that you'd have to behave yourself."

"I don't care about your brother!" exclaimed the girl, without even
giving him another glance. Then she held Oliver at arm's length, and
gazed into his face. "How can you be so cruel to me?" she asked.

"I told you I was busy," said he, cheerfully. "And I gave you fair
warning, didn't I? How's Toodles?"

"Oh, Toodles is in raptures," said Rosalie. "She's got a new
fellow." And then, her manner changing to one of merriment, she
added: "Oh, Ollie! He gave her a diamond brooch! And she looks like
a countess--she's hoping for a chance to wear it in a part!"

"You've seen Toodles," said Oliver, to his brother "She's in 'The
Kaliph of Kamskatka.'".

"They're going on the road next week," said Rosalie. "And then I'll
be all alone." She added, in a pleading voice: "Do, Ollie, be a good
boy and take us out to-night. Think how long it's been since I've
seen you! Why, I've been so good I don't know myself in the
looking-glass. Please, Ollie!"

"All right," said he, "maybe I will."

"I'm not going to let you get away from me," she cried. "I'll come
right over the footlights after you!"

"You'd better get dressed," said Oliver. "You'll be late."

He pushed aside a tray with some glasses on it, and seated himself
upon a trunk; and Montague stood in a corner and watched Rosalie,
while she powdered and painted herself, and put on an airy summer
dress, and poured out a flood of gossip about "Toodles" and
"Flossie" and "Grace" and some others. A few minutes later came a
stentorian voice in the hallway: "Second act!" There were more
embraces, and then Ollie brushed the powder from his coat, and went
away laughing.

Montague stood for a few moments in the wings, watching the
scene-shifters putting the final touches to the new set, and the
various characters taking their positions. Then they went out to
their seats. "Isn't she a jewel?" asked Oliver.

"She's very pretty," the other admitted.

"She came right out of the slums," said Oliver--"over on Rivington
Street. That don't happen very often."

"How did you come to know her?" asked his brother.

"Oh, I picked her out. She was in a chorus, then. I got her first
speaking part."

"Did you?" said the other, in surprise. "How did you do that?"

"Oh, a little money," was the reply. "Money will do most anything.
And I was in love with her--that's how I got her."

Montague said nothing, but sat in thought.

"We'll take her out to supper and make her happy," added Oliver, as
the curtain started up. "She's lonesome, I guess. You see, I
promised Betty I'd reform."

All through that scene and the next one Rosalie acted for them; she
was so full of verve and merriment that there was quite a stir in
the audience, and she got several rounds of applause. Then, when the
play was over, she extricated herself from the arms of the handsome
young soldier, and fled to her dressing-room, and when Oliver and
Montague arrived, she was half ready for the street.

They went up Broadway, and from a group of people coming out of
another stage-entrance a young girl came to join them--an airy
little creature with the face of a doll-baby, and a big hat with a
purple feather on top. This was "Toodles"--otherwise known as Helen
Gwynne; and she took Montague's arm, and they fell in behind Oliver
and his companion.

Montague wondered what one said to a chorus-girl on the way to
supper. Afterward his brother told him that Toodles had been the
wife of a real-estate agent in a little town in Oklahoma, and had
run away from respectability and boredom with a travelling
theatrical company. Now she was tripping her part in the musical
comedy which Montague had seen at Mrs. Lane's; and incidentally
swearing devotion to a handsome young "wine-agent." She confided to
Montague that she hoped the latter might see her that evening--he
needed to be made jealous.

"The Great White Way" was the name which people had given to this
part of Broadway; and at the head of it stood a huge hotel with
flaming lights, and gorgeous marble and bronze, and famous paintings
upon the walls and ceilings inside. At this hour every one of its
many dining-rooms was thronged with supper-parties, and the place
rang with laughter and the rattle of dishes, and the strains of
several orchestras which toiled heroically in the midst of the
uproar. Here they found a table, and while Oliver was ordering
frozen poached eggs and quails in aspic, Montague sat and gazed
about him at the revelry, and listened to the prattle of the little
ex-sempstress from Rivington Street.

His brother had "got her," he said, by buying a speaking part in a
play for her; and Montague recalled the orgies of which he had heard
at the bachelors' dinner, and divined that here he was at the source
of the stream from which they were fed. At the table next to them
was a young Hebrew, whom Toodles pointed out as the son and heir of
a great clothing manufacturer. He was "keeping" several girls, said
she; and the queenly creature who was his vis-a-vis was one of the
chorus in "The Maids of Mandalay." And a little way farther down the
room was a boy with the face of an angel and the air of a prince of
the blood--he had inherited a million and run away from school, and
was making a name for himself in the Tenderloin. The pretty little
girl all in green who was with him was Violet Pane, who was the
artist's model in a new play that had made a hit. She had had a
full-page picture of herself in the Sunday supplement of the
"sporting paper" which was read here--so Rosalie remarked.

"Why don't you ever do that for me?" she added, to Oliver.

"Perhaps I will," said he, with a laugh. "What does it cost?"

And when he learned that the honour could be purchased for only
fifteen hundred dollars, he said, "I'll do it, if you'll be good."
And from that time on the last trace of worriment vanished from the
face and the conversation of Rosalie.

