"Vell, vat vill I do? You knew I don't got notin' but Beesving. Don't she get everytin' vere she is? I do all de schoolin' and de clothes and Aunty Gossburger look after her. Vhen she gets older maybe perhaps she vould like a trip. And den maybe ve both go and leave you here to mind de shop in de summer-time. But now she's notin' but jus' Beesving, vid her head full of skippin' aroun'. No, I don't tink I can do dat for you.

I do most anytin' for you, but my little girl, you see, dat come pretty close. Dat make a awful hole in me if Beesving go avay. No, you mustn't ask me dot."

"Not if it were for her good?"

"Yes, vell, of course, but how do I know dot? And vot you vant to go avay for? Dot's more vorse as Beesving. Ain't I pay you enough? Maybe you vants a little interest in de business? I vas tinkin' about dat only yesterday. Ve vill talk about dot sometimes."

Felix laughed gently.

"No, I don't wish any interest in the business. You pay me quite enough for the work I do, and I am quite willing to continue to serve you as long as I can. But Masie should not be brought up in these surroundings much longer. Perhaps you would be willing to send her to a good school away from here, if I could arrange it. Either here or in England."

Otto threw up his hands; he was becoming indignant, his mind more and more set against Felix's proposition.

"Vell, but vat's de matter vid de school she has now? She is more dan on de top of all de cla.s.ses. De superintendent told me so ven he vas in here last veek buying Christmas presents. I sold him dat old chair you got Hans to put a new leg on. You remember dot chair. Vell, dat vas better as a new von vhen Hans got trough. Hadn't been for you, dot old chair vould be kicking around now, and I vouldn't have de fifteen dollars he paid me for it. I vish sometimes you look around for more chairs like dot."

Felix nodded in a.s.sent, reading the Dutchman's obstinate mind in the shopkeeper's sudden return to business questions. If Masie's future was to be helped, another hand than his own must be stretched out. He turned on his heel, and was about to regain his chair, when Otto, craning his head, called out:

"Dot's Father Cruse comin' in. You ask him now vonce about dis goin'

avay bizness. He tell you same as me."

The priest was now abreast of Felix, who had stepped forward to greet him, Otto watching their movements. The two stood talking in a low voice, Felix's eyes downcast as if in deep thought, the priest apparently urging some plan, which O'Day, by his manner, seemed to favor. They were too far off, and spoke too low, for Otto to catch the drift of the talk, and it was only when Felix, who had followed the priest outside the door, had returned that he called, from his high seat under the gas-jet: "Vell, vat did Father Cruse say?"

Felix drew his brows together. "Say about what?" he asked, as if the question had surprised him.

"About Beesving. Didn't you ask him?"

"No, we talked of other things," replied Felix and, turning on his heel, occupied himself about the shop.

Across the street meanwhile Kitty's own plans had also gone astray this winter's morning--so many of them, in fact, that she was at her wits'

end which way to turn. A trunk had been left at the wrong address, and John had been two hours looking for it. Bobby had come home from school with a lump on his head as big as a hen's egg, where some "gas-house kid," as Bobby expressed it, "had fetched him a crack." Mike, on his way down from the Grand Central, knowing that John was away with the other horse and Kitty worrying, had urged big Jim to gallop, and, in his haste, had bowled over a ten-year-old boy astride of a bicycle, and, worse yet, the entire outfit--big Jim, wagon, Mike, boy, bicycle, and the boy's father--were at that precise moment lined up in front of the captain's desk at the 35th Street police station.

The arrest did not trouble Kitty. She knew the captain and the captain knew her. If bail were needed, there were half a dozen men within fifty yards of where she stood who would gladly furnish it. Mike was careless, anyhow, and a little overhauling would do him good.

What did trouble her was the tying up of big Jim and her wagon at a time when she needed them most. n.o.body knew when John would be back, and there was the stuff piling up, and not a soul to handle it. She stood, leaning over her short counter, trying to decide what to do first.

She could not ask Felix to help her. He was tired out with the holiday sales. Nor was there anybody else on whom she could put her hands. It was Porterfield's busy time, and Codman had all he could jump to. No, she could not ask them. Here she stepped out on the sidewalk to get a broader view of the situation, her mind intent on solving the problem.

At that same instant she saw Kling's door swing wide and Father Cruse step out, Felix beside him. The two shook each other's hands in parting, Felix going back into the shop, and Father Cruse taking the short-cut across the street to where Kitty stood--an invariable custom of his whenever he found himself in her neighborhood.

Instantly her anxiety vanished. "Look at it!" she cried enthusiastically. "Can you beat it? There he comes. G.o.d must 'a' sent him!" Then, as she ran to meet him: "Oh, Father, but it's better than a pair o' sore eyes to see ye! I'm all balled up wi' trouble. John's huntin' a lost trunk. Bobby's up-stairs with a slab o' raw beef on his head. Mike's locked up for runnin' over a boy. And my big Jim and my wagon is tied up outside the station, till it's all straightened out.

Will ye help me?"

"I am on my way now to the police station," said the priest in his kindest voice.

"Oh, then, ye heard o' Mike?"

"Not a word. But I often drop in there of a morning. Many of the night arrests need counsel outside the law, and sometimes I can be of service.

Is the boy badly hurt?"

"No, he hollered too loud when the wheel struck him, so they tell me.

