Despite the probability that the lawyer had told the truth, the night passed in vigilant waiting. The two pugilists curled upon the sofa; O’Leary dozed in the big chair, while Dangerfield, at the great Florentine table, his chin sunk in his palms, stared ahead of him, the long periods of immobility broken only by brief nervous resorting to the cards. Inga, by his side, sought to occupy her mind with a novel. From the moment she had learned from the lawyer of the divorce, her attitude toward Dangerfield had taken on an unwonted reserve. It was long after midnight when he turned and looked at her. She raised her eyes—she had not been reading for some time—and met his.

“What is it?” she said, smiling.

“You had better go to bed.”

She shook her head. “I couldn’t sleep.”

“But you are not reading.”

“No; I was thinking.”

He started to question her further and then stopped.

“You knew all along who I was,” he said at last.

“Yes—from the first.”

“And that made no difference?”

She shook her head, smiling a little, but not looking at him.

“A precious fine reputation I’ve got,” he said bitterly. “Wait till you see what the papers will make of Dan Garford’s latest escapade!”

She shrugged her shoulder impatiently, and checked a reply with a quick frown and a glance at the others, as though conscious of their sleeping intrusion.

“I think he told the truth,” he said disjointedly, after a moment.

“Who? Drinkwater?”

“Yes; I’m sure of it.” He pressed his knuckles against his lips and said, frowning, “Well, that leaves only one more thing to do.” He said it quietly, but with an accent of deep finality. When she thought him quite lost in this mood, he surprised her by saying, “Why does it make a difference to you?” He turned, caught the look of astonishment on her face, and added: “Why would you rather that I should be married?”

“Why do you say that?” she said, genuinely amazed at his intuition.

“You are different—you are not the same—I feel it.”

She waited a moment, and then said hurriedly, in a low voice:

“If I told you, you wouldn’t understand!”

At this moment, O’Leary, probably disturbed at the sound of voices, moved heavily in his chair. Dangerfield waited a moment to assure himself that the sleep was still profound, before saying:

“I am not so sure I don’t understand now.” He looked at her keenly, albeit with gentleness, for there was a softness in his eyes and the smile that came to his lips was one of comprehension. He laid his hand over hers and said: “Isn’t it because—before nothing bound you—you were free to go any moment. There’s something wild in you—untamed.”

“I don’t know—I really don’t know,” she said, looking away.

“I’ve never misunderstood you, child,” he said, nodding as though satisfied. “Don’t worry. Men like me don’t bruise—” he hesitated a moment, patted her hand, and said softly, “guardian angels.”

“Oh, I never was afraid of that!” she said swiftly, turning impulsively toward him.

“I’m not going to put a cloud over your life,” he said doggedly.

He rose, left her, and went to the window. She extinguished the light and came softly over to his side until her hand slipped through his arm.

“Why did you do that?” he said, feeling the sudden drop of darkness about them and then, answering his question, he added, “There is nothing to fear now—I feel that.”

She stood silently beside him looking out, and the touch on his arm seemed gradually to grow heavier until her body drew close to his side. In the black night, one window flamed out, feverishly alive against a distant tenement.

“Wonder what’s going on there, too?” he said moodily. “I wonder what poor devil’s fighting out his fight there?”

She did not answer, and then all at once her hands closed about his arm, and she said,

“Mr. Dan, don’t go away.”

“What makes you say that?” he said, startled.

“Don’t go away from me,” she said, in her deep voice. “Promise me that.”

“No; I can’t promise that,” he said, between his teeth.

“But you’ll tell me first—just promise that,” she insisted. He shook his head. “Oh, I don’t know why I am like this to-night,” she said impulsively, “but I know if you went away—” She stopped and something caught in her throat.

He gave an exclamation and caught her in his arms in a close clasp.

“Inga, Inga, don’t; it’s more than I can bear.”

“Promise, promise,” she said incoherently, and her hands fastened to his coat as she hid her head against his shoulder.

“I promise not to—to go without telling you why,” he said, at last. “Will that satisfy you?”

She caught his hand swiftly and pressed it against her heart. Then she went back hastily to the table and lit the light. O’Leary suddenly aroused, started up. It was almost four o’clock.

