CHAPTER XXXVIII.

THE END OF JAKE

The man who called himself the Rev. John Dearborn sat behind the locked door of his study and methodically burnt papers in a little fireplace that was at the back of his chair. His blue glasses he had dispensed with, and under his eyes, keen and alert, the heap of manuscripts, old letters, receipts and other data, were sorted, and melted away until there was only a package left small enough to go into his pocket. He slipped a rubber band round these and put them on one side. Then he took up a heavy wad of manuscripts and dropped it into an open bag which was beside his desk; and as he sorted and read and destroyed, he whistled a little tune thoughtfully.

From one of the drawers in the desk he took out a thicker package of manuscript bound in a stiff cover. He turned the leaves of this idly, and sometimes the excellence of the writing induced him to read on and on.

“That’s damned good,” he said, not once but many times; for John Dearborn was a great admirer of the genius of John Dearborn.

At last, with an air of reluctance, he closed the manuscript volume and put that more reverently in the bag.

The house was empty, for the hawkers had not begun to stray back; and except for the little man who acted as doorkeeper and kept the Home swept and garnished, and the old cook, who was dozing in her kitchen, the Home was deserted.

Presently he finished his packing and patted first one breast-pocket and then the other, until he found the letter he wanted. He took it out and studied it for a while. It was a brief, hand-written note which Larry Holt had written to him the day after his first visit to Todd’s Home. He took up his pen and, with one eye on the copy, he fashioned a word taken from the letter, and compared the two efforts. Then from the open writing-case which lay on the desk he extracted a sheet of headed notepaper and began to write slowly and laboriously, and all the time he wrote he whistled his gay little tune. He finished at last and addressed an envelope, also taken from the writing-case; and when this was blotted, and the letter sealed and put into his pocket, he strapped the case and placed it on the floor by the side of his bag. Then he unlocked a wardrobe let into the wall and took out some clothing, which he laid on the back of a chair; and now he was singing with soft _diminuendo_, yet with evident enjoyment, one of the “Indian Love Lyrics.”

He stripped his sombre clerical garb, tore away his white choker collar, and began to dress. He was a man about town now in smartly tailored tweeds; and he put the clerical costume into the wardrobe and shut the door. Then he sat down at the table, his face in his hands, thinking, thinking.

He had dressed almost mechanically, and he had a strange feeling of dissatisfaction. All the exits would be guarded; even the panel, the roof-path, the way through the boiler-room.

“I’m mad,” he said, getting up.

He looked down at the bag and the writing-case, and there was regret in his expression. He peeled his coat and slowly undressed again. This time he did not go to the wardrobe, but to a long black box under the window, and he took out various articles of attire and viewed them with distaste.

“A wretched mountebank,” he called himself, and was genuinely contemptuous.

But it had to be this or nothing. Blind Jake could find his way by the underground channel. He had the sharp instincts of the blind, could walk like a cat past the sentinels, and even creep through narrow passages where it seemed impossible that his big frame could go.

John Dearborn dressed and took up a canvas bag from the box, laying it on the table. He turned the contents of his leather grip into this bag, then went to the front room of the Home and looked out into the street. Two policemen, he knew, were guarding the end of the cul-de-sac. Nobody used this front room except himself, for storing odds and ends of furniture, old account-books, and the like; but it had the advantage of possessing a door which was only a few feet from the front door.

He put down his sack and came out, closing the door carefully, before he went back to his study and locked himself in. He sat there for ten minutes waiting, and then came a gentle tap-tap on the panel. He crossed the room noiselessly, opened the door just wide enough for the caller to slip through.

It was Blind Jake, and his face was strained and puffed, and on his broad forehead the blue veins stood out.

“I only just got here, governor,” he said breathlessly.

The other was eyeing him with a steely look.

“What are you doing here, Jake?” he asked softly. “I told you not to leave the woman under any circumstances until I came.”

“Well, you didn’t come, master,” said the blind man. It was pathetic to hear the pleading, the humility, in his tone. His blind eyes were fixed on the cold man whom he loved so well and had served as men serve fate. A great, rough, cruel hound of a man, strong enough to crush and maim the master he worshipped, yet ready to cringe and whine at a sharp word. Blind Jake had given all for John Dearborn, had been the readiest minister of his vengeance and the slave of his cupidity. Blood was on his hands, and there were nights when strange faceless shapes came in and out of his room and were visible. Cold hands touched him on these nights, cold stiff fingers felt for his throat, and he could feel the rough wipings of sodden sleeves and the drip-drip-drip of water.

But, none of these things mattered. The sweat poured down his puckered face, his big lips were dropping, and perhaps the blind man felt some thrill in the atmosphere, for he asked with a little whine:

“Is there anything wrong, governor?”

“Where is the woman?” asked Mr. Dearborn, and his words dropped one by one, like steel pellets.

Blind Jake shifted uneasily on his seat.

“I left her. I couldn’t do----”

“You left her!” Another tremendous pause. “And they found her, eh?” John Dearborn’s voice had grown very soft.

“Yes, they found her,” said the man. “What could I do? Governor, I’d have done anything for you. Haven’t I used my strength for you, master? There’s no one as strong in the world as me, old Blind Jake. There’s no one who can work as cunning as I can! Haven’t I worked for ye; haven’t I carried ’em out for ye? Haven’t I croaked ’em for ye, with these hands, master?”

He held them out: great cruel hands, knotted and roughened, their backs speckled brown, their palms yellow with callosities.

“You lost Holt,” said Dearborn calmly, dispassionately, as a judge might speak. “You lost that woman. You lost the girl. And you come and talk to me of what you have done.”

“I’ve done my best,” said the man humbly.

“And they’ll catch you, too. And you can talk.”

“I’ll have my tongue torn out before I talk against you,” said Blind Jake violently, and smashed his fist down on the table so that it cracked and quivered. “You know that I’d die for you, master?”

“Yes,” said Dearborn.

He slipped his hand, the left hand that had no little finger, under his coat, and pulled out a short, ugly automatic pistol of heavy calibre.

“You’ll talk,” he said. “You’re bound to talk, Jake.”

The man leant forward, his big face working convulsively.

“If I die----” he began. And then John Dearborn, taking deliberate aim, fired three shots, and that great mountain of muscle swayed and slipped by the table into a heap on the ground. Blind Jake’s day had come.