Keith left the courtroom in a daze of incredulity. This was his first serious defeat; and he could not understand it. The case was absolutely open and shut, a mere question of fact to which there were sufficient and competent witnesses. For the moment he was completely routed.
As he emerged to the busy crowds on Kearney Street a sudden repugnance to meeting acquaintances overcame him. He turned off toward the bay, making his way by the back streets, alleys, and slums of that unsavoury quarter. But even here he was not to escape. He had not gone two blocks before he descried Krafft's slight and elegant figure sauntering toward him. Keith braced himself for the inevitable question.
Well, it came, "how goes the trial?"
The words released Keith's pent flood of bitterness. Here was an outlet; Krafft was "safe." He poured out his disappointment, his suspicion, his indignation. The little man listened to him in silence, a slight smile, sketching his full, red lips. When Keith had somewhat run down, Krafft, without a word, took him by the arm and led him by devious ways down to the water-front portion of the city. There he planted him near the entrance of a dark alley.
Now you wait here, Keith was told.
Keith obeyed. The interval was long, but he had much to occupy his mind. After a time Krafft returned in company with a slouching, drink-sodden bummer of powerful build and lowering mien, the remains of a forceful personality. This individual shambled along in the wake of the dapper little Krafft quite meekly and submissively.
Here you are, said the latter briskly, and with a sort of nonchalant authority. "Come, now, Mex, tell Mr, Keith what you know about the Cora trial. Go on!" he urged, as the man hesitated. "He's not going to 'use' you--he doesn't even know who you are or where you're to be found, and I'm not going to tell him. Speak up, Mex! I tell you I want him to know how things stand."
Keith by now was acquainted with many of Krafft's proteges, but he had never met the delectable Mex. Evidently the latter had long known Krafft, however, for he acknowledged his authority unquestioningly.
It's like this, boss, he began in a hoarse voice. "You don't know me, like Mr. Krafft says, but there's plenty that do. I got a lot of infloonce down here, and when anybody wants anything they know where to come to get it, which is right to headquarters--here," he slapped his great chest.
Get on, interrupted Krafft impatiently. "We'll take it for granted that you are a great man."
Mex looked at him reproachfully, but went on:
About this Cora trial: they come to me for good, reliable witnesses, and I got 'em, and drilled 'em. There ain't nobody in it with me for making any witness watertight.
How many witnesses? prompted Krafft.
Eight, replied Mex promptly.
How much?
Well, they give me five thousand fer to git the job done, admitted Mex, with some reluctance.
Hope they got some of it, commented Krafft.
Who gave you the money? demanded Keith.
But Krafft interposed.
Hold on, my son, that isn't ethics at all! You mustn't ask questions like that, must he, Mex? Very bad form! He turned to Keith with a crisp air of decision. "That's what was the matter with your trial; I just thought I'd show you. Go on, Mex, get out," he commanded that individual, good- humouredly. "I'm not particularly proud of you, but I suppose I've got to stand you. Only remember this: Mr. Keith is my friend. Swear him out of the high seats of heaven--if you can--because that's the nature of you; but let him walk safely. In other words, no strong-arm work; do you understand?"
The man mumbled and growled something.
Nonsense, Mex, interrupted Krafft sharply. "Do as I say.
It's a matter of a tidy sum, blurted out Mex at last.
Krafft laughed.
You see, you were already marked for the slaughter, he told Keith; then to Mex:
Well, you let him alone; he's my friend.
All right, if you say so, growled the man.
You're safe--as far as Mex and all his people are concerned, said Krafft to Keith. "Our word is always good, when given to a friend; isn't it, Mex?"
The man nodded, awkwardly and slouched away.
Keith's depression had given place to anger. He had been beaten by unfair means; his opponent had cheated at the game, and his opponent enjoyed the respect of the community as a high-minded, able, dignified member of the bar. It was unthinkable! A man caught cheating at cards would most certainly be expelled from any decent club.
I'll disbar that man if it's the last act of my life! He cried, "He's not fit to practise among decent men!"
He left Krafft standing on the corner and smiling quietly, and hurried back to his office.
It was unfortunate for everybody that Morrell should have chosen that particular afternoon to pay one of his periodical calls. Morrell had been tactful and judicious in his demands. Keith was not particularly afraid of his story or the effect of it if told, but he disliked intensely the fuss and bother of explanations and readjustments. It had seemed easier to let things drift along. The transactions were skilfully veiled, notes were always given, Morrell was shrewd enough to take care that it did not cost too much. There existed not the slightest cordiality between the men, but a tacit assumption of civil relations.
But this afternoon the sight of Morrell, seated with what seemed to Keith a smug, superior, supercilious confidence in the best of the office chairs, was more than Keith could stand. He was bursting with anger at the world in general.
You here? he barked at Morrell, without waiting for a greeting. "Well, I'm sick of you! Get out!"
Morrell stared at him dumbfounded.
I don't believe I understand, he objected.
Get out! Get out! Get out! Is that plain enough? shouted Keith.
Morrell arose with cold dignity.
I cannot permit-- he began.
Keith turned on him abruptly.
Look here, don't try to come that rot. I said, get out--and I mean it!
So menacing was his aspect that Morrell drew back toward the door.
I suppose you know what this means? he threatened, an ugly note in his quiet voice.
I don't give a damn what it means, rejoined Keith with deadly earnestness, "and if you don't get out of here I'll throw you out!"
Morrell went hastily.
Keith slammed his papers into a drawer, locked it and his office door, and went directly to the office of the _Bulletin_. There, seated in all the chairs, perched on the tables and window ledges, he found a representative group. He recognized most of them, including James King of William, Coleman, Hossfros, Isaac Bluxome, Talbot Ward, and others. A dead silence greeted his appearance. He stopped by the door.
You have, of course, heard the news, he said. "I have come here to state unequivocally, and for publication, that the Cora trial will be pushed as rapidly and as strongly as is in the power of the District Attorney's office. And if legal evidence of corruption can be obtained, proceedings will at once be inaugurated to indict the bribe givers."
A short silence followed this speech. Several men looked toward one another. The tension appeared to relax a trifle.
I am glad to hear this, sir, from your own lips, at last said Coleman formally, "and I wish you every success."
Another short and rather embarrassed silence fell.
I should like to state privately to you gentlemen, and not for publication--Keith, paused and glanced toward King, who nodded reassuringly--"that I have evidence, but unfortunately not legal, that James McDougall has been guilty, either personally or through agents, of bribery and corruption; and it is my intention to undertake his disbarment if I can possibly get proper evidence."
Whether he bribed or didn't bribe, he knew perfectly well that Cora was guilty, stated King positively. "And he had no right to take the case."
But at that period this was an extreme view, as it still is in the legal mind.
I suppose every man has a moral right to a defence, said Coleman doubtfully. "If every lawyer should refuse to take Cora's case, as you say McDougall should have refused, why the man would have gone undefended!"
That's all right, returned King, undaunted, "He ought to have a lawyer-- appointed by the court--to see merely that he gets a fair trial; not a lawyer--hired, prostituted, at a great price--to try by every technical means to get him off."
A lawyer must, by the ethics of his profession, take every case brought him, I suppose, some one enunciated the ancient doctrine.
