The Web of the Golden Spider. Bartlett Frederick Orin
wouldn’t do. The police have no right to me, although they might make a lot of trouble.”
“That’s all right, old man. You needn’t feel obliged to ’fess up to me.”
“I wanted to tell you that much,” answered Wilson, “because I want to ask something of you; I want you to give me a suit of clothes and enough money to keep me alive for a week.”
Wilson saw the other’s brows contract for a second as though in keen annoyance or disappointment at this mediocre turn in a promising situation. He added quickly:
“I’m not asking this altogether for myself; there’s a girl involved–a girl in great danger. If I get back to her soon, there is still hope that I can be of some use.”
The other’s face brightened instantly.
“What’s that you say? A girl in danger?”
“In serious danger. This–” he pointed at the linen turban, “this ought to give you some idea of how serious; I was on my way to her when I received this.”
“But good Lord, man, why didn’t you say so before? Home, Mike, and let her out!”
The chauffeur leaned forward and once again the machine vibrated to the call. They skimmed along the park roads and into the smooth roads of Brookline. From here Wilson knew nothing of the direction or the locality.
“My name is Danbury,” his rescuer introduced himself, “and I’m glad to be of help to you. We’re about the same size and I guess you can get into some of my clothes. But can’t I send a wire or something to the girl that you are coming?”
Wilson shook his head. “I don’t know exactly where she is myself. You see I–I found her in the dark and I lost her in the dark.”
“Sort of a game of blind man’s buff,” broke in Danbury. “But how the devil did you get that swipe in the head?”
“I don’t know any more than you where that came from.”
“You look as though you ought to be tucked away in bed on account of it. You are still groggy.”
Wilson tried to smile, but, truth to tell, his head was getting dizzy again and he felt almost faint.
“Lie back and take it easy until we reach the house. I’ll give you a dose of brandy when we get there.”
The machine slid through a stone gateway and stopped before a fine, rambling white house set in the midst of green trees and with a wide sweep of green lawn behind it. A butler hurried out and at a nod took hold of one of Wilson’s arms and helped him up the steps–though it was clear the old fellow did not like the appearance of his master’s guest. Of late, however, the boy had brought home several of whom he did not approve. One of them–quite the worst one to his mind–was now waiting in the study. The butler had crossed himself after having escorted him in. If ever the devil assumed human shape, he would say that this was no other than his satanic majesty himself.
“A gentleman to see you, sir, in the study.”
“The devil you say,” snapped Danbury.
“I did not say it, sir.”
“I wanted to take this gentleman in there. However, we will go to the den.”
Danbury led the way through a series of rooms to a smaller room which opened upon the green lawn. It was furnished in mahogany with plenty of large, leather-bottomed chairs and a huge sofa. The walls were decorated with designs of yachts and pictures of dogs. This room evidently was shut off from the main study by the folding doors which were partly concealed by a large tapestry. Danbury poured out a stiff drink of brandy and insisted upon Wilson’s swallowing it, which he did after considerable choking.
“Now,” said Danbury, “you lie down while John is getting some clothes together, and I’ll just slip into the next room and see what my queer friend wants.”
Wilson stretched himself out and gave himself up to the warm influx of life which came with the stimulation from the drink. Pound after pound seemed to be lifting from his weary legs and cloud after cloud from his dulled brain. He would soon be able to go back now. He felt a new need for the sight of her, for the touch of her warm fingers, for the smile of good fellowship from her dark eyes. In these last few hours he felt that he had grown wonderfully in his intimacy with her and this found expression in his need of her. Lying there, he felt a craving that bit like thirst or hunger. It was something new to him thus to yearn for another. The sentiment dormant within him had always found its satisfaction in the impersonal in his vague and distant dreams. Now it was as though all those fancies of the past had suddenly been gathered together and embodied in this new-found comrade.
The voices in the next room which had been subdued now rose to a point where some phrases were audible. The younger man seemed to be getting excited, for he kept exclaiming,
“Good. That’s bully!”
Their words were lost once more, but Wilson soon heard the sentence,
“I’m with you–with you to the end. But what are you going to get out of this?”
Then for the first time he heard the voice of the other. There was some quality in it that made him start. He could not analyze it, but it had a haunting note as though it went back somewhere in his own past. It made him–without any intention of overhearing the burden of the talk–sit up and listen. It was decidedly the voice of an older man–perhaps a foreigner. But if this were so, a foreigner who had lived long in this country, for the accent consisted of a scarcely perceptible blur. He spoke very slowly and with a cold deliberation that was unpleasant. It was so a judge might pronounce sentence of death. It was unemotional and forbidding. Yet there were little catches in it that reminded Wilson of some other voice which he could not place.
“My friend,” came the voice more distinctly, as though the owner had risen and now faced the closed doors between the two rooms, “my friend, the interests I serve are truly different from yours; you serve sentiment; I, justice and revenge. Yet we shall each receive our reward in the same battle.” He paused a moment. Then he added,
“A bit odd, isn’t it, that such interests as yours and mine should focus at a point ten thousand miles from here?”
“Odd? It’s weird! But I’m getting used to such things. I picked up a chap this morning whose story I wouldn’t have believed a year ago. Now I’ve learned that most anything is possible–even you.”
“I?”
“Yes, you and your heathen army, and your good English, and your golden idol.”
“I object to your use of the word ‘heathen,’” the other replied sharply.
Wilson started from his couch, now genuinely interested. But the two had apparently been moving out while this fag-end of the conversation was going on, for their voices died down until they became but a hum. He fell back again, and before he had time to ponder further Danbury hurried in with a suit of clothes over his arm.
“Here,” he cried excitedly, “try on these. I must be off again in a hurry. I didn’t mean to keep you waiting so long, but we’ll make up the time in the machine.”
He tossed out a soft felt hat and blue serge suit. Wilson struggled into the clothes. Save that the trousers were a bit short, the things fitted well enough. At any rate, he looked more respectable than in a lounging robe. The latter he cast aside, and as he did so something fell from it. It was a roll of parchment. Wilson had forgotten all about it, and now thrust it in an inside pocket. He would give it back to Sorez, for very possibly it was of some value. He had not thought of it since it had rolled out of the hollow image.
Danbury led the way out the door as soon as Wilson had finished dressing. The latter felt in one of the vest pockets and drew out a ten dollar bill. He stared from Danbury to the money.
“Tuck it away, man, tuck it away,” said Danbury.
“I can’t tell you–”
“Don’t. Don’t want to hear it. By the way, you’d better make a note of