into it and went straight toward the house opposite that of John Mark. Still the girl argued, but it was in a whisper, as if she feared that terrible John Mark might overhear.
* * * * *
In the home of John Mark, that calm leader was still with Ruth Tolliver. They had gone down to the lower floor of the house, and, at his request, she sat at the piano, while Mark sat comfortably beyond the sphere of the piano light and watched her.
“You’re thinking of something else,” he told her, “and playing abominably.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You ought to be,” he said. “It’s bad enough to play poorly for someone who doesn’t know, but it’s torture to play like that for me.”
He spoke without violence, as always, but she knew that he was intensely angry, and that familiar chill passed through her body. It never failed to come when she felt that she had aroused his anger.
“Why doesn’t Caroline come back?” she asked at length.
“She’s letting him talk himself out, that’s all. Caroline’s a clever youngster. She knows how to let a man talk till his throat is dry, and then she’ll smile and tell him that it’s impossible to agree with him. Yes, there are many possibilities in Caroline.”
“You think Ronicky Doone is a gambler?” she asked, harking back to what he had said earlier.
“I think so,” answered John Mark, and again there was that tightening of the muscles around his mouth. “A gambler has a certain way of masking his own face and looking at yours, as if he were dragging your thoughts out through your eyes; also, he’s very cool; he belongs at a table with the cards on it and the stakes high.”
The door opened. “Here’s young Rose. He’ll tell us the truth of the matter. Has she come back, Rose?”
The young fellow kept far back in the shadow, and, when he spoke, his voice was uncertain, almost to the point of trembling. “No,” he managed to say, “she ain’t come back, chief.”
Mark stared at him for a moment and then slowly opened a cigarette case and lighted a smoke. “Well,” he said, and his words were far more violent than the smooth voice, “well, idiot, what did she do?”
“She done a fade-away, chief, in the house across the street. Went in with that other gent.”
“He took her by force?” asked John Mark.
“Nope. She slipped in quick enough and all by herself. He went in last.”
“Damnation!” murmured Mark. “That’s all, Rose.”
His follower vanished through the doorway and closed the door softly after him. John Mark stood up and paced quietly up and down the room. At length he turned abruptly on the girl. “Good night. I have business that takes me out.”
“What is it?” she asked eagerly.
He paused, as if in doubt as to how he should answer her, if he answered at all. “In the old days,” he said at last, “when a man caught a poacher on his grounds, do you know what he did?”
“No.”
“Shot him, my dear, without a thought and threw his body to the wolves!”
“John Mark! Do you mean—”
“Your friend Ronicky, of course.”
“Only because Caroline was foolish are you going to—”
“Caroline? Tut, tut! Caroline is only a small part of it. He has done more than that—far more, this poacher out of the West!”
He turned and went swiftly through the door. The moment it was closed the girl buried her face in her hands.
15. THE GIRL THIEF
Before that death sentence had been passed on him Ronicky Doone stood before the door of his room, with the trembling girl beside him.
“Wait here,” he whispered to her. “Wait here while I go in and wake him up. It’s going to be the greatest moment in his life! Poor Bill Gregg is going to turn into the richest man in New York City—all in one moment!”
“But I don’t dare go in. It will mean—”
“It will mean everything, but it’s too late to turn back now. Besides, in your heart of hearts, you don’t want to turn back, you know!”
Quickly he passed into the room and hurried to the bed of Bill Gregg. Under the biting grip of Doone’s hand Bill Gregg writhed to a sitting posture, with a groan. Still he was in the throes of his dream and only half awakened.
“I’ve lost her,” he whispered.
“You’re wrong, idiot,” said Ronicky softly, “you’re wrong. You’ve won her. She’s at the door now, waiting to come in.”
“Ronicky,” said Bill Gregg, suddenly awake, “you’ve been the finest friend a man ever had, but, if you make a joke out of her, I’ll wring your neck!”
“Sure you would. But, before you do that, jump into your clothes and open the door.”
Sleep was still thick enough in the brain of Bill Gregg to make him obey automatically. He stumbled into his clothes and then shambled dizzily to the door and opened it. As the light from the room struck down the hall Ronicky saw his friend stiffen to his full height and strike a hand across his face.
“Stars and Stripes!” exclaimed Bill Gregg. “The days of the miracles ain’t over!”
Ronicky Doone turned his back and went to the window. Across the street rose the forbidding face of the house of John Mark, and it threatened Ronicky Doone like a clenched hand, brandished against him. The shadow under the upper gable was like the shadow under a frowning brow. In that house worked the mind of John Mark. Certainly Ronicky Doone had won the first stage of the battle between them, but there was more to come—much more of that battle —and who would win in the end was an open question. He made up his mind grimly that, whatever happened, he would first ship Bill Gregg and the girl out of the city, then act as the rear guard to cover their retreat.
When he returned they had closed the door and were standing back from one another, with such shining eyes that the heart of Ronicky Doone leaped. If, for a moment, doubt of his work came to him, it was banished, as they glanced toward him.
“I dunno how he did it,” Bill Gregg was stammering, “but here it is —done! Bless you, Ronicky.”
“A minute ago,” said Ronicky, “it looked to me like the lady didn’t know her own mind, but that seems to be over.”
“I found my own mind the moment I saw him,” said the girl.
Ronicky studied her in wonder. There was no embarrassment,