Well, if that is the case, rejoined King hotly, "the law warps the thinking and the morals of any man who professes it. And if I had a son to place in life, I most certainly should not put him in a calling that deliberately trains his mind to see things that way!"
I am sorry you have so low an opinion, spoke up Keith from the doorway. "I am afraid I must hold the contrary as to the nobility of my chosen profession. It can be disgraced, I admit. That it has been disgraced, I agree. That it can be redeemed, I am going to prove."
He bowed and left the office.
Morrell went directly from Keith's office to Keith's house. He was not particularly angry; for some time he had expected just this result, but since he had threatened, he intended to accomplish. Finding Nan Keith at home, he plunged directly at the subject in his most direct and English fashion. She listened to him steadily until he had finished.
Is that all? she then asked him quietly,
That's all, he acknowledged.
She arose.
Then I will say, Mr. Morrell, that I do not believe you. I know my husband thoroughly, and I am beginning to know you. I believe that is my only comment. Good afternoon.
He made a half attempt to point to her the way to corroborative evidence, but she swept this superbly aside, Finally he took his correct leave, half angry, half amused, wholly cynical, for to his mind the reason for her indifference to the news he brought lay in what he supposed to be her relations with Ben Sansome.
Bally ass! he apostrophized himself. "Might have known how she'd take it."
His reading of Nan's motives was, of course, incorrect. Her first feeling was merely a white heat of anger against Morrell, whom she had never liked. Perhaps after a little this emotion might have carried over into, not distrust, but an uneasiness as to the main issue; but before she had arrived at this point Keith came in to deliver an ill-timed warning. As ill luck would have it, and as such coincidences often come about in the most perverse fashion, Keith had, down the street, met some malicious fool who had dropped a laughing remark about Sansome. It was nothing in itself. Ordinarily, Keith would have paid no attention to it. To-day it clashed with his mood. Even now his jealousy was not stirred in the least, but his sense of appearances was irritated. By the time he had reached home he had worked up a proper indignation.
Look here, Nan, he blurted out as soon as he had closed the door behind him, "you're seeing too much of Sansome. Everybody's talking."
Who is everybody? she asked very quietly.
Of course I know it's all right, he blundered ahead tactlessly--the gleam in her eye should have warned him that he might have omitted that reassurance--"but just the looks of the thing. And he's such a weak and wishy-washy little nonentity!"
Her sense of justice aroused by this, she sprang to the defence of Sansome.
You are quite mistaken there, she said with dignity. "Men of that type are never understood by men of yours. He is my friend--and yours. And he has been very kind to both of us."
Well, just the same, you ought not to get yourself talked about, repeated Keith stubbornly.
Do you distrust me? she demanded.
Heavens, no! But you don't realize how it looks to others. He's coming here morning, noon, and night.
It seems to me I may be the best judge of my own conduct.
Well, said Keith deliberately, "I don't know that you are. You must remember that you are my wife, and that you bear my name. I have something to say about it. I'm telling you; but if you cannot manage the matter properly, I'll just have to drop a hint to Sansome."
At that she blazed out.
Do that and you will regret it to the last day of your life! she flared. "If you'd be as careful with the name of Keith as I am, it would not suffer!"
What do you mean by that? he asked? after a blank pause.
She had not intended to use that weapon, but now she persisted placidly.
I mean that if our name has been talked about, it has not been because of any action of mine.
His heart was beating wildly. In the multiplicity of fighting interests he had actually forgotten (for the moment) all about his office visitor. But he, too, had pluck.
I see you have had a call from our friend Morrell, he ventured.
Well! she challenged.
Her head was back, and her breath was short. This crisis had come upon them swiftly, unexpectedly, unwanted by either. Now it loomed over them in a terrible, because unknown, portent. Each realized that a misstep might mean irreparable consequences, but each felt constrained to go on. The situation must now be developed. Keith, faced with this new problem, lost his heat, and became cool, careful, wary, as when in court his faculties marshalled themselves. Nan, on the other hand, while well in control of her mind, poised on a brink.
I don't know what he told you, said Keith, the blood suffusing his face and spreading over his ears and neck, "but I'm going to tell you everything he would be justified in telling you. One evening a number of years ago, in company with a crowd, I went inside the doors of a disreputable place, and immediately came out again. It was part of a spree, and harmless. That was all there was to it. You believe me?" In spite of his iron control, a deep note of anxiety vibrated in his voice as he proffered the question.
Her heart gave a leap for pride as he made this confession, his face very red, but his head back, She knew he spoke the truth, the whole truth.
Of course I believe you, she said, trying to speak naturally, but with a mad impulse to laugh or cry. She swallowed, gripped her nerves, and went on. "But, naturally," she told him,
I consider myself as good a custodian of the family reputation as yourself.
There the matter rested. By mutual but tacit consent they withdrew cautiously from the debated ground, each curiously haunted by a feeling that catastrophe had been fortunately and narrowly averted.
Keith immediately moved for a retrial, and began anew his heartbreaking labours in forcing a way to definite action through the thorn thicket of technicalities. At the same time, on his own account, and very secretly, he commenced a search for evidence against the attorneys for the defence. By now he possessed certain private agents of his own whom he considered trustworthy.
Early in his investigations he abandoned hope of getting direct evidence against McDougall himself. That astute lawyer had been careful to have nothing whatever to do with actual bribery or corruption, and he was crafty enough to disassociate himself from direct dealing with agents. Indeed, Keith himself was in some slight doubt as to whether McDougall had any actual detailed knowledge of the underground workings at all. But McDougall's. associates were a different matter. Here, little by little, real evidence began to accumulate, until Keith felt that he could, with reasonable excuse, move for an official investigation. To his genuine grief Calhoun Bennett seemed to be heavily involved. He could not forget that the young Southerner had been one of his earliest friends in the city, nor had he ever tried to forget the real liking he had felt for him. It was not difficult to recognize that according to his code Cal Bennett had merely played the game as the game was played, carrying out zealously the intentions of his superiors, availing himself of time-honoured methods, wholeheartedly fighting for his own side. Yet there could be no doubt that he had made himself criminally liable. Keith brooded much over the situation, but got nowhere, and so resolutely pushed it into the back of his mind in favour of the need of the moment.
But quietly as he conducted his investigations, some rumour of them escaped. One afternoon he received a call from Bennett. The young man was evidently a little embarrassed, but intent on getting at the matter.
Look heah, Keith, he began, dropping into a chair, and leaning both arms on the table opposite Keith, "I don't want to say anything offensive, or make any disagreeable implications, or insult you by false suspicions, but there are various persistent rumours about, and I thought I'd better come to you direct."
Fire away, Cal, said Keith.
Well, it's just this: they do say yo're tryin' to fasten a criminal charge of bribery on me. You and I have been friends--and still are, I hope--but if yo're goin' gunnin' foh me, I want to know it.
His face was slightly flushed, but his fine dark eyes looked hopefully to his friend for denial. Keith was genuinely distressed. He moved an inkwell to and fro, and did not look up; but his voice was steady and determined as he replied:
I'm not gunning for you, Cal, and I wish to heaven you weren't mixed up in this mess. He looked up. "But I _am_ gunning for crooked work in this Cora case!"
