"Well, shall I do?" enquired Mr. Ravenslee, tightening his faded neckerchief.
"Do?" repeated Spike, "say—you look all to d' mustard, Geoff! You—you look as if you could—do things, now!"
"Strangely enough, Spike, I rather feel that way too!" So saying, Mr. Ravenslee took a pipe from the rack, filled it with quick, energetic fingers, and proceeded to light it, watched in dumb amaze by the gaping Brimberly.
"Brimberly," said he, "I shall probably return to-morrow."
"Yes, sir," said he faintly.
"Or the day after."
"Yes, sir!"
"Or the day after."
"Yes, sir!"
"Or the day after that; anyhow, I shall probably return. Should any one call—business or otherwise—tell 'em to call again; say I'm out of town—you understand?"
"Out of town—certingly, sir."
"Referring to—to the matter we talked of to-night, Brimberly—"
"Meaning the hobject, sir?"
"Precisely! Don't trouble yourself about it."
"No, sir?"
"No, Brimberly—I'm going to try and find one for myself."
"Ho—very good, sir!"
"And now," said the new Mr. Ravenslee, laying one white, ringless hand on Spike's shoulder and pointing toward the open door with the other, "lead on—young Destiny!"
CHAPTER IV
TELLING HOW HE CAME TO HELL'S KITCHEN AT PEEP O' DAY
It was past three o'clock and dawn was at hand as, by devious ways, Spike piloted his companion through that section of New York City which is known to the initiated as "Hell's Kitchen." By dismal streets they went, past silent, squalid houses and tall tenements looming grim and ghostly in the faint light; crossing broad avenues very silent and deserted at this hour, on and on until, dark and vague and mysterious, the great river flowed before them only to be lost again as they plunged into a gloomy court where tall buildings rose on every hand, huge and very silent, teeming with life—but life just now wrapped in that profound quietude of sleep which is so much akin to death. Into one of these tall tenement buildings, its ugliness rendered more ugly by the network of iron fire-escape ladders that writhed up the face of it, Spike led the way, first into a dark hallway and thence up many stairs that echoed to their light-treading feet—on and up, past dimly lit landings where were doors each of which shut in its own little world, a world distinct and separate wherein youth and age, good and evil, joy and misery, lived and moved and had their being; behind these dingy panels were smiling hope and black despair, blooming health and pallid sickness, and all those sins and virtues that go to make up the sum total of humanity.
Something of all this was in Geoffrey Ravenslee's mind as he climbed the dingy, interminable stair behind Spike, who presently halted to get his wind and whisper:
"It ain't much further now, Geoff, only another two flights and—" He stopped suddenly to listen, and from the landing above a sound reached them, a sound soft but unmistakable—a woman's muffled sobbing.
Slowly, cautiously, they mounted the stair until in the dim light of a certain landing they beheld a slim figure bowed upon its knees in an agony of abasement before a scarred and dingy door. Even as they stared, the slender, girlish figure sobbed again, and, with a sudden, yearning gesture, lifted a face, pale in the half-light, and kissed that battered door; thereafter, weeping still, she rose to her feet and turned, but seeing Spike, stood very still all at once and with hands clasped tight together.
"Holy Gee!" exclaimed Spike beneath his breath; then, in a hoarse whisper: "Is that Maggie—Maggie Finlay?"
"Oh—is that you, Arthur?" she whispered back. "Arthur—oh, Arthur, I, I'm going away, but I couldn't go without coming to—to kiss dear mother good-by—and now I'm here I daren't knock for fear of—father. I've been up to your door and knocked, but Hermy's away, I guess. Anyway, you—you'll say I came to thank her and—kiss her for the last time, won't you, Arthur?"
"Sure I will—but where ye goin', Maggie?"
"A long way, Arthur! I don't s'pose I shall ever—see this place any more—or you—so, Arthur, will you—kiss me good-by—just once?"
Spike hesitated, but she, quick and light-treading, came down to him and caught his hand and would have kissed that, but he snatched it away and, leaning forward, kissed her tear-stained cheek, and blushed thereafter despite the dark.
"Good-by, Arthur!" she whispered, "and thank you—and dear Hermy—oh, good-by!" So saying, she hurried on past Ravenslee, down the dark stairway, while Spike leaned over the balustrade to whisper:
"Good-by, Maggie—an' good luck, Kid!" At this she paused to look up at him with great, sad eyes—a long, wistful look, then, speaking no more, hurried on down the stair—down, down into the shadows, and was gone.
"We used to go to school together, Geoff," the boy explained a little self-consciously, "she never—kissed me before; she ain't the kissin' sort. I wonder why she did it to-night? I wonder—"
So saying, Spike turned and led the way on again until they reached the landing above, across which two doors, dark and unlovely, seemed to scowl upon each other. One of these Spike proceeded to open with a latchkey, and so led Ravenslee into the dark void beyond. Spike struck a match and lighted the gas, and, looking about him, Ravenslee stared.
A little, cramped room, sparsely furnished yet dainty and homelike, for the small, deal table hid its bare nakedness beneath a dainty cloth; the two rickety armchairs veiled their faded tapestry under chintz covers, cunningly contrived and delicately tinted to match the cheap but soft-toned drugget on the floor and the self-coloured paper on the walls, where hung two or three inexpensive reproductions of famous paintings; and in all things there breathed an air of refinement wholly unexpected in Hell's Kitchen. Wherefore Mr. Ravenslee, observing all things with his quick glance, felt an ever-growing wonder. But now Spike, who had been clattering plates and dishes in the kitchen hard by, thrust his head around the door to say:
"Oh, Geoff—I don't feel like doin' the shut-eye business, d' you? How about a cup of coffee, an' I daresay I might dig out some eats; what d' ye say?"
"Is this—your sister?" enquired Mr. Ravenslee, taking up a photograph from the little sideboard.
"Yep, that's Hermy all right—taken las' year—does her hair different now. How about some coffee, Geoff?"
"Coffee?" said Mr. Ravenslee, staring at the picture, "coffee—certainly—er—thanks! She has—light hair, Spike?"
"Gold!" said Spike, and vanished; whereupon Mr. Ravenslee laid the photograph on the table, and sitting down, fell to viewing it intently.
A wonderful face, low-browed, deep-eyed, full-lipped. Here was none of smiling prettiness, for these eyes were grave and thoughtful, these lips, despite their soft, voluptuous curves, were firmly modelled like the rounded chin below, and, in all the face, despite its vivid youth, was a vague and wistful sadness.
"Oh, Geoff," called Spike, "d' ye mind having yer coffee à la milko condenso?"
"Milk?" exclaimed Mr. Ravenslee, starting. "Oh—yes—anything will