The Black Bag by Louis Joseph Vance

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"Oh, poor Mr. Kirkwood! And it's all because of me! You've beggared
yourself--"

"Not precisely; I was beggared to begin with." He hastened to disclaim the
extravagant generosity of which she accused him. "I had only three or four
pounds to my name that night we met.... I haven't told you--I--"

"You've told me nothing, nothing whatever about yourself," she said
reproachfully.

"I didn't want to bother you with my troubles; I tried not to talk about
myself.... You knew I was an American, but I'm worse than that; I'm a
Californian--from San Francisco." He tried unsuccessfully to make light of
it. "I told you I was the Luckless Wonder; if I'd ever had any luck I would
have stored a little money away. As it was, I lived on my income, left
my principal in 'Frisco; and when the earthquake came, it wiped me out
completely."

"And you were going home that night we made you miss your steamer!"

"It was my own fault, and I'm glad this blessed minute that I did miss it.
Nice sort I'd have been, to go off and leave you at the mercy--"

"Please! I want to think, I'm trying to remember how much you've gone
through--"

"Precisely what I don't want you to do. Anyway, I did nothing more than any
other fellow would've! Please don't give me credit that I don't deserve."

But she was not listening; and a pause fell, while the train crawled warily
over the trestle, as if in fear of the foul, muddy flood below.

"And there's no way I can repay you...."

"There's nothing to be repaid," he contended stoutly.

She clasped her hands and let them fall gently in her lap. "I've not
a farthing in the world!... I never dreamed.... I'm so sorry, Mr.
Kirkwood--terribly, terribly sorry!... But what can we do? I can't consent
to be a burden--"

"But you're not! You're the one thing that ..." He swerved sharply, at an
abrupt tangent. "There's one thing we can do, of course."

She looked up inquiringly.

"Craven Street is just round the corner."

"Yes?"--wonderingly.

"I mean we must go to Mrs. Hallam's house, first off.... It's too
late now,--after five, else we could deposit the jewels in some bank.
Since--since they are no longer yours, the only thing, and the proper thing
to do is to place them in safety or in the hands of their owner. If you
take them directly to young Hallam, your hands will be clear.... And--I
never did such a thing in my life, Miss Calendar; but if he's got a spark
of gratitude in his make-up, I ought to be able to--er--to borrow a pound
or so of him."

"Do you think so?" She shook her head in doubt. "I don't know; I know so
little of such things.... You are right; we must take him the jewels,
but..." Her voice trailed off into a sigh of profound perturbation.

He dared not meet her look.

Beneath his wandering gaze a County Council steam-boat darted swiftly
down-stream from Charing Cross pier, in the shadow of the railway bridge.
It seemed curious to reflect that from that very floating pier he had
started first upon his quest of the girl beside him, only--he had to
count--three nights ago! Three days and three nights! Altogether incredible
seemed the transformation they had wrought in the complexion of the world.
Yet nothing material was changed.... He lifted his eyes.

Beyond the river rose the Embankment, crawling with traffic, backed by the
green of the gardens and the shimmering walls of glass and stone of the
great hotels, their windows glowing weirdly golden in the late sunlight.
A little down-stream Cleopatra's Needle rose, sadly the worse for London
smoke, flanked by its couchant sphinxes, wearing a nimbus of circling,
sweeping, swooping, wheeling gulls. Farther down, from the foot of that
magnificent pile, Somerset House, Waterloo Bridge sprang over-stream in
its graceful arch.... All as of yesterday; yet all changed. Why? Because a
woman had entered into his life; because he had learned the lesson of love
and had looked into the bright face of Romance....

With a jar the train started and began to move more swiftly.

Kirkwood lifted the traveling bag to his knees.

"Don't forget," he said with some difficulty, "you're to stick by me,
whatever happens. You mustn't desert me."

"You _know_," the girl reproved him.

"I know; but there must be no misunderstanding.... Don't worry; we'll win
out yet, I've a plan."

_Splendide mendax_! He had not the glimmering of a plan.

The engine panting, the train drew in beneath the vast sounding dome of the
station, to an accompaniment of dull thunderings; and stopped finally.

Kirkwood got out, not without a qualm of regret at leaving the compartment;
therein, at least, they had some title to consideration, by virtue of their
tickets; now they were utterly vagabondish, penniless adventurers.

The girl joined him. Slowly, elbow to elbow, the treasure bag between
them, they made their way down toward the gates, atoms in a tide-rip
of humanity,--two streams of passengers meeting on the narrow strip of
platform, the one making for the streets, the other for the suburbs.