Bennett took his arms from the table, and sat erect.
Do you mean to imply, suh, that I am guilty of crooked work? he inquired, a new edge of formality in his voice.
No, no, of course not! hastened Keith. "I hadn't thought of you in that connection! I am just looking the whole matter up----"
Well, suh, I strongly advise you to drop it, interrupted Bennett curtly.
But why?
It isn't ethical. You will find great resentment among yo' colleagues of the bar at the implication conveyed by yo' so-called investigation, suh.
Calhoun Bennett had become stiff and formal. Keith still tried desperately to be reasonable and conciliatory.
But if there proves to be nothing out of the way, he urged, "surely no one could have anything to fear or object to."
Nobody has anything to fear in any case, said Bennett, "but any gentleman--and I, most decidedly--would object to the implication."
At this Keith, stiffened a little in his turn.
I am sorry we differ on that point, I have good reason to believe there has been crooked work somewhere in this Cora trial. I do not know who has done it; I accuse nobody; but in the public office I hold it seems my plain duty to investigate.
Yo' public duty is to prosecute, that is all, argued Bennett. "It is the duty of the grand jury to investigate or to order investigations."
Here spoke the spirit of the law, for technically Bennett was correct.
Whatever the rigid interpretation--Keith found himself uttering heresy-- "I still feel it my duty to deal personally with whatever seems to me unjustly to interfere with, proper convictions." Then he stopped, aghast at the tremendous step he had taken. For to a man trained as was Keith, in a time when all men were created for the law, and not the law for men, in a society where the lawyer was considered the greatest citizen, and subtle technicality paramount to justice or commonsense, this was a tremendous step. At that moment, and by that spontaneous and unconsidered statement, Keith, unknown to himself, passed from one side to the other in the great social struggle that was impending.
I wa'n you, suh, Bennett was repeating, "yo' course will not meet with the approval of the members of the bar."
I am sorry, Cal, said Keith sadly.
Bennett rose, bowed stiffly, and turned to the door. But suddenly he whirled back, his face alight with feeling,
Oh, see heah, Milt, be sensible! he cried. "I know just how yo're feelin' now. Yo're sore, and I don't blame you. You put ap a hard fight, and though you got licked, I don't mind tellin' you that the whole bar appreciates yo're brilliant work. You must remember you had to play a lone hand against pretty big men--the biggest we've got! We all appreciate the odds. Cora has lots of friends. You'll never convict him, Milt; but go in again for another trial, if it will do yo're feelin's any good, with our best wishes. Only don't let gettin' licked make you so sore! Don't go buttin' yo're haid at yo're friends! Be a spo't!"
A half hour ago this appeal might have gained a response if not a practical effect, but the spiritual transformation in Keith was complete.
I'm sorry, he replied simply, "but I must go ahead in my own way."
Calhoun Bennett's face lost its glow, and his tall figure stiffened.
I must wa'n you not to bring my name into this, said he. "I do not intend to have my reputation sacrificed to yo' strait-laced Yankee conscience. If my name is ever mentioned, I shall hold you responsible, _personally_ responsible. You understand, suh?"
He stood stiff and straight, staring at Keith. Keith did not stir. After a moment Calhoun Bennett went out.
After this interview Keith experienced a marked and formal coldness from nearly all of his old associates, Those with whom he came into direct personal contact showed him scrupulous politeness, but confined their conversation to the briefest necessary words, and quit him as soon as possible. He found himself very much alone, for at this period he had lost the confidence of one faction and had not yet gained that of the other.
His investigations encountered always increasing difficulties. In his own department he could obtain little assistance. A dead inertia opposed all his efforts. Nevertheless, he went ahead doggedly, using Krafft and some of Krafft's proteges to considerable effect.
But soon pressure was brought on him from a new direction: his opponents struck at him through his home.
For some days Nan had been aware of a changed atmosphere in the society she frequented and had heretofore led. The change was subtle, defied analysis, but was to the woman's sensitive instincts indubitable. At first she had been inclined to consider it subjective, to imagine that something wrong with herself must be projecting itself through her imagination; but finally she realized that the impression was well based. In people's attitude there was nothing overt; it was rather a withdrawl of intimacy, a puzzling touch of formality. She seemed overnight to have lost in popularity.
Truth to tell, she paid little attention to this. By now she was experienced enough in human nature to understand and to be able to gauge the slight fluctuations, the ebbs and flows of esteem, the kaleidoscopic shiftings and realignments of the elements of frivolous and formal society. Mrs. Brown had hired away Mrs. Smith's best servant; for an hour they looked askance on Mrs. Brown; then, the episode forgotten, Mrs. Brown's cork bobbed to the surface company of all the other corks. It was very trivial. Besides, just at this moment, Nan was wholly occupied with preparations for her first "afternoon" of the year. She intended as usual to give three of these formal affairs, and from them the season took its tone. The list was necessarily far from exclusive, but Nan made up for that by the care she gave her most original arrangements. She prided herself on doing things simply, but with a difference, calling heavily on her resources of correspondence, her memory, and her very good imagination for some novelty of food or entertainment. At the first of these receptions, too, she wore always for the first time some new and marvellous toilet straight from Paris, the style of which had not been shown to even her most intimate friends. This year, for example, she had done the most obvious and, therefore, the most unlikely thing: she had turned to the contemporaneous Spanish for her theme. Nobody had thought of that. The Colonial, the Moorish, the German, the Russian, the Hungarian--all the rest of the individual or "picturesque"--but nobody had thought to look next door. Nan had decorated the rooms with yellow and red, hung the walls with riatas, strings of red peppers and the like, obtained Spanish guitar players, and added enough fiery Mexican dishes to the more digestible refreshments to emphasize the Spanish flavour. She wore a dress of golden satin, a wreath of coral flowers about her hair, and morocco slippers matched in hue.
The afternoon was fine. People were slow in coming. A few of the nondescripts that must be invited on such occasions put in an appearance, responded hastily to their hostess's greeting, and wandered about furtively but interminably. Patricia Sherwood, who had come early, circulated nobly, trying to break up the frozen little groups, but in vain. The time passed. More non-descripts--and not a soul else! As five o'clock neared, a cold fear clutched at Nan's heart. No one was coming!
She worked hard to cover with light graciousness the cold-hearted dismay that filled her breast as the party dragged its weary length away. All her elaborate preparations and decorations seemed to mock her. The Spanish orchestra tinkled away gayly until she felt she could throw something at them; the caterer's servants served solemnly the awed nondescripts. Nan's cheeks burned and her throat choked with unshed tears. She could not bear to look at Patsy Sherwood, who remained tactfully distant.
About five-thirty the door opened to admit a little group, at the sight of whom Nan uttered a short, hysterical chuckle. Then she glided to meet them, both hands outstretched in welcome, Mrs. Sherwood watched her with admiration. Nan was game.