As the champagne cocktails disappeared, she and Oliver became
confidential. Then Montague turned to Toodles, to learn more about
how the "second generation" was preying upon the women of the stage.

"A chorus-girl got from ten to twenty dollars a week," said Toodles;
and that was hardly enough to pay for her clothes. Her work was very
uncertain--she would spend weeks at rehearsal, and then if the play
failed, she would get nothing. It was a dog's life; and the keys of
freedom and opportunity were in the keeping of rich men, who haunted
the theatres and laid siege to the girls. They would send in notes
to them, or fling bouquets to them, with cards, or perhaps money,
hidden in them. There were millionaire artists and bohemians who
kept a standing order for seats in the front rows at opening
performances; they had accounts with florists and liverymen and
confectioners, and gave carte blanche to scores of girls who lent
themselves to their purposes. Sometimes they were in league with the
managers, and a girl who held back would find her chances
imperilled; sometimes these men would even finance shows to give a
chance to some favourite.

Afterward Toodles turned to listen to Oliver and his companion; and
Montague sat back and gazed about the room. Next to him was a long
table with a dozen, people at it; and he watched the buckets of
champagne and the endless succession of fantastic-looking dishes of
food, and the revellers, with their flushed faces and feverish eyes
and loud laughter. Above all the tumult was the voice of the
orchestra, calling, calling, like the storm wind upon the mountains;
the music was wild and chaotic, and produced an indescribable sense
of pain and confusion. When one realized that this same thing was
going on in thousands of places in this district it seemed that here
was a flood of dissipation that out-rivalled even that of Society.

It was said that the hotels of New York, placed end to end, would
reach all the way to London; and they took care of a couple of
hundred thousand people a day--a horde which had come from all over
the world in search of pleasure and excitement. There were
sight-seers and "country customers" from forty-five states; ranchers
from Texas, and lumber kings from Maine, and mining men from Nevada.
At home they had reputations, and perhaps families to consider; but
once plunged into the whirlpool of the Tenderloin, they were hidden
from all>the world. They came with their pockets full of money; and
hotels and restaurants, gambling-places and pool-rooms and
brothels--all were lying in wait for them! So eager had the
competition become that there was a tailoring establishment and a
bank that were never closed the year round, except on Sunday.

Everywhere about one's feet the nets of vice were spread. The head
waiter in one's hotel was a "steerer" for a "dive," and the house
detective was "touting" for a gambling-place. The handsome woman who
smiled at one in "Peacock Alley" was a "madame"; the pleasant-faced
young man who spoke to one at the bar was on the look-out for
customers for a brokerage-house next door. Three times in a single
day in another of these great caravanserais Montague was offered
"short change"; and so his eyes were opened to a new kind of
plundering. He was struck by the number of attendants in livery who
swarmed about him, and to whom he gave tips for their services. He
did not notice that the boys in the wash-rooms and coat-rooms could
not speak a word of English; he could not know that they were
searched every night, and had everything taken from them, and that
the Greek who hired them had paid fifteen thousand dollars a year to
the hotel for the privilege.

So far had the specialization in evil proceeded that there were
places of prostitution which did a telephone-business exclusively,
and would send a woman in a cab to any address; and there were
high-class assignation-houses, which furnished exquisite apartments
and the services of maids and valets. And in this world of vice the
modern doctrine of the equality of the sexes was fully recognized;
there were gambling-houses and pool-rooms and opium-joints for
women, and drinking-places which catered especially for them. In the
"orange room" of one of the big hotels, you might see rich women of
every rank and type, fingering the dainty leather-bound and
gold-embossed wine cards. In this room alone were sold over ten
thousand drinks every day; and the hotel paid a rental of a minion a
year to the Devon estate. Not far away the Devons also owned
negro-dives, where, in the early hours of the morning, you might see
richly-gowned white women drinking.

In this seething caldron of graft there were many strange ways of
making money, and many strange and incredible types of human beings
to be met. Once, in "Society," Montague had pointed out to him a
woman who had been a "tattooed lady" in a circus; there was another
who had been a confederate of gamblers upon the ocean steamships,
and another who had washed dishes in a mining-camp. There was one of
these great hotels whose proprietor had been a successful burglar;
and a department-store whose owner had begun life as a "fence." In
any crowd of these revellers you might have such strange creatures
pointed out to you; a multimillionaire who sold rotten jam to the
people; another who had invented opium soothing-syrup for babies; a
convivial old gentleman who disbursed the "yellow dog fund" of
several railroads; a handsome chauffeur who had run away with an
heiress. 'Once a great scientist had invented a new kind of
underwear, and had endeavoured to make it a gift to humanity; and
here was a man who had seized upon it and made millions out of it!
Here was a "trance medium," who had got a fortune out of an imbecile
old manufacturer; here was a great newspaper proprietor, who
published advertisements of assignations at a dollar a line; here
was a cigar manufacturer, whose smug face was upon every
billboard--he had begun as a tin manufacturer, and to avoid the
duty, he had had his raw material cast in the form of statues, and
brought them in as works of art!