Hurried and jostled, the girl clinging tightly to his arm lest they be
separated in the crush, they came to the ticket-wicket; beyond the barrier
surged a sea of hats--shining "toppers," dignified and upstanding, the
outward and visible manifestation of the sturdy, stodgy British spirit of
respectability; "bowlers" round and sleek and humble; shapeless caps with
cloth visors, manufactured of outrageous plaids; flower-like miracles of
millinery from Bond Street; strangely plumed monstrosities from Petticoat
Lane and Mile End Road. Beneath any one of these might lurk the maleficent
brain, the spying eyes of Calendar or one of his creatures; beneath all of
them that he encountered, Kirkwood peered in fearful inquiry.

Yet, when they had passed unhindered the ordeal of the wickets, had run
the gantlet of those thousand eyes without lighting in any pair a spark of
recognition, he began to bear himself with more assurance, to be sensible
to a grateful glow of hope. Perhaps Hobbs' telegram had not reached its
destination, for unquestionably the mate would have wired his chief;
perhaps some accident had befallen the conspirators; perhaps the police had
apprehended them.... No matter how, one hoped against hope that they had
been thrown off the trail.

And indeed it seemed as if they must have been misguided in some
providential manner. On the other hand, it would be the crassest of
indiscretions to linger about the place an instant longer than absolutely
necessary.

Outside the building, however, they paused perforce, undergoing the
cross-fire of the congregated cabbies. It being the first time that he
had ever felt called upon to leave the station afoot, Kirkwood cast about
irresolutely, seeking the sidewalk leading to the Strand.

Abruptly he caught the girl by the arm and unceremoniously hurried her
toward a waiting hansom.

"Quick!" he begged her. "Jump right in--not an instant to spare.--"

She nodded brightly, lips firm with courage, eyes shining.

"My father?"

"Yes." Kirkwood glanced back over his shoulder. "He hasn't seen us yet.
They've just driven up. Stryker's with him. They're getting down." And to
himself, "Oh, the devil!" cried the panic-stricken young man.

He drew back to let the girl precede him into the cab; at the same time
he kept an eye on Calendar, whose conveyance stood half the length of the
station-front away.

The fat adventurer had finished paying off the driver, standing on the deck
of the hansom. Stryker was already out, towering above the mass of people,
and glaring about him with his hawk-keen vision. Calendar had started to
alight, his foot was leaving the step when Stryker's glance singled out
their quarry. Instantly he turned and spoke to his confederate. Calendar
wheeled like a flash, peering eagerly in the direction indicated by the
captain's index finger, then, snapping instructions to his driver, threw
himself heavily back on the seat. Stryker, awkward on his land-legs,
stumbled and fell in an ill-calculated attempt to hoist himself hastily
back into the vehicle.

To the delay thus occasioned alone Kirkwood and Dorothy owed a respite of
freedom. Their hansom was already swinging down toward the great gates of
the yard, the American standing to make the driver comprehend the necessity
for using the utmost speed in reaching the Craven Street address. The man
proved both intelligent and obliging; Kirkwood had barely time to drop down
beside the girl, ere the cab was swinging out into the Strand, to the peril
of the toes belonging to a number of righteously indignant pedestrians.

"Good boy!" commented Kirkwood cheerfully. "That's the greatest comfort of
all London, the surprising intellectual strength the average cabby displays
when you promise him a tip.... Great Heavens!" he cried, reading the girl's
dismayed expression. "A tip! I never thought--!" His face lengthened
dismally, his eyebrows working awry. "Now we are in for it!"

Dorothy said nothing.

He turned in the seat, twisting his neck to peep through the small rear
window. "I don't see their cab," he announced. "But of course they're after
us. However, Craven Street's just round the corner; if we get there
first, I don't fancy Freddie Hallam will have a cordial reception for our
pursuers. They must've been on watch at Cannon Street, and finding we were
not coming in that way--of course they were expecting us because of Hobbs'
wire--they took cab for Charing Cross. Lucky for us.... Or is it lucky?" he
added doubtfully, to himself.

The hansom whipped round the corner into Craven Street. Kirkwood sprang up,
grasping the treasure bag, ready to jump the instant they pulled in toward
Mrs. Hallam's dwelling. But as they drew near upon the address he drew back
with an exclamation of amazement.

The house was closed, showing a blank face to the street--blinds drawn
close down in the windows, area gate padlocked, an estate-agent's board
projecting from above the doorway, advertising the property "To be let,
furnished."