There were three in the party: Mrs. Morrell, Sally Warner, and Mrs. Scattergood. Sally Warner was of the gushing type of tall, rather desiccated femininity who always knows you so much better than you know her, who cultivates you every moment for a week and forgets you for months on end, who is hard up and worldly and therefore calculating, whose job is to amuse people and who will therefore sacrifice her best, perhaps not most useful, friend to an epigram, whose wit is barbed, who has a fine nose for trouble, and who is always in at the death. Mrs. Scattergood was a small blond woman, high voiced, precise in manner, very positive in her statements which she delivered in a drawling tone, humourless, inquisitive about petty affairs, the sort of "good woman" with whom no fault can be found, but who drives men to crime. Mrs. Morrell we know.
These three, after greeting their hostess gushingly, circulated compactly, talking to each other in low voices. Nan knew they were watching her, and that they had come for the sole purpose of getting first-hand details of her fiasco for later recounting in drawing-rooms where, undoubtedly, even now awaited eager auditors. She came to a decision. The matter could not be worse. When, the three came to make their farewells, she detained them.
No, I'm not going to let you go yet, she told them, perhaps a little imperiously. "I haven't had half a visit with you. Wait until this rabble clears out."
She hesitated a moment over Mrs. Sherwood, but finally let her go without protest. When the last guest had departed she sank into a chair. As she was already on the verge of hysterics, she easily kept up an air of gayety.
Girls, what an awful party! she cried. "I could tear my hair! It was a perfect nightmare." Struggling to control her voice and keep back her tears, she added abruptly: "Now tell me what it is all about."
Mrs. Morrell and Sally Warner were plainly uneasy and at a loss how to meet this situation, but Mrs. Scattergood remained quite composed in her small, compact way.
What's what all about, Nan, dear? asked Sally Warner in her most vivacious manner. She keenly felt the dramatic situation and was already visualizing herself in the role of raconteuse.
You know perfectly well. Why this funeral? Where are they all? Why did they stay away? I have a right to know.
I'm sure there's nothing _I_ can think of! replied Sally artificially. "The idea!"
But Mrs. Scattergood, with all the relish of performing a noble and disagreeable duty, broke in:
You know, dear, she said in her didactic, slow voice, "as well as we do, what the world is. Of course _we_ understand, but people will talk!"
In heaven's name what are you driving at? What are they talking about? demanded Nan, as Mrs. Scattergood apparently came to a full stop.
A pause ensued while Sally and Mrs, Scattergood exchanged glances with Mrs. Morrell.
Well, at last said Sally, judicially, buttoning her glove, her head on one side, "if I had a nice husband like yours, I wouldn't let him run around getting himself disliked for nothing."
You ought to use your influence with him before it is too late, added Mrs. Morrell.
Nan looked helplessly from one to the other, too uncertain of her ground now to risk another step,
So that's it, she ventured at last. "Some one has been telling lies about us!"
Oh, dear no! disclaimed Mrs. Scattergood, "It is only that your friends cannot understand your taking sides against them. Naturally they feel hurt. Forgive me, dear--you know I say it with all affection--but don't you think it a mistake?"
Nan was thoroughly dazed and mystified, but afraid to press the matter further. She had a suspicion Mrs. Morrell was again responsible for her difficulties, but was too uncertain to urge them to stay for further elucidation. They arose. These were the days of hoop skirts, and the set of the outer skirt had to be carefully adjusted before going out. As they posed in turn before the hall pier glass they chattered. "How lovely the house looks." "You certainly have worked hard, and must be tired, poor dear!" "Well, we'll see you to-morrow at Mrs. Terry's. You're _not asked_? Surely there is some mistake! Well, those things always happen in a big affair, don't they?" "See you soon." "Good-bye." "Good-bye."
Outside the house they paused at the head of the steps.
Well, what do you think of that? said Sally. "I really believe the poor thing doesn't know, I believe I'll just drop in for a minute at Mrs. Caldwell's. Sorry you're not going my way."
After a fashion Nan felt relieved by this interview, for she thought she discerned only Mrs. Morrell's influence, and this, she knew, she could easily overcome. While she waited for Keith's return from whatever inaccessible fastnesses he always occupied during these big afternoon receptions, she reviewed the situation, her indignation mounting. Downstairs, Wing Sam and his temporary assistants were clearing things away. Usually Nan superintended this, but to-day she did not care. When Keith finally entered the room, she burst out on him with a rapid and angry account of the whole situation as she saw it; but to her surprise he did not rise to it. His weary, spiritless, uninterested: acceptance of it astonished her to the last degree. To him her entanglement with the Cora affair--for at once he saw the trend of it all--seemed the last straw. Not even his own home was sacred. His spirit was so bruised and wearied that he actually could not rise to an explanation. He seemed to realize an utter hopelessness of making her see his point of view. This was not so strange when it is considered that this point of view, however firmly settled, was still a new and unexplained fact with himself. He contented himself with saying: "The Morrells had nothing whatever to do with it." It was the only thing that occurred to him as worth saying; but it was unfortunate, for it left Nan's irritation without logical support. Naturally that irritation was promptly transferred to him.
Then what, in heaven's name, is it? she demanded. "My friends are all treating me as if I had the smallpox."
Cheerful lot of friends we've made in this town! he said bitterly.
What is the matter with them? she persisted.
The matter is they've taken me for a fool they could order around to suit themselves. They found they couldn't. Now they're through with me, even Cal Bennett, he added in a lower tone that revealed his hurt.
She paused, biting her underlip.
Is the trouble anything to do with this Cora case? she asked, suddenly enlightened by some vague, stray recollection.
Of course! he replied crossly, exasperated at the nagging necessity of arousing himself to explanations. "There's no use arguing about it. I'm going to see it through in spite of that hound McDougall and his whole pack of curs!"
But why have you turned so against your friends? she asked more gently, struck by his careworn look as he sprawled in the easy chair under the lamp. "I don't see! You'll get yourself disliked!"
She did not press the matter further for the moment, but three days later she brought up the topic again. In the interim she had heard considerable direct and indirect opinion. She selected after dinner as the most propitious time for discussion. As a matter of fact, earlier in the day would have been better, before Keith's soul had been rubbed raw by downtown attrition.
I don't believe you quite realize how strongly people feel about the Cora case, she began. "Isn't it possible to drop it or compromise it or something, Milton?"
In the reaction from argument and--coldness downtown he felt he could stand no more of it at home.
I wish you'd let that matter drop! he said decidedly. "You couldn't understand it."
She hesitated. A red spot appeared in either cheek.
I must say I _don't_ understand! she countered. "It is inconceivable to me that a man like you should turn so easily against his class!"
My class? he echoed wearily.
What do such creatures as Cora and Yankee Sullivan amount to? she cried hotly, "I suppose you'll say _they_ are in your class next! How you can consider them of sufficient importance to go dead against your best friends on their account!"
It is because I am right and they are wrong.
She was a little carried beyond herself.
Well, they all think the same way, she pointed out. "Aren't you a little --a little--"
Pig-headed, supplied Keith bitterly.
#NAME?Keith did not reply.
This was Nan's last attempt. She did not bring up the subject again. But she withdrew proudly and completely from all participation in society. She refused herself to callers. Once the situation was thoroughly defined, she accepted it. If her husband decided to play the game in this way, she, too, would follow, whether she approved or not. Nan was loyal and a thoroughbred. And she was either too proud or too indifferent to fight it out with the other women, in the rough and tumble of social ambition.
