Smith crouched, rigid and breathless, waiting for a shot. It did not come. Slowly, as silently as possible, he reached for the sheath knife he carried and drew it. He had a gun, but a knife, the old cracksman had said, was much better for a fight in the dark and it had the superlative virtue of noiselessness. He became motionless again, his eyes vainly straining to pierce the darkness, waiting for the other to make a move. The silence and inaction became unbearable. He gathered his nerve and muscles for a rush to where the door ought to be and leaped forward. At the third step a fist struck out and caught him on the neck. He recoiled a little, then lashed out blindly with the knife. He heard a sharp gasp and a body crumpling to the floor. But Smith waited no longer. Groping his way to the door, he sped along the corridor and through the shop to the rear window where he had entered.

A quarter of an hour later a watchman espied the open window. He whistled a policeman to his aid and together, after a period of timorous deliberation, they entered and with many discreet pauses tiptoed over the building. They found David in the corridor, where he had given up crawling, weakly trying to stanch the flowing blood.

The policeman was young and new to his job. He mopped his brow nervously at sight of so much blood.

"Are yez much hurted, d'yez think?" he inquired anxiously.

"More scared than hurt, probably." David smiled wanly. "But, just the same, I think you'd better call up a doctor."

CHAPTER XII

WHICH HOUSE?

The doctor did not share David's opinion. He shook his head gravely, looked important and said, "It's lucky I got here so soon." Then he brightened a little. "But it's a lovely clean cut and we'll do what we can."

So, he stopped the flow of blood, washed out the wound with an antiseptic solution and took several st.i.tches; which hurt much worse than Smith's knife had. Then he ordered David to the hospital. But by that time some one had got Jonathan by telephone and he said, "No, bring him here." And David protesting in vain, an ambulance took him to Jonathan's house and gentle hands laid him on the bed of the special guest-room. A nurse was installed and in time David fell asleep.

Through the night Jonathan watched, stealing every few minutes to David's bedside. It was not at all necessary; the nurse slept, no fears disturbing her slumbers. But Jonathan wanted to watch. He kept thinking that David might have died. He shuddered and went pale at the thought.

For Jonathan had loved David; he loved him even now.

The bitterness of that day was gone; so much could a little letting of blood accomplish. But the thought of one tragedy, so narrowly escaped, did not help Jonathan to forget another impending--if it was to be tragedy. His heart ached for his friends; it was only of them he thought now. They faced each other across a chasm too wide to be leaped or bridged; only by a descent into chill dark depths could their outstretched hands meet. He did not blame them for having strayed to that brink; not in the impulses of the heart do we sin, only in the yielding.

But such chasms need not be tragic. There grow the sweetest flowers for those having the will to see and gather. All his life Jonathan had been schooled in that lesson, and he had learned to pluck happiness as he turned his back on desire. He had even been happy in an unrequited love, he had not sought to cast it out of his heart, he had loved his love--at least until it had seemed helpless to save her from a hurt. He could be happy in it still, if instead of tragedy they could find strength and courage and the greater triumph growing on the brink of their chasm.

It seemed very simple and easy, what he wanted them to learn. He did not understand that only the Greathearts find it simple and easy. He never suspected that he was a Greatheart. An odd fish, this Jonathan!

But it was a knowledge that he could not give them. They must win it, if at all, for themselves.

In the morning the doctor came again, inspected the wound, discovered no evidence of infection and was mightily pleased with himself.

"Don't look so sad," he adjured David. "You got off lucky. If that knife--"

"I suppose so," David said querulously. "If you've finished, would you mind going? I'd like to sleep some more."

The doctor nodded comprehendingly. "Pretty weak yet," he confided to the nurse in a whisper. "Lost quite a bit of blood before I could get to him. Must humor him."

David closed his eyes. Not, however, to sleep. Rather to listen to his tempter, who had returned to stand guard, to keep the victory it had won.

But the imp's words were less plausible this morning, a certain sly malice had crept into his voice. David remembered shrinkingly the resolve he had taken.

"It's because I am weak." He tried to stiffen himself. "I have a right to be happy. Why should two be made to suffer for one who wouldn't care?" He repeated that over and over to himself and almost achieved belief.

The nurse came to his bedside. "I'm going out for my walk now. Ring this bell if you want anything, and one of the maids will come."

He nodded and she left. A minute later he heard other steps coming into the room.

"David--David!" said a voice over him. A compa.s.sionate voice that was near to breaking.

He opened his eyes and, not easily, met Jonathan's. "I'm making a good deal of trouble. You should have let them take me to the hospital."

"Hush, David! I wanted you to come here. Is the wound very painful?"

"I've had toothaches that were worse."

"It's like you to make light of it."

"It isn't like me to make light of it. You've seen me and ought to know that. It's more like me to whine."

"But it's serious." Jonathan shook his head gravely. "The doctor says, if the knife had gone an eighth of an inch deeper--"

"They always say that, don't they? It didn't go an eighth of an inch deeper."

"But it might have," Jonathan insisted. "David, why did you do it? Did you think a little money was worth such a risk?"

David frowned petulantly. "I'm no hero. I didn't mean to take any risks. I just blundered in and was too stupid to get out. So I got hurt. It's a habit of mine."

"Ah!" Jonathan understood the allusion. "David, can you forgive me?

Yesterday I was thinking you--what you are not. I was bitter, not quite myself. I was blaming you for what you couldn't help and thinking you were going--"

"Don't! Don't talk about that! I--" David turned his face to the wall.

"I wish to G.o.d Smith's knife had gone deeper!"

Jonathan started. "Smith! You say it was Smith? Then this happened because of me. I let myself get at odds with all the world and in that temper sent him from the shop. You have much to forgive me for, David."

"That's pretty far-fetched, isn't it? If it's any consolation, I couldn't swear it was Smith. I only had a glimpse of him."

"It is a consolation. Because now, if any one questions you about what happened, you needn't identify Smith. I hate to think of any man having to go to jail. Sin is its own punishment--and heavy enough. G.o.d knows!

We must find Smith, David, and try to help him. You could help him most.

When he knows that you, whom he hurt, are ready--"

"Do whatever you want with him. I have no wish to send him to jail."

David stirred restlessly; his wound began to throb. Why couldn't the manikin go away and take his silly exaggerated--and disturbing--sentimentalities with him? Didn't he know that his very presence there was a reminder of something David wanted to forget--that the kingdom of desire was not to be entered without payment?

But Jonathan did not leave, though he saw what the patient wished. He went without further detours to the thing that lay between them.

"David, what are you going to do?"

David made no answer but stared unwinkingly at the wall.

"What are you going to do, David?"

David had not guessed how hard it would be to give tongue to his desire.

"I don't know that you have any right to ask. But if it will do you any good to know, I'm going to get free and--"