The Brass Bowl/Chapter 7
VII
ILLUMINATION
In a breath was self-satisfaction banished; simultaneously the masquerader brought his gaze down from the ceiling, his thoughts to earth, his vigilance to the surface, and himself to his feet, summoning to his aid all that he possessed of resource and expedient.
Trapped!—the word blazed incandescent in his brain. So long had he foreseen and planned against this very moment.
Yet panic swayed him for but a little instant; as swiftly as it had overcome him it subsided, leaving him shocked, a shade more pale, but rapidly reasserting control of his faculties. And with this shade of emotion came complete reassurance.
His name had been uttered in no stern or menacing tone; rather its syllables had been pitched in a low and guarded key, with an undernote of raillery and cordiality. In brief, the moment that he recognized the voice as a woman's, he was again master of himself, and, aware that the result of his instinctive impulse to rise and defend himself, which had brought him to a standing position, would be interpreted as only the natural action of a gentleman addressed by a feminine acquaintance, he was confident that he had not betrayed his primal consternation. He bowed, smiled, and with eyes in which astonishment swiftly gave place to gratification and complete comprehension, appraised her who had addressed him.
She seemed to have fluttered to the table, beside which she now stood, slightly swaying, her walking costume of grey shot silk falling about her in soft, tremulous petals. Dainty, chic, well-poised, serene, flawlessly pretty in her miniature fashion: Anisty recognized her in a twinkling. His perceptions, trained to observations as instantaneous as those of a snap-shot camera, and well-nigh as accurate, had photographed her individuality indelibly upon the film of his memory, even in the abbreviated encounter of the previous night.
By a similar play of educated reasoning faculties keyed to the highest pitch of immediate action, he had difficulty as scant in accounting for her presence there. What he did not quite comprehend was why Maitland had used her so kindly; for it had been plain enough that that gentleman had surprised her in the act of safe-breaking before conniving at her escape. But, allowing that Maitland's actions had been based upon motives vague to the burglar's understanding, it was quite in the scheme of possibilities that he should have arranged to meet his protégée at the restaurant that afternoon. She was come to keep an appointment to which (now that Anisty came to remember) Maitland had alluded in the beginning of their conversation.
Well and good: once before, within the past two hours, he had told himself that he was Good-enough Maitland. He would be even better now. …
"But you did surprise me!" he declared gallantly, before she could wonder at his slowness to respond. "You see, I was dreaming. …"
He permitted her to surmise the object round which his dreams had been woven.
"And I had expected you to be eagerly watching for me!" she parried archly.
"I was … mentally. But," he warned her seriously, "not that name. Maitland is known here; they call me Maitland—the waiters. It seems I made a bad choice. But with your assistance and discretion we can bluff it out, all right."
"I forgot. Forgive me." By now she was in the chair opposite him, tucking the lower ends of her gloves into their wrists.
"No matter—nobody heard."
"I very nearly called you Handsome Dan." She flashed a radiant smile at him from beneath the rim of her picture hat.
A fire was kindled in Anisty's eyes; he was conscious of a quickened drumming of his pulses.
"Dan is Maitland's front name, also," he remarked absently.
"I thought as much," she responded, quietly speculative.
The burglar hardly heard. It has been indicated that he was quick-witted, because he had to be, in the very nature of his avocation. Just now his brain was working rather more rapidly than usual, even: which was one reason why the light had leaped into his eyes.
It was very plain—to a deductive reasoner—from the girl's attitude toward him that she had fallen into relations of uncommon friendliness with this Maitland, young as Anisty believed their acquaintance to be. There had plainly been a flirtation—wherein lay the explanation of Maitland's forbearance: he had been fascinated by the woman, had not hesitated to take Anisty's name (even as Anisty was then taking his) in order to prolong their intimacy.
So much the better. Turn-about was still fair play. Maitland had sown as Anisty; the real Anisty would reap the harvest. Pretty women interested him deeply, though he saw little enough of them, partly through motives of prudence, partly because of a refinement of taste: women of the class of this conquest-by-proxy were out of reach of the enemy of society. That is, under ordinary circumstances. This one, on the contrary, was not: whatever she was or had been, however successful a crackswoman she might be, her cultivation and breeding were as apparent as her beauty; and quite as attractive.
A criminal is necessarily first a gambler, a votary of Chance; and the blind goddess had always been very kind to Mr. Anisty. He felt that here again she was favoring him. Maitland he had eliminated from this girl's life; Maitland had failed to keep his engagement, and so would never again be called upon to play the part of burglar with her interest for incentive and guerdon. Anisty himself could take up where Maitland had left off. Easily enough. The difficulties were insignificant: he had only to play up to Maitland's standard for a while, to be Maitland with all that gentleman's advantages, educational and social, then gradually drop back to his own level and be himself, Dan Anisty, "Handsome Dan," the professional, the fit mate for the girl. …
What was she saying?