In this voluntary seclusion Nan saw laterally only two persons. One of these was Mrs. Sherwood. The ex-gambler's wife called frequently; and, for some reason, Nan never refused to see her, although she did not make her visitor particularly welcome. Often an almost overmastering impulse seized her to open her soul to this charming, sympathetic, tactful woman, but something always restrained her. Her heart was too sore. And since an inhibited impulse usually expresses itself by contraries, her attitude was of studied and aloof politeness. Mrs. Sherwood never seemed to notice this. She sat in the high-ceilinged "parlour," with its strange fresco of painted fish-nets, and chatted on in a cheerful monologue, detailing small gossipy items of news. She always said goodbye cordially, and went out with a wonderful assumption of ignorance that anything was wrong. Her visits did Nan good, although never could the latter break through the ice wall of reserve. Nan's conscience often hurt her that she could answer this genuine friendship with so little cordiality. She wondered dully how Mrs. Sherwood could bring herself to be so good to so cross-grained a creature as herself. As a matter of fact, the women were marking time in their relations--Mrs. Sherwood consciously, Nan unconsciously--until better days.
The other regular caller was Ben Sansome. His attitude was in some sense detached. He was quietly, deeply sympathetic in his manner, never obtrusive, never even hinting in words at his knowledge of the state of affairs, but managing in some subtle manner to convey the impression that he alone fully understood. Nan found that, without her realization, almost in spite of herself, Sansome had managed to isolate her with himself on a little island of mutual understanding, apart from all the rest of the world.
Her life was now becoming circumscribed. Household, books, some small individual charities, and long afternoon walks filled her days. At first Sansome had accompanied her on these tramps, but the unfailing, almost uncanny insight of the man told him that at such times her spirit really craved solitude, so he soon tactfully ceased all attempts to join her. Her usual walk was over the cliffs toward the bay, where, from some of the elevations near Russian Hill, she could look out to the Golden Gate, or across to Tamalpais or the Contra Costa shores. The crawl of the distant blue water, the flash of wing or sail, the taste of salt rime, the canon shadows of the hills, the flying murk, or the last majestic and magnificent blotting out of the world as the legions of sea fog overtoiled it, all answered or soothed moods in her spirit. Sometimes she forgot herself and overstayed the daylight. At such times she scuttled home half fearfully for the great city, like a jungle beast, was most dangerous at night.
One evening, returning thus in haste, she was lured aside by the clang of bells and the glare of a fire. No child ever resisted that combination, and Nan was still a good deal of a child. Almost before she knew, it she was wedged fast in a crowd. The pressure was suffocating; and, to her alarm, she found herself surrounded by a rough-looking set of men. They were probably harmless workingmen, but Nan did not know that. She became frightened, and tried to escape, but her strength was not equal to it. Near the verge of panic, she was fairly on the point of struggling, when she felt an arm thrown around her shoulder. She looked up with a cry, to meet Ben Sansome's brown eyes.
Don't be afraid; I'm here, he said soothingly.
In the revulsion Nan fairly thrilled under the touch of his manly, protection. This impulse was followed instantly, by an instinct of withdrawal from the embrace about her shoulder, which was in turn succeeded by a fierce scorn of being prudish in such circumstances. Sansome masterfully worked her out through the press. At the last tactful moment he withdrew his arm. She thanked him, still a little frightened.
It was certainly lucky you happened to be here! she ended.
Lucky! he laughed briefly. "I knew that sooner or later you'd need me."
He stopped at that, but allowed her questions to elicit the fact that every afternoon he had followed her at a discreet distance, scrupulously respecting her privacy, but ready for the need that sooner or later must surely arrive. Nan was touched.
You have no right to endanger yourself this way! he cried, as though carried away. "It is not just to those who care for you!" and by the tone of his voice, the look of his eye, the slight emphasizing pressure of his hand he managed to convey to her, but in a manner to which she could not possibly object, his belief that his last phrase referred more to himself than to any one else in the world.
It was about this period that John Sherwood, dressing for dinner, remarked to his wife:
Patsy, the more I see of you the more I admire you. Do you remember that Firemen's Ball when you started in to break up that Keith-Morrell affair? He dropped her so far that I haven't heard her _plunk_ yet! I don't know what made me think of it--it was a long time ago.
Yes, that was all right, she replied thoughtfully, "but I'm not as pleased as I might be with the Keith situation."
Sherwood stopped tying his cravat and turned to face her.
He's perfectly straight, I assure you, he said earnestly. "I don't believe he knows that any other woman but his wife exists. I _know_ that. But I wish he'd go a little easier with the men."
Oh, I wasn't thinking of him. She's the culprit now.
What! cried Sherwood, astonished, "that little innocent baby!"
That 'little innocent baby' is seeing altogether too much of Ben Sansome.
Sherwood uttered a snort of masculine scorn.
Ho! Ben Sansome?
Yes, Ben Sansome.
Why, he's a notorious butterfly.
Well, it looks now as though he intended to alight.
Seriously?
She nodded. Sherwood slowly went on with his dressing.
I like that little creature, he said at last. "She's the sort that strikes me as born to be treated well and to be happy. Some people are that way, you know; just as others are born painters or plumbers." She nodded in appreciation. "And if you give the word, Patsy, I'll go around and have a word with Keith--or spoil Sansome--whichever you say----"
She laughed.
You're a dear, Jack, but if you love me, keep your hands off here.
Are you bossing this job? he asked gravely.
I'm bossing this job, she repeated, with equal gravity.
He said nothing more for a time, but his eyes twinkled.
Keith's investigations proceeded until at last he felt justified in preferring before the Bar Association charges of irregular practice against James Ware, Bernard Black, and--to his great regret--Calhoun Bennett. He conceived he had enough evidence to convict these men legally, but he as yet shrank from asking for an indictment against them, preferring at first to try for their discipline before their fellow lawyers. If the Bar Association failed, however, he had every intention of pressing the matter in the courts.
Almost immediately after the filing of the complaint he was waited on in his office by a man only slightly known to him, Major Marmaduke Miles. The major's occupation in life was obscure. He was a red-faced, tightly buttoned, full-jowled, choleric Southerner of the ultra-punctilious brand, always well dressed in quaint and rather old-fashioned garments, with charming manners, and the reminiscence of good looks lost in a florid and apoplectic habit. This person entered Keith's office, greeted him formally, declined a chair. Standing very erect before Keith's desk, his beaver hat poised on his left forearm, he said:
I am requested, suh, to enquiah of yo' the name of a friend with whom I can confer.
If that means a challenge, Major, I must first ask the name of your principal, returned Keith.
I am actin' fo' Mr. Calhoun Bennett, suh, stated the major.
Tell Cal Bennett I will not fight him, said Keith quietly.
The major was plainly flabbergasted, and for a moment puffed his red cheeks in and out rapidly.
You mean to tell me, suh, that yo' refuse the satisfaction due a gentleman after affrontin' him?
I won't fight Cal Bennett, repeated Keith patiently.
The major turned even redder, and swelled so visibly that Keith, in spite of his sad realization of the gravity of the affair, caught himself guiltily in a boyish anticipation that some of the major's strained buttons would pop.
