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Updated: June 21, 2025
Among the motley crowd which had made the studio a home in the days of Kirk's bachelorhood had been an artist one might almost say an ex-artist named Robert Dwight Penway. An over-fondness for rye whisky at the Brevoort cafe had handicapped Robert as an active force in the world of New York art.
In the interim of waiting he glanced casually over the contents of the New York papers which he had received in the mail. Unto Constance Brevoort, awaiting him with a great trepidation in the little den, came a white-lipped, stern-faced man with a paper crushed In his hand. "Read that!" he said curtly, pointing to a paragraph at the head of the "Society Column."
The train slowed almost to a stop, the grinding brakes eased, and it drew away, leaving Pete and Brevoort squatting behind a row of empty oil barrels along the track. As the tail-lights of the train disappeared, Pete and Brevoort rose and walked down the track several hundred yards.
"We all sang a little at college, you know, and my mother was an accomplished musician. It is four years since I last sang. You are overkind to me." "Do you not play as well?" impulsively asked Mrs. Brevoort. He shook his head negatively. "Only a few accompaniment chords that I smash out indifferently! and I am dubious of my ability to do that after all these years of roping and ditch digging."
Within an hour Walter had given up his room the rent had been paid in advance and transferred his luggage to the Hotel Brevoort, where he was assigned a small apartment on the upper floor. "I shall leave the city in two days," said the professor. "I have put an advertisement into the daily papers which brings customers to the hotel, but I depend chiefly upon my sales on the road."
He was too jaded with the din of pounds, shillings, and pence to permit his pen to invent facts or to adorn realities. Nevertheless, he occasionally escapes from the tread-mill. In December he is in London, and entranced with the acting of Miss O'Neil. He thinks that Brevoort, if he saw her, would infallibly fall in love with this "divine perfection of a woman."
"You needn't be worried about being seen with me, no matter how high you're flying," he hastened to say. "I always did keep myself in good condition for the rise. Nothing's known about me or ever will be." The girl was smiling at him again. "I wasn't thinking of those things," said she. "I've never been to the Brevoort." "It's quiet and respectable." Susan's eyes twinkled.
Brent, mounted on one of the thoroughbreds, lost no time in heading for Sanborn and the railroad, once he had ridden clear of the running skirmish with the northerners. He surmised that Pete and Brevoort would make for Sanborn and they had The Spider's money. Brent also knew that he had a faster horse than either of them.
"You've got a good eye for color, Red. But you ought to cultivate the virtue of forbearance, ought he not, Mrs. Brevoort?" But she scornfully ignored him and was rather profuse in her protestations to Red of her happiness at being back in "God's country" again. At the dinner table that night Douglass maliciously reverted to the topic of forbearance.
Pete lay in a heavy stupor, his left arm and the left side of his face partially paralyzed. The day after his arrival at the General two plain-clothes men came to question him. He was conscious and could talk a little. But they had learned nothing of his companion, the killing of Brent, nor how Brevoort managed to evade them.
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