The next morning came Dangerfield’s lawyer, Judge Brangman, with his clerk, to confirm the news that Drinkwater had brought. The interview was private, even the clerk presently reappearing in the hall and departing. Judge Brangman was closeted a full two hours, and that the meeting was not without dissension was obvious, not only from the prolongation of the discussion but by the frequent rise of angry voices. Finally, the door opened on an evidently complete disagreement, for Dangerfield’s voice was heard saying:

“Judge, this is not a question of law; it is something—permit me—that you don’t seem to understand.”

“I only understand,” said the voice of the visitor, in high-pitched exasperation, “that you are beggaring yourself for a quixotic idea, and that I, as your legal adviser, have a right to protest.”

“Possibly. But my mind’s set. I like to buy the cur. See that the information is sent to me this afternoon—time and place.”

“Dan—a last time—won’t anything shake you?”

“Nothing.”

“But we’re not living in the Middle Ages. Men don’t do such things.”

“I do,” said Dangerfield, with cold harshness, “and they know it.”

“I give up,” said the judge, with something like a break in his voice. “Go on; do what you want.”

“Call me anything you want,” said Dangerfield, with the same ominous calm. “Probably I am a fool; possibly I always have been one, but that’s why I’m going to carry my point.”

The judge put up his hands in helpless rage and went stumbling down the hall, while those in O’Leary’s room heard him exclaim,

“Mad—perfectly mad!”

By this time, the Three Arts, so to speak, had come to the same conclusion.

“Wish the devil he’d get it over with,” said Flick wearily, “whatever he’s going to do. I’ve seen some sporting life, but, holy cats! this being on the jump all hours of the night and day is getting into my constitution.”

“I say, Music,” said Tootles, equally distressed, “why don’t you loosen up and tell what you know. We’ve stood enough, don’t you think?”

Thus confronted, O’Leary said cautiously:

“Well, what’s puzzling you?”

“Puzzling us! That’s good!” said Flick, with a loud laugh. “What we want to know is what’s all this mystery-game—and, most important, when do we settle down and sleep?”

“Why, I don’t see why I shouldn’t tell you what I know,” said O’Leary frankly, “specially as you must have guessed the same. From all I can figure, it’s a family affair; friend in corner has forced a divorce; leastwise it must be so, for, from all we can put together, that’s what brought the woman here that night to try and get him to give up the idea. Likewise, when that failed, looks as though they tried to get him jugged for a loony and put away.”

“But why should she care about preventing the divorce?” said Flick.

“Question of money, I suppose,” said O’Leary thoughtfully.

“But, then, Drinkwater?” said Tootles. “How was he in it? I know that he must have been spying around and carrying information and that he was in the plot to get us out the way—yes, yes—but this last business—what the deuce did he say that started Dangerfield off like a wild bull?”

O’Leary shook his head.

“Some dirty business—the fellow was double-crossing some one, perhaps.”

“Well, when is it going to stop?” said Flick querulously. “That’s the only thing interests me.”

“I imagine it’s over now,” said O’Leary, who knew of the granting of the divorce but was ignorant of any further complications; “in fact, I’m positive.”

“You are, eh?” said Flick incredulously.

“I’d take my oath on it.”

At this moment, there came a sharp, rattling knock; the door opened, and Dangerfield walked in.

“Am I interrupting?”

“No.”

There had come a change in the man which struck them at once; the indecision and groping weariness of the last days had lifted. He seemed alive with energy and action, and yet, as he stood there looking about the room, there was about him momentarily the same expression which had startled them on his first appearance.

“What can we do for you?” asked O’Leary naturally and heartily.

Dangerfield looked down abruptly, his face cleared, and he said in a matter-of-fact tone:

“O’Leary, will you do me one more service?”

“Sure.”

“Will you accompany me this afternoon for about an hour to a place I am going? I shall know in a short while.”

“Nothing easier,” said O’Leary; but, under the ease of his manner, he was watching Dangerfield closely.

“Thanks.” He started to go and stopped. “There’ll be no trouble—and yet you might as well be prepared.”

“I get you!” said O’Leary, with a nod.

Dangerfield returned to his room, leaving consternation behind. Tootles was so overcome that he upset a box of charcoal, while Flick gave vent to a prolonged whistle, adding sarcastically,

“Peace and calm descendeth!”

“What the deuce is up?” said O’Leary, scratching his ear. “I don’t get this at all!”