I shall so repo't to my principal, suh. But I may add, suh, that in my opinion, suh, yo' are conductin' yo'self in a manner unbecomin' to a gentleman; and othuh gentlemen will say so, suh! They may go even farthah and stigmatize yo' conduct as cowardly, suh! And it might even be that I, suh, would agree with that expression, suh!
The major glowered. Keith smiled wearily. It did not to him at the moment that this would be so great a calamity.
I am sorry to have forfeited your good opinion, Major, he contented himself with saying.
The major marched straight back to the Monumental, where Bennett and a number of friends were awaiting the result of his mission. The major's angry passions had been rising, every foot of the way.
He won't fight, suh! he bellowed, slamming his cane across the table. "He won't fight! And I stigmatized him to his face as a white-livered hound!"
Calhoun Bennett sank back pale, and speechless. His companions deluged him with advice.
Horsewhip the craven publicly. "Warn him to go heeled, and then force the issue!" "Shoot him down like the dog he is!"
But the major's mighty bellow dominated everything.
I claim the privilege! he roared. "Egad, I _demand_ the privilege! It is my right! I am insulted by such a rebuff! Now that I have acquitted myself of Cal's errand, I will call him out myself. Ain't that right, Cal? I'll make the hound fight!"
The old major looked redder and fiercer than ever. There could be no doubt that he would make any one fight, once he started out to do so, and that he would carry the matter through. He was brave enough.
But little Jimmy Ware, who had been doing some thinking, here spoke up. It seemed to him a good chance to get a reputation without any risk. Since James King of William had uncompromisingly refused to fight duels, his example had been followed. A strong party of those having conscientious scruples against the practice had come into being. Keith's refusal to fight Bennett, to Ware's mind, indicated that he belonged to this class. It looked safe.
Pardon me, Major, he broke in suavely; "but each in turn. I claim the right. Cal had first chance because he had personally warned the man of the consequences. But I am equally accused. You must admit my prior claim."
The major came off the boil. Puffing his red cheeks in and out he considered.
Yo're right, suh, he conceded reluctantly.
After considerable persuasion, and some flattery as to his familiarity with the niceties of the Code, the major consented to bear Jimmy's defiance. He entered Keith's office again, stiffer than a ramrod. Keith smiled at him.
There's no use, Major, I won't fight Cal Bennett, he greeted his visitor.
I am the bearer of a challenge from Mistah James Ware, he announced.
What! yelled Keith, so suddenly and violently that Major Miles recoiled a step.
From Mistah James Ware, he repeated.
Keith laughed savagely.
Oh, I'll fight him, he growled; "gladly; any time he wants it."
The major's face lit up.
If you'll name yo' friend, suh, he suggested.
Friend? Friend? What for? I'm capable of arranging this. I haven't time to hunt up a friend.
It's customary, objected the major.
Look here, Keith swept on, "I'm the challenged party and I have the say- so, haven't I?"
Yo' can name the weapons, conceded Major Marmaduke Miles.
All right, we'll call this revolvers, navy revolvers--biggest there are, whatever that is. And close up. None of your half-mile shooting.
Ten yards, suggested Major Miles with unholy joy.
And right away--this afternoon, went on Keith. "If that little runt wants trouble, egad he's going to have all his little skin will hold."
But the major would not have this. It was not done. He waived conducting his negotiations through a second, but that was as far as his conventional soul would go. He held out for three o'clock the following afternoon.
And I wish to apologize, Mistah Keith, he said, on parting, "fo' my ill- considered words of a short time ago. I misunderstood yo' reasons fo' refusin' to fight Mistah Bennett."
He bowed his rotund, tightly buttoned little figure and departed, to strike Jimmy Ware with complete consternation.
Duels in the fifties were almost an acknowledged public institution. Although technically illegal, no one was ever convicted of any of the consequences of such encounters. They were conducted quite openly. Indeed, some of the more famous were actively advertised by steamboat men, who carried excursions to the field. Keith's acceptance of Ware's challenge aroused the keenest interest. Outside the prominence of the men involved, a vague feeling was current that in their persons were symbolized opposing forces in the city's growth. As yet these forces had not segregated to that point where champions were demanded, or indeed would be recognized as such, but vague feelings of antagonism, of alignments, were abroad. Those who later would constitute the Law and Order class generally sympathized with Ware; those whom history was to know as the Vigilantes felt stirrings of partisanship for Keith. Therefore, the following afternoon a small flotilla set sail for the Contra Costa shore, and a crowd of several hundred spectators disembarked at the chosen duelling ground.
Nan knew nothing of all this. Keith was now in such depths of low spirits that his wearied soul did not much care what became of him. He put his affairs in shape, shrugged his shoulders, and went to the encounter with absolute indifference.
The preliminaries were soon over. Keith found himself facing Jimmy Ware at the distance he had himself chosen. A double line of spectators stood at a respectful space on either side. Major Miles and an acquaintance of Keith's who had volunteered to act for him were posted nearer at hand. Keith had listened attentively to the instructions. The word was to be given--_one, two, three. Fire!_ Between the first and last words the duellists were to discharge the first shot from their weapons. After that they were to fire at will. One shot would have sufficed Jimmy Ware; but Keith, without emotion, filed with a dead indifference to any possible danger and a savage contempt for the whole proceedings, had insisted on the full measure. He was totally unaccustomed to weapons. At the word of command he raised the revolver and fired, carelessly but coolly, and without result. One after the other he discharged the six chambers of his weapon, aiming as well as he knew how. It did not occur to him that Ware was firing at him. After the sixth miss he threw the revolver away in cold disgust.
This is a farce, said he, "and I'm not going to be fool enough to take part in it any longer."
Jimmy Ware, delighted at finding himself unharmed, and confident now that bluff would go, started to say something lofty and disdainful. Keith whirled back on him.
If you want 'satisfaction,' as you call it, you'll get it, and you'll get it plenty! I'm sick of being made a fool of. Just open your ugly head to me again, and I'll knock it off your shoulders! His eye smouldered dangerously, and Jimmy Ware, very uncertain in his mind, took refuge in a haughty look. Keith glared at him moment, then turned to the crowd: "I'll give all of you fair warning," said he. "I'm going to do my legal duty in all things; and I'm not going to fight duels. Anybody who interferes with me is going to get into trouble!"
An uproar ensued. All this was most irregular, unprecedented, a disgrace to a gentlemen's meeting. The major roared like a bull. If a man would not fight, would not defend his actions, how could a gentleman get at him except by street brawling or assassination, and both of these were repugnant to finer feelings. A dozen fire-eaters felt themselves personally insulted. The crowd surrounded Keith, shouting at him, jostling him, threatening. A cool, somewhat amused voice broke in.
Gentlemen, said Talbot Ward, in so decided a tone that they turned to hear. "I am a neutral non-partisan in this little war, I am for neither party, for neither opinion, in the matter. I, like Mr, Keith, never fight duels. But may I suggest--merely in the interest of fair play--that for the moment you are forgetting yourselves? My opinion coincides with Mr. Keith's that duelling is a foolish sort of game, but it is a game, and recognized; and if you are going to play it, why not stick to its rules? Mr. Keith, and Mr. Ware have exchanged shots. Mr. Ware has therefore had 'satisfaction.' Now Mr. Keith and I going to walk--quietly--to the boat. We do not expect to be molested."