Kirkwood looked back, craning his neck round the side of the cab. At the
moment another hansom was breaking through the rank of humanity on the
Strand crossing. He saw one or two figures leap desperately from beneath
the horse's hoofs. Then the cab shot out swiftly down the street.

The American stood up again, catching the cabby's eye.

"Drive on!" he cried excitedly. "Don't stop--drive as fast as you dare!"

"W'ere to, sir?"

"See that cab behind? Don't let it catch us--shake it off, lose it somehow,
but for the love of Heaven don't let it catch us! I'll make it worth your
while. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir!" The driver looked briefly over his shoulder and lifted his
whip. "Don't worry, sir," he cried, entering into the spirit of the game
with gratifying zest. "Shan't let 'em over'aul you, sir. Mind your 'ead!"

And as Kirkwood ducked, the whip-lash shot out over the roof with a crack
like the report of a pistol. Startled, the horse leaped indignantly
forward. Momentarily the cab seemed to leave the ground, then settled
down to a pace that carried them round the Avenue Theatre and across
Northumberland Avenue into Whitehall Place apparently on a single wheel.

A glance behind showed Kirkwood that already they had gained, the pursuing
hansom having lost ground through greater caution in crossing the
main-traveled thoroughfare.

"Good little horse!" he applauded.

A moment later he was indorsing without reserve the generalship of their
cabby; the quick westward turn that took them into Whitehall, over across
from the Horse Guards, likewise placed them in a pocket of traffic; a
practically impregnable press of vehicles closed in behind them ere
Calendar's conveyance could follow out of the side street.

That the same conditions, but slightly modified, hemmed them in ahead, went
for nothing in Kirkwood's estimation.

"Good driver!" he approved heartily. "He's got a head on his shoulders!"

The girl found her voice. "How," she demanded in a breath, face blank with
consternation, "how did you dare?"

"Dare?" he echoed exultantly; and in his veins excitement was running like
liquid fire. "What wouldn't I dare for you, Dorothy?"

"What have you not?" she amended softly, adding with a shade of timidity:
"Philip..."

The long lashes swept up from her cheeks, like clouds revealing stars,
unmasking eyes radiant and brave to meet his own; then they fell, even as
her lips drooped with disappointment. And she sighed.... For he was not
looking. Man-like, hot with the ardor of the chase, he was deaf and blind
to all else.

She saw that he had not even heard. Twice within the day she had forgotten
herself, had overstepped the rigid bounds of her breeding in using his
Christian name. And twice he had been oblivious to that token of their
maturing understanding. So she sighed, and sighing, smiled again; resting
an elbow on the window-sill and flattening one small gloved hand against
the frame for a brace against the jouncing of the hansom. It swept on with
unabated speed, up-stream beside the tawny reaches of the river; and for
a time there was no speech between them, the while the girl lost
consciousness of self and her most imminent peril, surrendering her being
to the lingering sweetness of her long, dear thoughts....

"I've got a scheme!" Kirkwood declared so explosively that she caught her
breath with the surprise of it. "There's the Pless; they know me there, and
my credit's good. When we shake them off, we can have the cabby take us to
the hotel. I'll register and borrow from the management enough to pay our
way to Chiltern and the tolls for a cable to New York. I've a friend or two
over home who wouldn't let me want for a few miserable pounds.... So you
see," he explained boyishly, "we're at the end of our troubles already!"

She said something inaudible, holding her face averted. He bent nearer to
her, wondering. "I didn't understand," he suggested.

Still looking from him, "I said you were very good to me," she said in a
quavering whisper.

"Dorothy!" Without his knowledge or intention before the fact, as
instinctively as he made use of her given name, intimately, his strong
fingers dropped and closed upon the little hand that lay beside him. "What
_is_ the matter, dear?" He leaned still farther forward to peer into her
face, till glance met glance in the ending and his racing pulses tightened
with sheer delight of the humid happiness in her glistening eyes. "Dorothy,
child, don't worry so. No harm shall come to you. It's all working out--all
working out _right_. Only have a little faith in me, and I'll _make_
everything work out right, Dorothy."

Gently she freed her fingers. "I wasn't," she told him in a voice that
quivered between laughter and tears, "I wasn't worrying. I was ... You
wouldn't understand. Don't be afraid I shall break down or--or anything."

"I shan't," he reassured her; "I know you're not that sort. Besides,
you'd have no excuse. We're moving along famously. That cabby knows his
business."