"But you have lunched already!" with an appealing pout.
"Indeed, no!" he protested earnestly. "I was early—conceive my eagerness!—and by ill chance a friend of mine insisted upon lunching with me. I had only a cup of coffee and a roll." He motioned to the waiter, calling him "Waiter!" rather than "Garçon!"——intuitively understanding that Maitland would never have aired his French in a public place, and that he could not afford the least slip before a woman as keen as this.
"Lay a clean cloth and bring the bill of fare," he demanded, tempering his lordly instincts and adding the "please" that men of Maitland's stamp use to inferiors.
"A friend!" tardily echoed the girl when the servant was gone.
He laughed lightly, determined to be frank. "A detective, in point of fact," said he. And enjoyed her surprise.
"You have many such?"
"For convenience one tries to have one in each city."
"And this?"
"Oh, I have him fixed, all right. He confided to me all the latest developments and official intentions with regard to the Maitland arrest."
Her eyes danced. "Tell me!" she demanded, imperious: the emphasis of intimacy irresistible as she bent forward, forearms on the cloth, slim white hands clasped with tense impatience, eyes seeking his.
"Why … of course Maitland escaped."
"No!"
"Fact. Scared the butler into ungagging him; then, in a fit of pardonable rage, knocked that fool down and dashed out of the window—presumably in pursuit of us. Up to a late hour he hadn't returned, and police opinion is divided as to whether Maitland arrested Anisty, and Anisty got away, or vice versa."
"Excellent!" She clasped her hands noiselessly, a gay little gesture.
"So, whatever the outcome, one thing is certain: Higgins will presently be seeking another berth."
She lifted her brows prettily. "Higgins?"—with the rising inflection.
"The butler. Didn't you hear?"
Eyes wondering, she moved her head slowly from side to side. "Hear what?"
"I fancied that you had waited a moment on the veranda," he finessed.
"Oh, I was quite too frightened. …"
He took this for a complete denial. Better and better! He had actually feared that she had eaves-dropped, however warrantably; and Maitland's authoritative way with the servants had been too convincingly natural to have deceived a woman of her keen wits.
There followed a lull while Anisty was ordering the luncheon: something he did elaborately and with success, telling himself humorously: "Hang the expense! Maitland pays." Of which fact the weight in his pocket was assurance.
Maitland. … Anisty's thoughts verged off upon an interesting tangent. What was Maitland's motive in arranging this meeting? It was self-evident that the twain were of one world—the girl and the man of fashion. But, whatever her right of heritage, she had renounced it, declassing herself by yielding to thievish instincts, voluntarily placing herself on the level of Anisty. Where she must remain, for ever.
There was comfort in that reflection. He glanced up to find her eyes bent in gravity upon him. She, too, it appeared, had fallen a prey to reverie. Upon what subject? An absorbing one, doubtless, since it held her abstracted despite her companion's direct, unequivocally admiring stare.
The odd light was flickering again in the cracksman's glance. She was then more beautiful than aught that ever he had dreamed of. Such hair as was hers, woven seemingly of dull flames, lambent, witching! And eyes!—beautiful always, but never more so than at this moment, when filled with sweetly pensive contemplation. … Was she reviewing the last twenty-four hours, dreaming of what had passed between her and that silly fool, Maitland? If only Anisty could surmise what they had said to each other, how long they had been acquainted; if only she would give him a hint, a leading word! …
If he could have read her mind, have seen behind the film of thought that clouded her eyes, one fears Mr. Anisty might have lost appetite for an excellent luncheon.
For she was studying his hands, her memory harking back to the moment when she had stood beside the safe, holding the bull's-eye. …
In the blackness of that hour a disk of light shone out luridly against the tapestry of memory. Within its radius appeared two hands, long, supple, strong, immaculately white, graceful and dexterous, as delicate of contour as a woman's, yet lacking nothing of masculine vigor and modeling; hands that wavered against the blackness, fumbling with the shining nickeled disk of a combination-lock. … The impression had been and remained one extraordinarily vivid. Could her eyes have deceived her so? …
"Thoughtful?"
She nodded alertly, instantaneously mistress of self; and let her gaze, serious yet half smiling, linger upon his the exact fractional shade of an instant longer than had been, perhaps, discreet. Then lashes drooped long upon her cheeks, and her color deepened all but imperceptibly.
The man's breath halted, then came a trace more rapidly than before. He bent forward impulsively. … The girl sighed, ever so gently.
"I was thoughtful. … It's all so strange, you know."
His attitude was an eager question.
"I mean our meeting—that way, last night." She held his gaze again, momentarily, and
"Damn the waiter!" quoth savagely Mr. Anisty to his inner man, sitting back to facilitate the service of their meal.