He's not half as bad as Bobby, I warrant, who hasn't let a squeak out o'

him. Will ye please put in a word for me, Father? I can't leave here or I'd go meself. I don't care if the captain holds on to Mike for a while, so he lets me have big Jim and the wagon. John will be up to go bail as soon as he gets back, if the captain wants it, which he won't, when he finds out who Mike is. Oh, that's a good soul! I knew ye'd help me. An'

how did ye find Mr. Felix?"--a new anxiety now filling her mind.

The priest's face clouded. "Oh, very well; he spent last evening with me."

"Oh, that was it, was it? An' were ye trampin' the streets with him, too? It was pretty nigh daylight when he come in. I always know, for he wakes me when he shuts his door."

The priest, evidently absorbed in some strain of thought, parried her question with another: "And so the boy was not badly hurt? Well, that is something to be thankful for. Perhaps I may know his people. I will send Mike and the wagon back to you, if I can. Good-by." And he touched his hat, pa.s.sing up the street with his long, even stride, the skirt of his black ca.s.sock clinging to his knees.

The arrest, so far as could be seen from Mike's general deportment, had not troubled that gentleman in the least. He had nodded pleasantly to the captain, who, in return, had frowned severely at him while the father of the boy was making the complaint; had winked good-naturedly at him the moment the accuser had left the room; had asked after Kitty and John, motioned to him to stay around until somebody put in an appearance to go bail, and had then busied himself with more important matters. A thick-set man, in a brown suit and derby hat, accompanied by an officer and another man, had brought in a frail woman, looking as if life were slowly ebbing out of her; and the four were in a row before his desk.

The usual questions were asked and answered by the detective and the clerk--the nature of the charge, the name and address of the party robbed, the name and address of the accused--and the entries properly made.

During the hearing, the frail woman had stood with bent head, dazed and benumbed. When her name was asked, she had made no answer nor did she give her residence. "I am an Englishwoman," was all she had said.

Mike, now privileged to enjoy the freedom of the room, had been watching the proceedings with increasing interest, so much so that he had edged up to the group, as close as he dared, where he could get the light full on the woman. When the words, "I am an Englishwoman," fell from her lips, he let out an oath, and slapped his thigh with the fiat of his hand. "Of course it is! I thought I know'd her when she come in.

English, is she? What a lot o' lies they do be puttin' up. She never saw England. She's a dago from 'cross town. Won't Mrs. Cleary's eyes pop when I tell her!"

The group in front of the captain's desk disintegrated. The woman, still silent, was led away to the cell. Rosenthal's clerk, who had made the charge for the firm, had come round to the captain's side of the desk to sign some papers. Pickert and the officer had already disappeared through the street-door. At this juncture the priest entered. His presence was noted by every man in the room, most of whom rose to their feet, some removing their hats.

"Good-morning, captain," he said, including with his bow the other people present. "I have just left Mrs. Cleary, who tells me that one of her men is in trouble. Ah! I see him now. Is there anything that I can do for him?"

"Nothing, your reverence; the boy's not much hurt. I don't think it was Mike's fault, from the testimony, but it's a case of bail, all right."

"I am afraid, captain, she is not worrying so much about our poor Mike here as she is about the horse and wagon. These she needs, for Mr.

Cleary is away, and there is no one to help her. Perhaps you would be good enough to send an officer with Mike, and let them drive back to her?"

"I guess that won't be necessary, your reverence. See here, Mike, get into your wagon and take it back to the stable, and bring somebody with you to go bail. We didn't want the wagon, only there was no place to leave it, and we knew they would send up for it sooner or later. It's outside now."

"Thank you, captain. And now, Mike, be very sure you come back,"

exclaimed the priest, with an admonishing finger; "do you hear?" He always liked the Irishman.

Mike grinned the width of his face, caught up his cap, and made for the door. The priest watched him until he had cleared the room, then, leaning over the desk, asked: "Anything for me this morning, captain?"

"No, your reverence, not that I can see. Two drunks come in with the first batch, and a couple of crooks who had been working the 'elevated'; and a woman, a shoplifter. Got away with a piece of lace--a mantilla, they called it, whatever that is. She's just gone down to wait for the four o'clock delivery. It's a case of grand larceny. They say the lace is worth $250. Wasn't that about it?"

Rosenthal's man bobbed his head. He had not lifted his hat to the priest, and seemed to regard him with suspicion.

"What sort of a looking woman is she?" continued the priest.

"Oh, the same old kind; they're all alike. Nothing to say--too smart for that. I guess she stole it, all right. All I could get out of her was that she was an Englishwoman, but she didn't look it."

The priest lowered his head, an expression of suddenly awakened interest on his face. "May I see her?" he asked, in an eager tone.

"Why, sure! Bunky, take Father Cruse down. He wants to talk to that Englishwoman."

To most unfortunates, whether innocent or guilty, the row of polished steel bars which open and close upon those in the grip of the law, are poised rifles awaiting the order to fire. To a woman like Lady Barbara, these guarded a dark and loathsome tomb, in which her last hope lay buried. That she had not deserved the punishment meted out to her did not soothe her agony. She had deserved none of Dalton's cruelty, and yet she had withered under its lash. This was the end; beyond, lay only a slow, lingering death, with her torture increasing as the hours crept on.

The sound of the turnkey's hand on the lock roused her to consciousness.