In fact that gentleman was minute by minute demonstrating his peculiar
fitness for the task he had so cheerfully undertaken. The superior
horsemanship of the London hackney cabman needs no exploitation, and he
in whose hands rested the fate of the Calendar treasure was peer of his
compeers. He was instant to advantage himself of every opening to forward
his pliant craft, quick to foresee the fortunes of the way and govern
himself accordingly.

Estimating with practised eye the precise moment when the police supervisor
of traffic at the junction of Parliament and Bridge Streets, would see
fit to declare a temporary blockade, he so managed that his was the last
vehicle to pass ere the official wand, to ignore which involves a forfeited
license, was lifted; and indeed, so close was his calculation that he
escaped only with a scowl and word of warning from the bobby. A matter of
no importance whatever, since his end was gained and the pursuing cab had
been shut off by the blockade.

In Calendar's driver, however, he had an adversary of abilities by no means
to be despised. Precisely how the man contrived it, is a question; that he
made a detour by way of Derby Street is not improbable, unpleasant as it
may have been for Stryker and Calendar to find themselves in such close
proximity to "the Yard." At all events, he evaded the block, and hardly
had the chase swung across Bridge Street, than the pursuer was nimbly
clattering in its wake.

Past the Houses of Parliament, through Old Palace Yard, with the Abbey on
their left, they swung away into Abingdon Street, whence suddenly they
dived into the maze of backways, great and mean, which lies to the south of
Victoria. Doubling and twisting, now this way, now that, the driver tooled
them through the intricate heart of this labyrinth, leading the pursuers
a dance that Kirkwood thought calculated to dishearten and shake off the
pursuit in the first five minutes. Yet always, peering back through the
little peephole, he saw Calendar's cab pelting doggedly in their rear--a
hundred yards behind, no more, no less, hanging on with indomitable grit
and determination.

By degrees they drew westwards, threading Pimlico, into Chelsea--once
dashing briefly down the Grosvenor Road, the Thames a tawny flood beyond
the river wall.

Children cheered them on, and policemen turned to stare, doubting whether
they should interfere. Minutes rolled into tens, measuring out an hour;
and still they hammered on, hunted and hunters, playing their game of
hare-and-hounds through the highways and byways of those staid and aged
quarters.

In the leading cab there were few words spoken. Kirkwood and Dorothy alike
sat spellbound with the fascination of the game; if it is conceivable
that the fox enjoys his part in the day's sport, then they were enjoying
themselves. Now one spoke, now another--chiefly in the clipped phraseology,
of excitement. As--

"We're gaining?"

"Yes--think so."

Or, "We'll tire them out?"

"Sure-ly."

"They can't catch us, can they, Philip?"

"Never in the world."

But he spoke with a confidence that he himself did not feel, for hope as
he would he could never see that the distance between the two had been
materially lessened or increased. Their horses seemed most evenly matched.

The sun was very low behind the houses of the Surrey Side when Kirkwood
became aware that their horse was flagging, though (as comparison
determined) no more so than the one behind.

In grave concern the young man raised his hand, thrusting open the trap
in the roof. Immediately the square of darkling sky was eclipsed by the
cabby's face.

"Yessir?"

"You had better drive as directly as you can to the Hotel Pless," Kirkwood
called up. "I'm afraid it's no use pushing your horse like this."

"I'm sure of it, sir. 'E's a good 'oss, 'e is, but 'e carn't keep goin' for
hever, you know, sir."

"I know. You've done very well; you've done your best."

"Very good, sir. The Pless, you said, sir? Right."

The trap closed.

Two blocks farther, and their pace had so sensibly moderated that Kirkwood
was genuinely alarmed. The pursuing cabby was lashing his animal without
mercy, while, "It aren't no use my w'ippin' 'im, sir," dropped through the
trap. "'E's doing orl 'e can."

"I understand."

Despondent recklessness tightened Kirkwood's lips and kindled an unpleasant
light in his eyes. He touched his side pocket; Calendar's revolver was
still there.... Dorothy should win away clear, if--if he swung for it.

He bent forward with the traveling bag in his hands.

"What are you going to do?" The girl's voice was very tremulous.

"Stand a chance, take a losing hazard. Can you run? You're not too tired?"

"I can run--perhaps not far--a little way, at least."

"And will you do as I say?"

Her eyes met his, unwavering, bespeaking her implicit faith.

"Promise!"

"I promise."