“Well, I know one thing,” said Flick vehemently; “I think you’re a bigger fool than I took you for if you start out on any gunman visit without knowing into what little pocket you’re walking.”

O’Leary evidently thought as much, for presently he wandered up the hall in search of Inga, but the girl was away, and before she had returned something else had happened. A messenger arrived with a letter for Dangerfield, which he read with evident satisfaction, for he came down to the studio and said briskly:

“O’Leary, can you be ready to start in an hour?”

“I don’t see why not,” said O’Leary.

“Four o’clock, then.”

A few minutes before that hour, O’Leary, ready for the street, made a last attempt to find Inga, in the hope that she could throw some light on the errand on which he was embarked. But the girl was not in her room, and as he was turning away, Dangerfield came out alone. King O’Leary could not suppress an exclamation of surprise. The man stood before him in top-hat, a cutaway revealed through the folds of his fur coat. By the slender gray-silk cravat, caught in an old-fashioned ring, and the light gloves in his hand, he might have been mistaken for a bridegroom.

“I say, are we going to a wedding?” said O’Leary facetiously.

“Yes,” said Dangerfield, rather taken back. “Just that, a wedding.”

“A wedding!” said O’Leary, in blank astonishment.

“Now you know,” said Dangerfield, who didn’t seem particularly pleased at the disclosure.

“I don’t know anything at all,” said O’Leary, who followed him, grumbling and shaking his head, his imagination filled with the eccentric possibilities this might portend. “Wonder if he’s going to be married himself!” he thought, gazing at him suspiciously. But the depression and moodiness on Dangerfield’s face belied the surmise. The elevator came up, and in it was Inga. The moment she saw the two standing there, an expression of great alarm came into her face.

“What—you are going out!” she stammered, looking from one to the other. “It is for this afternoon, then?”

Dangerfield nodded, and something like a triumphant sneer, brutal and vindictive, quite foreign to his usual moods, appeared about his mouth.

“This afternoon, as I said!”

“You’re not going alone?”

“No, no; O’Leary’s with me.”

The alarm which had seized her from the first seemed suddenly translated into another terror as she caught him by the arm, saying,

“One word—just one word first.”

While O’Leary and Sassafras stood waiting, ill at ease, she drew him over the hooded bridge which connected the two wings of the Arcade.

“Mr. Dan,” she said breathlessly, clasping her hands, “you’ll come back?”

“Why, of course, of course,” he said nervously, not meeting her eyes.

“You’ll come back—you promised,” she said, and as she put her head down and swayed against him, he felt her body trembling. They were hidden by the bend of the hooded passage, alone in the filtered light that struggled up the gloomy halls.

“Inga—Inga—don’t make it harder for me,” he said bitterly.

“You’ll come back,” she repeated, desperately clinging to him, her face upraised, her eyes searching his in terror. “Say it; promise it!”

“I—perhaps—” His hand closed over her fingers with the nervous tension that these last days of abstinence had brought him.

“Mr. Dan, you must not think you’re alone—you mustn’t say no one cares!” She slipped her arms about his neck, and he felt her breast shaken with the heave of agitated breaths. “If anything—anything—happened—” She shook her head and stopped, unable to finish.

“Happen—what do you think—why is that idea in your head?” he said, holding her from him.

She put her handkerchief hastily to her eyes and threw her head back suddenly, so that her look seemed to penetrate through his mask and search into his soul.

He repeated his question, but this time uneasily, conscious of the scrutiny under which she held him.

“Nothing,” she said abruptly. In a moment she was back into the restraint of her usual self. “Then you will come back here—to me,” she said slowly, “to-night. It makes no difference to me—understand that—in what condition you are. I’ll be waiting.”

He looked at her, rather startled by this, then profoundly touched, and his face showed the emotion she had aroused in him for he turned hastily away, saying:

“As you wish, then—and it’s a promise.”

They came back to the elevator hurriedly, each plainly upset, and separated with a brief nod. The mood into which Inga had thrown him possessed him long after they had taken a taxi and started across the park, for he leaned forward, seemingly oblivious to the presence of company, and frowned down on the strongly clasped hands which, from time to time, were pressed against his teeth in strained, convulsive gestures. O’Leary, who watched him in growing perplexity, decided to break the silence.

