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He gazed at Steingall with bold curiosity. He had a foot on the companion ladder when he heard a sudden commotion on the wharf. Turning, he saw Fowle, livid with terror, writhing in Carshaw's grasp. Then Voles stood still. The shades of night were drawing in, but he had seen enough to give him pause. Perhaps, too, other less palpable shadows darkened his soul at that moment.
The offer was his own, and he could not in honor begin the new era by breaking his pledge. The day was Saturday, November 11. On the following Monday week he must begin to learn the rudiments of cotton-spinning. "What's up?" demanded Clancy, eying the telegram, for Carshaw's face had hardened at the thought that, perhaps, in the limited time at his disposal his quest might fail.
Thirdly, here was a woman in distress, and, to one of Carshaw's temperament and upbringing, that in itself formed a convincing reason why he should wish to help her. He racked his brain for a fitting excuse to offer his services. He could find none. Above all else, Rex Carshaw was a gentleman.
"By gad, I'll do it," and Carshaw's emphatic fist thumped the table. "Steady! This Voles is a tremendous fellow. In a personal encounter you would stand no chance. And he's the sort that shoots at sight. Mick the Wolf, too, is a bad man from the wild and woolly West. The type exists, even to-day. We have gunmen here in New York who'd clean up a whole saloonful of modern cowboys.
Tower stood looking on, the most unimportant person present, and anon ran to do some bidding of his wife's. Carshaw's only relation with Helen Tower of late had been to allow himself to be cheated by her at bridge, for she did not often pay, especially if she lost to one who had been something more than a friend.
In the letter she gave him some details not all of Carshaw's visit. No woman will ever reveal that she has been discarded by a man whom she boasted was tied to her hat-strings. Carshaw sought the detective bureau, but Steingall was away now, as well as Clancy. "You'll be hearing from one of them" was the enigmatic message he was given.
To their ears, as to the ears of those waiting in the car at the gate, came the sound of violent blows and the wrenching open of the door. In that large house in a room situated, too, on the side removed from the road they could not catch Carshaw's exulting cry after a peep through the window: "I have them! Voles and Fowle! There they are!
The man took them for husband and wife; happily, Winifred did not overhear Carshaw's smothered: "Not yet!" The girl soon went to her room. They parted with a formal hand-shake; but, to still the ready lips of scandal, Carshaw discovered the landlord's favorite brand of wine and sat up all night in his company.
There may be, as the Chinese proverb has it, thirty-six different kinds of mothers-in-law, but there is only one mother. Steingall, not Clancy, presented his bulk at Carshaw's apartment next morning. He contrived to have a few minutes' private talk with Mrs. Carshaw while her son was dressing.
He had a quick step, a quick way of talking, was used to command; his brow was square, and could threaten; he had the deepest blue eyes, and glossy brown hair; he was a tower of strength to protect a girl; and his wife, if he had one, must have a feeling of safety. Thoughts, or half-thoughts, like these passed through her mind. She had never before met any young man of Carshaw's type.
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