The girl placated him with an insignificant remark which led both into a maze of meaningless but infinitely diverting inconsequences; diverting, at least, to Anisty, who held up his head, giving her back look for look, jest for jest, platitude for platitude (when the waiter was within hearing distance): altogether, he felt, acquitting himself very creditably. …
As for the girl, in the course of the next half or three-quarters of an hour she demonstrated herself conclusively a person of amazing resource, developing with admirable ingenuity a campaign planned on the spur of a chance observation. The gentle mannered and self-sufficient crook was taken captive before he realized it, however willing he may have been. Enmeshed in a hundred uncomprehended subtleties, he basked, purring, the while she insinuated herself beneath his guard and stripped him of his entire armament of cunning, vigilance, invention, suspicion, and distrust.
He relinquished them without a sigh, barely conscious of the spoliation. After all, she was of his trade, herself mired with guilt; she would never dare betray him, the consequences to herself would be so dire.
Besides, patently,—almost too much so,—she admired him. He was her hero. Had she not more than hinted that such was the case, that his example, his exploits, had fired her to emulation—however weakly feminine? … He saw her before him, dainty, alluring, yielding, yet leading him on: 
He saw her before him, dainty, alluring Page 162
"I am sure you must be dying for a smoke."
"Beg pardon!" He awoke abruptly, to find himself twirling the sharp-ribbed stem of his empty glass. Abstractedly he stared into this, as though seeking there a clue to what they had been talking about. Hazily he understood that they had been drifting close upon the perilous shoals of intimate personalities. What had he told her? What had he not?
No matter. It was clearly to be seen that her regard for him had waxed rather than waned as a result of their conversation. One had but to look into her eyes to be reassured as to that. One did look, breathing heavily. … What an ingenuous child it was, to show him her heart so freely! He wondered that this should be so, feeling it none the less a just and graceful tribute to his fascinations.
She repeated her arch query. She was sure he wanted to smoke.
Indeed he did—if she would permit? And forthwith Maitland's cigarette case was produced, with a flourish.
"What a beautiful case!"
In an instant it was in her hands. "Beautiful!" she iterated, inspecting the delicate tracery of the monogram engraver's art—head bended forward, face shaded by the broad-brimmed hat.
"You like it? You would care to own it?" Anisty demanded unsteadily.
"I?" The inflection of doubtful surprise was a delight to the ear. "Oh! … I couldn't think of accepting. … Besides, I have no use for it."
"Of course you ain't—are not that sort." An hour back he could have kicked himself for the grammatical blunder; now he was wholly illuded; besides, she didn't seem to notice. "But as a little token—between us"
She drew back, pushing the case across the cloth; "I couldn't dream. …"
"But if I insist?"
"If you insist? … Why I suppose … it's awfully good of you." She flashed him a maddening glance.
"You do me pro—honor," he amended hastily. Then, daringly: "I don't ask much in exchange, only"
"A cigarette?" she suggested hastily.
He laughed, pleased and diverted. "That'll be enough now—if you'll light it for me."
She glanced dubiously round the now almost deserted room; and a waiter started forward as if animated by a spring. Anisty motioned him imperiously back. "Go on," he coaxed; "no one can see." And watched, flattered, the slim white fingers that extracted a match from the stand and drew it swiftly down the prepared surface of the box, holding the flickering flame to the end of a white tube whose tip lay between lips curved, scarlet, and pouting.
There! A pale wraith of smoke floated away on the fan-churned air, and Anisty was vaguely conscious of receiving the glowing cigarette from a hand whose sheer perfection was but enhanced by the ripe curves of a rounded forearm. … He inhaled deeply, with satisfaction.
Undetected by him, the girl swiftly passed a furtive handkerchief across her lips. When he looked again she was smiling and the golden case had disappeared.
She shook her head at him in mock reproval. "Bold man!" she called him; but the crudity of it was lost upon him, as she had believed it would be. The moment had come for vigorous measures, she felt, guile having paved the way.
"Why do you call me that?"
"To appear so openly, running the gauntlet of the detectives. …"
"Eh?"—startled.
"Of course you saw," she insisted.
"Saw? No. Saw what?"
"Why. … Perhaps I am mistaken, but I thought you knew and trusted to your likeness to Mr. Maitland. …"
Anisty frowned, collecting himself, bewildered. "What are you driving at, anyhow?" he demanded roughly.
"Didn't you see the detectives? I should have thought your man would have warned you. I noticed four loitering round the entrance, as I came in, and feared. …"
"Why didn't you tell me, then?"
"I have just told you the reason. I supposed you were in your disguise. …"
"That's so." The alarmed expression gradually faded, though he remained troubled. "I sure am Maitland to the life," he continued with satisfaction. "Even the head-waiter"
"And of course," she insinuated delicately, "you have disposed of the loot?"
He shook his head gloomily. "No time, as yet."