“If there’s anything you want of me particularly, Dangerfield, you’d better tell me.”

“What? Oh, yes!” Dangerfield came back to his seat with a start, ran his hand over his forehead, and said apologetically,

“O’Leary, I owe you my apologies!”

“Oh, that’s all right!”

“I owe you more than that,” he said, with one of his sudden smiles which had the effect of charming away all resentment. “I know it; I’m deeply grateful. If I don’t tell you all details won’t you understand that it’s because the subject is too painful?”

“Don’t say a word, then,” said O’Leary.

“Besides—to-morrow—when the papers get hold of it—” He shrugged his shoulders. “Will it suffice you to know that I have asked you to assist at a wedding, a wedding for which I am peculiarly responsible?” The tones became cold and implacable. “In fact, you have met the lady before—as you perhaps have guessed, she is my former wife. There are circumstances which make it desirable for all parties to avoid as much publicity as possible. That’s why it’s being solemnized at the place we are going.” He leaned forward and rapped on the window, signaling the driver to stop. “We’ll get out here.”

The taxi drew up in a side street at his orders. Up the avenue in that thronged district of the slums of the upper city which lies on the beginnings of Harlem, O’Leary perceived the tower of a church.

Dangerfield’s moodiness had closed over him again. At a gesture of his, O’Leary followed him into the vestibule. Knowing what he had been able to patch together, he could faintly divine the storm of emotion which swept his companion as the door closed behind them and they entered the dimness of the chapel. There were a bare half-dozen persons—the minister, the couple standing before him by the pulpit, the whole far enough away to be unrecognizable; yet at the sudden letting-in of the noises of the street, each turned with a start. It was as though each had divined who the new arrival must be.

Dangerfield acknowledged the recognition with a short forward bending of his head, but, instead of taking a seat, he remained standing by a pillar, arms folded, immovable; nor in the obscurity was it possible for his companion to judge what emotion predominated. The sounds of the minister’s voice came to them in regular cadences until the decisive words, “I therefore pronounce you man and wife.”

At this, O’Leary, with his eyes still on Dangerfield, saw the arms relax and the head thrown back as though a weight had slipped from the shoulders. The next moment his companion had touched him on the arm and gone out, saying:

“That’s all—come!”

On the sidewalk, Dangerfield seemed to be moving blindly, for he stumbled once and had started off in a direction quite different from the corner where their taxi was waiting, when O’Leary checked him on the arm, saying:

“That’s not the way, man, to your taxi.”

At his touch Dangerfield turned, without seeming realization of where he was.

“What—what taxi?”

“The taxi we came in that’s waiting,” said O’Leary impatiently, “or shall I let it go?”

“No, no.”

They retraced their steps, but, to do so, they were forced to pass by the entrance of the church just as the wedding-party was emerging. Dangerfield stopped with an exclamation and drew himself up stiffly, while the press of the crowd brought them momentarily face to face with the bride and groom, as they came through the fringe of spectators. A curious pair they made for two who had just come from the altar. Each face seemed dominated by a sullen fury, and O’Leary, looking at them, mumbled to himself:

“’Deed they look more like they were waiting to knife each other than dreaming of wedded bliss!”

When they perceived Dangerfield, the man started back with something akin to fear in his eyes, while the woman, warned by his movement, looked up and, meeting the look of her former husband, caught her breath. For a moment the black rage which convulsed her face shook her so that she seemed on the point of breaking all restraint and turning on them. But at this dangerous moment, some one spoke to her in sharp command, seized her arm and hurried her into a carriage. O’Leary recognized Doctor Fortier.

A moment later, the whole party had disappeared down the avenue, leaving Dangerfield and O’Leary standing in the midst of a group of urchins, grocer-boys and nursery-maids, who, sensing the approach of a tragic coincident, were staring open-mouthed at the shaggy, bearlike man who continued lost in his reveries. It wasn’t until O’Leary felt impelled to recall him by a touch on his arm that Dangerfield (to keep to the name which he had voluntarily assumed) came to himself, perceived the growing curiosity of the throng with a start, brushed them aside with an angry sweep of his arms. Half an hour later, without having uttered a word, he deposited O’Leary at the Arcade, dismissed the car, and strode away down the avenue, before his companion, taken off his guard, had thought to remind him of his promise to Inga.

