without the police.
Knowlton walked to his bed, supported by Dougherty. He was barely conscious and very weak.
They rubbed him down with witchhazel and put woolen pajamas on him and tucked him in like a baby. Then they went into the next room and sat down for a smoke.
Fifteen minutes later, thinking they heard a voice, they returned to their patient.
The voice was his own. He was talking in his sleep half deliriously.
“Lila!” he muttered. “Good-by, Lila! You know you are to live in fairyland and—hang you, Dougherty—no, I don’t mean that—Lila—”
Dumain looked at Dougherty and said: “Zat is not for us, my friend.”
Together they tiptoed silently out of the room.
CHAPTER VIII.
Until Tomorrow
W HEN YOU THROW A HEAVY LUMP OF HARD metal at a man and hit him on the side of the head you make an impression on him. I am not assuming artlessness or naïveté—I do not mean a physical impression.
What I wish to say is that his attitude and conduct toward you will undergo a sudden and notable change. He will be filled either with fear or with a desire for vengeance.
He will either betake himself to a distance where there is little possibility that you will present him with any more lumps of metal, or he will take firm and decided steps to return the one you have given him.
Of this rule of life the Erring Knights were perfectly aware, and they wondered much as to which of the two courses would be adopted by John Knowlton. As a matter of fact, he adopted neither—but let us not anticipate.
Knowlton’s injury had proved even less serious than the doctor had declared it to be. On the morning after the fight Dumain and Dougherty had been amazed on awakening to find him fully dressed and holding his hat and overcoat, standing by the side of their bed.
“Sorry to disturb you,” he had said, “but I am going. Thanks for your hospitality, Dumain. And for your—square deal—Dougherty.”
Then, before they had time to recover from their surprise or utter a word, he had turned and disappeared.
For three days the Erring Knights had neither seen him nor heard from him, and they had about concluded that he had seen the wisdom of discretion and decided to practise it.
There was a general disposition to overlook Sherman’s contribution to the little entertainment at Dumain’s rooms. To be sure, they condemned his cowardice and violence. Since, however, it appeared to have had the desired effect on Knowlton without having inflicted any permanent injury, they were inclined to pardon it. Of course they despised him, as the law does its stool pigeon; but still they tolerated him.
It was with mingled feelings of anxiety and quiet joy that Lila lived through the three days during which Knowlton did not appear at the Lamartine. She had heard nothing of what had happened after Knowlton had left her at the door that evening, but she had not forgotten the appearance of Sherman at the Restaurant Lucia; hence her anxiety. She hugged her memory and waited.
On the morning of the fourth day her patience was rewarded by the following note, handed to her at her desk in the hotel by a messenger boy:
DEAR MISS WILLIAMS:
I had expected to see you before this, but it has been impossible, owing to an accident I encountered.
I have been—let us say incapacitated.
But will you dine with me this evening? I shall call at the hotel for you at six.
J OHN K NOWLTON.
Lila flushed with happiness as she folded the note and placed it in the bosom of her dress, at the same time looking round for the messenger boy to take her answer. But the boy had disappeared. What difference? She was to be with him again!
As she glanced up and happened to meet the eye of the Venus at the cigar stand she smiled involuntarily, so brightly that Miss Hughes fairly grinned in sympathy.
This little incident did not pass unnoticed. Dumain and Dougherty, seated on the leather lounge in the corner, saw the messenger boy hand her the note and her change of
Knowlton walked to his bed, supported by Dougherty. He was barely conscious and very weak.
They rubbed him down with witchhazel and put woolen pajamas on him and tucked him in like a baby. Then they went into the next room and sat down for a smoke.
Fifteen minutes later, thinking they heard a voice, they returned to their patient.
The voice was his own. He was talking in his sleep half deliriously.
“Lila!” he muttered. “Good-by, Lila! You know you are to live in fairyland and—hang you, Dougherty—no, I don’t mean that—Lila—”
Dumain looked at Dougherty and said: “Zat is not for us, my friend.”
Together they tiptoed silently out of the room.
CHAPTER VIII.
Until Tomorrow
W HEN YOU THROW A HEAVY LUMP OF HARD metal at a man and hit him on the side of the head you make an impression on him. I am not assuming artlessness or naïveté—I do not mean a physical impression.
What I wish to say is that his attitude and conduct toward you will undergo a sudden and notable change. He will be filled either with fear or with a desire for vengeance.
He will either betake himself to a distance where there is little possibility that you will present him with any more lumps of metal, or he will take firm and decided steps to return the one you have given him.
Of this rule of life the Erring Knights were perfectly aware, and they wondered much as to which of the two courses would be adopted by John Knowlton. As a matter of fact, he adopted neither—but let us not anticipate.
Knowlton’s injury had proved even less serious than the doctor had declared it to be. On the morning after the fight Dumain and Dougherty had been amazed on awakening to find him fully dressed and holding his hat and overcoat, standing by the side of their bed.
“Sorry to disturb you,” he had said, “but I am going. Thanks for your hospitality, Dumain. And for your—square deal—Dougherty.”
Then, before they had time to recover from their surprise or utter a word, he had turned and disappeared.
For three days the Erring Knights had neither seen him nor heard from him, and they had about concluded that he had seen the wisdom of discretion and decided to practise it.
There was a general disposition to overlook Sherman’s contribution to the little entertainment at Dumain’s rooms. To be sure, they condemned his cowardice and violence. Since, however, it appeared to have had the desired effect on Knowlton without having inflicted any permanent injury, they were inclined to pardon it. Of course they despised him, as the law does its stool pigeon; but still they tolerated him.
It was with mingled feelings of anxiety and quiet joy that Lila lived through the three days during which Knowlton did not appear at the Lamartine. She had heard nothing of what had happened after Knowlton had left her at the door that evening, but she had not forgotten the appearance of Sherman at the Restaurant Lucia; hence her anxiety. She hugged her memory and waited.
On the morning of the fourth day her patience was rewarded by the following note, handed to her at her desk in the hotel by a messenger boy:
DEAR MISS WILLIAMS:
I had expected to see you before this, but it has been impossible, owing to an accident I encountered.
I have been—let us say incapacitated.
But will you dine with me this evening? I shall call at the hotel for you at six.
J OHN K NOWLTON.
Lila flushed with happiness as she folded the note and placed it in the bosom of her dress, at the same time looking round for the messenger boy to take her answer. But the boy had disappeared. What difference? She was to be with him again!
As she glanced up and happened to meet the eye of the Venus at the cigar stand she smiled involuntarily, so brightly that Miss Hughes fairly grinned in sympathy.
This little incident did not pass unnoticed. Dumain and Dougherty, seated on the leather lounge in the corner, saw the messenger boy hand her the note and her change of
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