Her dismay was evident. "You don't mean to say?"
"In my pocket."
"Oh!" She glanced stealthily around. "In your pocket!" she whispered. "And—and if they stopped you"
"I am Maitland."
"But if they insisted on searching you. …" She was round-eyed with apprehension.
"That's so!" Her perturbation was infectious. His jaw dropped.
"They would find the jewels—known to be stolen"
"By God!" he cried savagely.
"Dan!"
"I—I beg your pardon. But … what am I to do? You are sure?"
"McClusky himself is on the nearest corner!"
"Phew!" he whistled; and stared at her, searchingly, through a lengthening pause.
"Dan. …" said she at length.
"Yes?"
"There is a way. …"
"Go on."
"Last night, Dan"—she raised her glorious eyes to his—"last night, I … I trusted you."
His face hardened ever so slightly; yet when he took thought the tense lines about his eyes and mouth softened. And she drew a deep breath, knowing that she had all but won.
"I trusted you," she continued softly. "Do you know what that means? I trusted you."
He nodded, eyes to hers, fascinated, with an odd commingling of fear and hope and satisfied self-love. "Now I am unconnected with the affair. No one knows that I had any hand in it. Besides, no one knows me—that I—steal." Her tone fell lower. "The police have never heard of me. Dan!"
"I—believe"
"I could get away," she interrupted; "and then, if they stopped you"
"You're right, by the powers!" He struck the table smartly with his fist. "You do that and we can carry this through. Why, lacking the jewels, I am Maitland—I am even wearing Maitland's clothes!" he boasted. "I went to his apartments this morning and saw to that, because it suited my purpose to be Maitland for a day or two."
"Then?" Her gaze questioned his.
"Waiter!" cried Anisty. And, when the man was deferential at his elbow: "Call a cab, at once, please."
"Certainly, sir."
The rest of the corps of servants was at the other end of the big room. Anisty made certain that they were not watching, then stealthily passed the canvas bag to the girl. She bent her head, bestowing it in her hand-bag.
"You have made me … happy, Dan," came tremulously from beneath the hat-brim.
Whatever doubts may have assailed him when it was too late, by that remark were effaced, silenced. Who could mistrust her sincerity? …
"Then when and where may I see you again?" he demanded.
"The same place."
It was a bold move; but she was standing; the waiter was back, announcing the cab in waiting, and he dared not protest. Yet his pat riposte commanded her admiration.
"No. Too risky. If they are watching here, they may be there, too." He shook his head decidedly. The flicker of doubt was again extinguished; for undoubtedly Maitland had escorted her home that morning; her reference had been to that place. "Somewhere else," he insisted, confident that she was playing fair.
She appeared to think for an instant, then, fumbling in her pocket-book, extracted a typical feminine pencil stub,—its business-end looking as though it had been gnawed by a vindictive rat,—and scribbled hastily on the back of a menu card:
"Mrs. McCabe, 205 West 118th Street. Top floor. Ring 3 times."
"I shall be there at seven," she told him. "You won't fail me?"
"Not if I'm still at liberty," he laughed.
And the waiter smiled at discretion, a far-away and unobtrusive smile that could by no possibility give offense; at the same time it was calculated to convey the impression that, in the opinion of one humble person, at least, Mr. Maitland was a merry wag.
"Good-by … Dan!"
Anisty held her fingers in his hard palm for an instant, rising from his chair.
"Good-by, my dear," he said clumsily.
He watched her disappear, eyes humid, temples throbbing. "By the powers!" he cried. "But she's worth it!"
Perhaps his meaning was vague, even to himself. He resumed his seat mechanically and sat for a time staring dreamily into vacancy, blunt fingers drumming on the cloth.
"No," he declared at length. "No; I'm safe enough … in her hands."
Once secure from the public gaze, the girl crowded back into a corner of the cab, as though trying to efface herself. Her eyes closed almost automatically; the curve of laughing lips became a doleful droop; a crinkle appeared between the arched brows; waves of burning crimson flooded her face and throat.
In her lap both hands lay clenched into tiny fists—clenched so tightly that it hurt, numbing her fingers: a physical pain that, somehow, helped her to endure the paroxysms of shame. That she should have stooped so low! …
Presently the fingers relaxed, and her whole frame relaxed in sympathy. The black squall had passed over; but now were the once tranquil waters ruffled and angry. Then languor gripped her like an enemy: she lay listless in its hold, sick and faint with disgust of self.
This was her all-sufficient punishment: to have done what she had done, to be about to do what she contemplated. For she had set her hand to the plow: there must now be no drawing back, however hateful might prove her task. …
The voice of the cabby dropping through the trap, roused her. "This is the Martha Washington, ma'am."
Mechanically she descended from the hansom and paid her fare; then, summoning up all her strength and resolution, passed into the lobby of the hotel and paused at the telephone switchboard.