---

At eleven o’clock, Dangerfield, led by some dramatic impulse, returned to his club, from which he had exiled himself for months. From the moment that the old tugging, feverish thirst for oblivion had swept him from O’Leary into the solitude of crowds and the electric heart of the city, he had been drinking blindly, impatiently, with a need of quieting the throbbing nerves which were rapping an insistent tattoo against his brain. A dozen men were in the lounge up-stairs, old friends, who started up with exclamations of surprise at seeing the familiar tousled head with the gray lock appearing above the stairs. Quite a crowd came thronging about the prodigal returned, the more enthusiastic in that they had never expected to lay eyes on him again. He stood among them outwardly calm and smiling, his brain fighting off the numbing, confused riot that raged within it. Several, divining his condition, stole wondering, apprehensive glances at him.

He was installed in a great armchair before the blazing logs in the fireplace in the light and warmth of familiar friendly regions, and, as he put out his hands gratefully against the heat, feeling himself surrounded by friends, it seemed to him that he was a prey to some tantalizing hallucinations of happiness that must vanish at a waking start. He remained deep into the night, drinking steadily, striving to beat down the iron control of his head, which still held him cruelly to the realization of the actual. One by one the old friends were forced to leave, going silently, ominously impressed by the deliberate intensity of the man, the wildness in his eyes and the sudden fits of moody wandering. At two o’clock, all sounds had grown dulled and pleasant in his ears. He rose, walked into the office without faltering, exchanged a courteous handshake with a friend from the pool-table and asked for his account, discharged it in full, wrote out his resignation, and posted it to the board of directors. As he started to leave he found himself before the board on which was posted the list of members suspended for house-charges or non-payment of dues. All at once, a sentimental idea came to him. He examined the list carefully, found in it the names of four men, old friends in straightened circumstances, and carefully wrote down the sums of their indebtedness.

“I think I should like to attend to these,” he said politely, drawing his check-book.

Then he thanked the clerk, pocketed the receipts, insisted on buying a last round of drinks for the few late stragglers at the pool-tables, who, amazed, watched him depart without a single misstep. When he had received his coat and hat, he slipped a bill in the hand of Pedro, the Argus of the club.

“’Gainst the rules,” he said, in a whisper, “but not ordinary case. Wish you luck, Pedro!”

---

On the long, bleak way to the Arcade, he stopped at a drug store on Seventh Avenue, whispered a moment to a clerk in the shadows of the back counter, received a small bottle, and as he examined it nodded with satisfaction, and went out. He entered the Arcade and stood a moment in its deserted, oppressive silence, staring at the dim interiors of shops that showed like pale catacombs on either side, and all at once broke out into a short, bitter laugh, as though this end of all had struck him as the most incongruous thing in his fantastic life. He did not wake up Sassafras, but went up the long six flights slowly, sitting down from time to time and talking to himself, his head in his hands. The corridor was deathly quiet and dim, and the one struggling, bending blue flame in the gas-jet before his room seemed to him a beacon in far-off regions as he groped his way to it. The door was unlocked—the room faintly reflecting outlines in queer distorted shadows. He sat down and stared solemnly about him. Then he rose, fumbled a moment, and found the button. The lights flashed across the room. At the table, asleep, her body sunk into weariness of long vigilance, was Inga Sonderson. At the same moment she moved, saw him, and started up with a cry of relief, which she checked with a clutching of her hand at her throat. The next moment she came swiftly over to him, all surprise banished from her face, quick and matter of fact, saying:

“Slip out of your coat. I’ll take it.”

He backed away, rebelling at her presence and the will which was there to oppose his. All at once he remembered his promise, and a cunning loophole dawned in his foggy brain.

“Came back as I promised,” he said solemnly, folding his arms in antagonism. “All right now, going out again.”

Instinctively he comprehended the persistent opposition that lay in the slender body facing him, and sought to escape it. To his surprise, she did not object, but after a moment’s thought nodded and went toward her room.

“What are you going to do?” he said roughly.

“I’m going with you,” she said.

He laughed incredulously. The next moment she was back, enveloped in coat and muffler.

“You’re going,” he said frowning, “now?”

“Whenever you wish,” she said, her dark eyes steadily on him, without reproach or criticism.

“We’ll see,” he said, resentfully, and he started down the hall. Without a word she followed at his side.

---