By God, Tal! cried Major Miles in astonishment, "ye' don't mean to tell me yo're linin' yourself up on the side of that blackleg!"
Well, put in a new voice, a very cheerful voice, "I don't pretend to be neutral, and I'd just as lief fight duels as not, and I'm willing to state to you all that though I don't know a damn thing about this case nor its merits, I like this man's style. And I'm ready to state that I'll take his place and fight any--or all of you--right here and now. You, Major?"
All eyes turned to him. He was a dark, eager youth, standing with his slouch hat in his hand, his head thrown back, his mop of shiny black hair tossed from his forehead, his eyes glowing. The major hummed and fussed.
I have absolutely no quarrel with you, suh! he said.
Nor with my friend yonder? insisted the newcomer.
I should esteem it beneath my dignity to fight with a craven and a coward, suh! the major saved his face.
The stranger glanced at Keith, an amused light in his eyes.
We'll let it go at that, he conceded. "Anybody else?" he challenged, eying them.
Every one seemed busy getting ready to go home, and appeared not to hear him. After a moment he put on his felt hat and joined Keith and Ward, who were walking slowly toward the landing.
Well, remarked a rough-looking Yankee--our old friend Graves of the Eurekas to his friend Carter--"I didn't know anything would cool off the major like that!"
I reckon the major knew who he was talking to, replied Carter.
Who is the cuss? I never saw him before.
Don't you know him? I reckon you must have heard of him, anyway. He's just down from the Sierra. That's the express rider, Johnny Fairfax--Diamond Jack, they call him.
Graves whistled an enlightened whistle.
Johnny Fairfax accompanied Keith all the way back to his office, although Talbot Ward said good-bye at the wharves. He bubbled over with conversation and enthusiasm, and seemed to have taken a great fancy to the lawyer. The theme of his glancing talk was the duel, over which he was immensely amused; but from it he diverged on the slightest occasion to comment on whatever for the moment struck his notice.
That was certainly the rottenest shooting I ever saw! he exclaimed over and over, and then would go off into peals of laughter. "I don't see how twelve shots at that distance could miss! After the second exchange I concluded even the side line wasn't safe, and I got behind a tree. Pays to be prompt In your decision; there were a hundred applicants for that tree a moment later, The bloodless duel as a parlour amusement! You ought to have charged that large and respectable audience an admission fee! That's a good idea; I'll present it to you! If you ever have another due, you must have a good manager! There's money in it!"
Keith laughed a trifle ruefully,
I suppose it was funny, he acknowledged.
Now don't get huffy, begged Johnny Fairfax. "What you ought to do is to learn to shoot. You'll probably need to know how if you keep on living around here," His eye fell on a shooting gallery. "Come in here," he urged impulsively.
The proprietor was instructed to load his pistols and for a dozen shots Keith was coached vehemently in the elementals of shooting--taught at least the theory of pulling steadily, of coordinating various muscles and psychological processes that were not at all used to cooerdination. He learned that mere steady aiming was a small part of it.
Anybody can do wonderful shooting with an empty pistol, said Johnny contemptuously. "And anybody can hold as steady as a rock--until he pulls the trigger."
It's interesting, conceded Keith; "mighty interesting. I didn't know there was so much to it."
Of course it's interesting, said Johnny. "And you're only at the rudiments. Look here!"
And, to the astonishment of Keith, the worshipful adoration of the shooting-gallery proprietor, and the awe of the usual audience that gathered at the sound of the reports, he proceeded to give an exhibition of the skill that had made him famous. The shooting galleries of those days used no puny twenty-twos. Derringers, pocket revolvers, and the huge "navies" were at hand--with reduced loads, naturally--for those who in habitual life affected these weapons. Johnny shot with all of them, displaying the tricks of the gunman with all the naive enthusiasm of youth. His manner throughout was that engaging mixture of modesty afraid of being thought conceited and eager pride in showing his skill so attractive to everybody. At first he shot deliberately, splitting cards, hitting marbles, and devastating whole rows of clay pipes. Then he took to secreting the weapons in various pockets from which he produced and discharged them in lightning time. His hand darted with the speed and precision of a snake's head.
I've just been fooling with shooting things tossed in the air, he said, exuberant with enthusiasm. "But I'm afraid we can't try that here."
I'm afraid not, agreed the proprietor regretfully.
It really isn't very hard, once you get the knack.
Oh, no, said the proprietor with elaborate sarcasm. "Say," he went on earnestly, "I suppose it ain't no use trying to hire you--"
Johnny shook his head, smiling.
I was afraid not, observed the proprietor disappointedly. "You'd be the making of this place. Drop in any time you want practice. Won't cost you a cent. Would you mind telling me your name?"
Fairfax, replied Johnny, gruffly embarrassed.
Not Diamond Jack? hesitated the proprietor.
I'm sometimes called that, conceded Johnny, still more gruffly. "How much is it?"
Not one gosh-danged continental red cent, cried the man, "and I'm pleased to meet you."
Johnny shook his extended hand, mumbled something, and bolted for the street. Keith followed, laughing.
It seems you're quite a celebrity, he observed.
But Johnny refused to pursue that subject.
You come with me and buy you a pistol, he growled. "You ought not to be allowed loose. You're as helpless as a baby."
Johnny picked out a small .31 calibre revolver and a supply of ammunition.
Now you practise! was his final warning and advice.
Keith went home with a new glow at his heart. He was ripe for a friend.
Johnny seemed to have little to do for the moment. He never volunteered information as to his business or his plans, and Keith never inquired. But the young express rider fell into the habit of dropping in at Keith's office. He was always very apologetic and solicitous as to whether or no he was interrupting, saying that he had stopped for only ten seconds; but he invariably ended in the swivel chair with a good cigar. Keith was at this time busy; but he was never too busy for Johnny Fairfax. The latter was a luxury to which he treated himself. Johnny was not only welcome because he was practically Keith's only friend, but also his frank and engaging comments on men and things were gradually giving the harassed lawyer a new point of view on the society in which he found himself. Keith, as a newcomer in a community already established, had naturally accepted the prominent figures in that community as he would have accepted prominent figures anywhere: that is, as respectable, formidable, admirable, solid, unquestioned pillars of society. He was of a modest disposition and disinclined to question. He respected them as any modest young man respects those older and more successful than himself. For the same reason he accepted their views and their authority; or, if he questioned them, he did so sadly, almost guiltily, with many heart-searchings.
But Johnny Fairfax held no such attitude. Not he! The city's great names had scant respect from him! Not for an instant did he hesitate to criticise or analyze the most renowned. It was not long before he learned all about the Cora trial and Keith's subsequent efforts to discipline McDougall and his associates.