"We'll have to drop off in a minute. The horse won't last.... They're in
the same box. Well, I undertake to stand 'em off for a bit; you take the
bag and run for it. Just as soon as I can convince them, I'll follow, but
if there's any delay, you call the first cab you see and drive to the
Pless. I'll join you there."

He stood up, surveying the neighborhood. Behind him the girl lifted her
voice in protest.

"No, Philip, no!"

"You've promised," he said sternly, eyes ranging the street.

"I don't care; I won't leave you."

He shook his head in silent contradiction, frowning; but not frowning
because of the girl's mutiny. He was a little puzzled by a vague
impression, and was striving to pin it down for recognition; but was so
thoroughly bemused with fatigue and despair that only with great difficulty
could he force his faculties to logical reasoning, his memory to respond to
his call upon it.

The hansom was traversing a street in Old Brompton--a quaint, prim by-way
lined with dwellings singularly Old-Worldish, even for London. He seemed
to know it subjectively, to have retained a memory of it from another
existence: as the stage setting of a vivid dream, all forgotten, will
sometimes recur with peculiar and exasperating intensity, in broad
daylight. The houses, with their sloping, red-tiled roofs, unexpected
gables, spontaneous dormer windows, glass panes set in leaded frames, red
brick façades trimmed with green shutters and doorsteps of white stone,
each sitting back, sedate and self-sufficient, in its trim dooryard fenced
off from the public thoroughfare: all wore an aspect hauntingly familiar,
and yet strange.

A corner sign, remarked in passing, had named the spot "Aspen Villas";
though he felt he knew the sound of those syllables as well as he did
the name of the Pless, strive as he might he failed to make them convey
anything tangible to his intelligence. When had he heard of it? At what
time had his errant footsteps taken him through this curious survival of
Eighteenth Century London?

Not that it mattered when. It could have no possible bearing on the
emergency. He really gave it little thought; the mental processes recounted
were mostly subconscious, if none the less real. His objective attention
was wholly preoccupied with the knowledge that Calendar's cab was drawing
perilously near. And he was debating whether or not they should alight
at once and try to make a better pace afoot, when the decision was taken
wholly out of his hands.

Blindly staggering on, wilted with weariness, the horse stumbled in the
shafts and plunged forward on its knees. Quick as the driver was to pull it
up, with a cruel jerk of the bits, Kirkwood was caught unprepared; lurching
against the dashboard, he lost his footing, grasped frantically at the
unstable air, and went over, bringing up in a sitting position in the
gutter, with a solid shock that jarred his very teeth.

For a moment dazed he sat there blinking; by the time he got to his feet,
the girl stood beside him, questioning him with keen solicitude.

"No," he gasped; "not hurt--only surprised. Wait...."

Their cab had come to a complete standstill; Calendar's was no more than
twenty yards behind, and as Kirkwood caught sight of him the fat adventurer
was in the act of lifting himself ponderously out of the seat.

Incontinently the young man turned to the girl and forced the traveling-bag
into her hands.

"Run for it!" he begged her. "Don't stop to argue. You promised--run! I'll
come...."

"Philip!" she pleaded.

"Dorothy!" he cried in torment.

Perhaps it was his unquestionable distress that weakened her. Suddenly she
yielded--with whatever reason. He was only hazily aware of the swish of her
skirts behind him; he had no time to look round and see that she got away
safely. He had only eyes and thoughts for Calendar and Stryker.

They were both afoot, now, and running toward him, the one as awkward as
the other, but neither yielding a jot of their malignant purpose. He held
the picture of it oddly graphic in his memory for many a day thereafter:
Calendar making directly, for him, his heavy-featured face a dull red with
the exertion, his fat head dropped forward as if too heavy for his neck of
a bull, his small eyes bright with anger; Stryker shying off at a discreet
angle, evidently with the intention of devoting himself to the capture of
the girl; the two cabs with their dejected screws, at rest in the middle of
the quiet, twilit street. He seemed even to see himself, standing stockily
prepared, hands in his coat pockets, his own head inclined with a
suggestion of pugnacity.

To this mental photograph another succeeds, of the same scene an instant
later; all as it had been before, their relative positions unchanged, save
that Stryker and Calendar had come to a dead stop, and that Kirkwood's
right arm was lifted and extended, pointing at the captain.

So forgetful of self was he, that it required a moment's thought to
convince him that he was really responsible for the abrupt transformation.
Incredulously he realized that he had drawn Calendar's revolver and pulled
Stryker up short, in mid-stride, by the mute menace of it, as much as by
his hoarse cry of warning:

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