I hope you get 'em! said he; "the whole lot! I don't know much about this McDougall; but I do know his friends, and most of 'em aren't worth thinkin' about. They're big people here, but back where I came from, in old Virginia, the best of 'em wouldn't be overseers on a plantation. That's why they like it so much out here. Look at that gang! Casey has been in the penitentiary, Rowlee ran some little blackleg sheet down South until they run him out---I tell you, sir, as a Southerner I'm not proud of the Southerners out here. They're a cheap lot, most of 'em. They were a cheap lot home. The only difference is that back there everybody knew it, and out here everybody thinks they're great people because they get up on their hind legs and say so out loud. That old bluff, Major Miles, he was put out of a Richmond club, sir, for cheatin' at cards--I know that for a fact!"
Somehow, this frank criticism was like a breeze of fresh air to Keith: it put new courage into him. Johnny Fairfax had no interests in the city; he had no fear; his viewpoint was free from all sham; he was newly in from the outside. Through his eyes things fell into perspective. Suddenly San Francisco upper society became to Keith what it really was: a welter of cheap, bragging, venal, self-seeking men, with here and there an honest fine character standing high above. And he began, but dimly, to see that the real men of the place were not--as yet--well known. Probably one of the most impressive and typical figures of the time was Justice of the Supreme Court Terry. In the eyes of those too close to events to have a clear sense of proportion, he was one of the great men of his period. Courtly, handsome, with haughty manners, of aristocratic bearing, fiercely proud, touchily quarrelsome on "points of honour," generous but a bitter hater, he and his equally handsome, proud, and fiery wife were considered by many people of the time as embodying the ideal of Southern chivalry. But Johnny Fairfax would have none of it.
He a typical Southern gentleman! he laughed, "As being born in the South myself, I repudiate that! I know too much about Terry. Why, look here: he's a good sport, and he's got ability, and he makes friends, and he isn't afraid of anything, But then you stop. He's not a gentleman! It shows most particularly when he gets mad. Then he'll throw over anything--anything--to have his own way. He's a big man now, but he won't be knee-high to a June bug before he gets done."
Johnny's prediction was long in fulfilment, but a score of years later it came to pass, and Judge Terry's reputation has sunk almost to the level of that of his brother on the bench--Judge "Ned" McGowan.
They're all a bad lot, Johnny finished, "and I hope you lick them! You don't know all the good folks in this town yet!"
Calhoun Bennett dropped the matter, and contented himself with cutting Keith dead whenever they happened to meet. Jimmy Ware and Black were men of a different sort; indeed McDougall had made them his associates mainly because of their knowledge of the city's darker phases and their unscrupulousness. In the admirable organization thus sketched Calhoun Bennett had acted as a sort of go-between.
After the duel these two precious citizens held many anxious consultations. They could not tell just how much evidence Keith had succeeded in gathering, but they knew that plenty of it existed. If the matter came to an issue, they suspected the consequences might be serious. Either Keith or his evidence must in some way be got rid of. Black, who was inclined by instinct and training to be direct, was in favour of the simple expedient of hiring assassins.
Won't do, negatived the more astute Ware. "The thing will be traced back to us--not legally, of course, but to a moral certainty, and while they won't be able to prove anything on us, the state of the public mind is such that hell would pop."
He says he won't fight another duel, said Black doubtfully.
No.
We've got to kill him in a street quarrel, then.
He's got to be killed in a street quarrel, amended Ware, "that's certain; but nobody even remotely connected with this Cora trial must seem to have anything to do with it. It must have the appearance of a private quarrel from away outside. Otherwise----"
Got anybody in mind? asked the practical Black.
Yes, and he ought to be here at any moment.
As though Jimmy Ware's words had been the cue for which he waited, Morrell here entered the room.
At three o'clock in the afternoon of May 14, 1856, the current issue of the _Bulletin_ was placed on sale. A very few minutes later a copy found its way into the hands of James Casey. Casey at that time, in addition to his political cares, was editor of a small sheet he called the _Sunday Times_. With this he had strenuously supported the extreme wing of the Law party, which, as has been explained, comprised also the gambling and lawless element. It was suspected by some that his paper was more or less subsidized for the purpose, though the probability is that Casey found his reward merely in political support. This Casey it was who, to his own vast surprise, had at a previous election been returned as elected supervisor; although he was not a candidate, his name was not on the ticket, and no man could be found who had voted for him. Indeed, he was not even a resident of the district. However, Yankee Sullivan, who ran the election, said officially the votes had been cast for him; so elected he was proclaimed. Undoubtedly he proved useful; he had always proved useful at elections elsewhere, seldom appearing in person, but adept at selecting suitable agents. His methods were devious, dishonest, and rough. He was head of the Crescent Fire Engine Company, and was personally popular. In appearance he was a short, slight man, with a bright, keen face, a good forehead, a thin but florid countenance, dark curly hair, and light blue eyes, a type of unscrupulous Irish adventurer with a dash of romantic ideals. Like all the gentlemen rovers of his time, he was exceedingly touchy on the subject of "honour."
In the _Bulletin_ of the date mentioned James Casey read these words, apropos of the threat of one Bagby to shoot Casey on sight:
It does not matter how bad a man Casey had been, or how much benefit it might be to the public to have him out of the way, we cannot accord to any one citizen the right to kill him, or even beat him, without justifiable provocation. The fact that Casey has been an inmate of Sing Sing prison in New York is no offence against the laws of this State; nor is the fact of his having stuffed himself through the ballot box, as elected to the Board of Supervisors from a district where it is said he was not even a candidate, any justification for Mr. Bagby to shoot Casey, however richly the latter may deserve to have his neck stretched for such fraud on the public.
Casey read this in the full knowledge that thousands of his fellow-citizens would also read it. His thin face turned white with anger. He crumpled the paper into a ball and hurled it violently into the gutter, settled his hat more firmly on his head, and proceeded at once to the _Bulletin_ office with the full intention of shooting King on sight. Probably he would have done so, save for the accidental circumstance that King happened to be busy at a table, his back squarely to the door. Casey could not shoot a man in the back without a word. He was breathless and stuttering with excitement. King was alone, but an open door into an adjoining office permitted two witnesses to see and hear.
What do you mean by that article? cried Casey in a strangled voice.
King turned slowly, and examined his visitor for a moment.
What article? he inquired at last.
That which says I was formerly an inmate of Sing Sing!
King gazed at him with a depth of detached, patient sadness in his dark eyes.
Is it not true? he asked finally.
That is not the question, retorted Casey, trying again to work himself up to the rage in which he had entered. "I do not wish my past acts rated up: on that point I am sensitive."
A faint smile came and went on King's lips.
Are you done? he asked still quietly; then, receiving no reply, he turned in his chair and leaned forward with a sudden intensity. His next words hit with the impact of bullets: "There's the door! Go! Never show your face here again!" he commanded.
Casey found himself moving toward the open door. He did not want to do this, he wanted to shoot King, or at least to provoke a quarrel, but he was for the moment overcome by a stronger personality. At the door he gathered himself together a little.
I'll say in my paper what I please! he asserted, with a show of bravado.
King was leaning back, watching him steadily.
You have a perfect right to do so, he rejoined. "I shall never notice your paper."
Casey struck himself on the breast.
And if necessary I shall defend myself! he cried.
King's passivity broke. He bounded from his seat bristling with anger.
Go! he commanded sharply, and Casey went.