Part 9

"It's no trouble," grinned he, showing his large teeth, with the spaces between. "I'll have you down in a moment."

Their steps were still sounding upon the stairs when Amos Bulfinch turned his mild look upon Mr. Sparhawk and then upon Stroude; and a close observer would have noticed that it rested longer and with greater interest upon Stroude.

"A trifling matter of business," explained Mr. Sparhawk. "Mr. Stroude desired me to introduce him. You've heard of him, maybe."

"Often," said Amos in his sweet voice. "Glass, and crockery, and imported ware in Mulberry Street. A fine, profitable business, very active, and not overcrowded."

Stroude was about to answer this, but Sparhawk stopped him.

"You are quite right," said Mr. Sparhawk. "It's an excellent business, and prospering. But there come times in mercantile life," with a little gesture of regret, "when ready money must be reckoned with."

"That is true, Mr. Sparhawk," said Amos soothingly. "Not a day passes but that is brought home to me."

"What would you say," added Mr. Sparhawk, "to loaning Mr. Stroude a matter of three thousand dollars--gold?"

"How soon?" asked Amos Bulfinch, looking at Stroude in a most beneficent manner.

"To-day," said the merchant.

"To-day? Impossible! That is the way with all of them," to Mr. Sparhawk. "They think I have only to pick the money up. What security is there?"

Mr. Stroude displayed some documents, which Amos studied minutely. Nathaniel reëntered just then; and he also gave the matter the closest attention.

"And what names?" asked the money-lender. "Of course, they must be good ones."

Stroude grudgingly mentioned one or two; and father and son shook their heads at each other.

"We have them already," said Amos.

"A half-dozen times," said Nathaniel. "They won't do."

"My people object to the same name so often," said Amos. "They are very strict. And when they object the rate goes up."

Stroude writhed at this, and Sparhawk asked:

"How high?"

The money-lender, who still had Stroude's paper in his hand, folded it one third.

"Oh, no," said Sparhawk. "Oh, dear, no!"

"There are, besides, interests, costs, and other things," said Amos in his honeyed way. "It is too bad. Maybe your friend had better go somewhere else."

"They may treat him better," suggested Nathaniel with disbelief.

Stroude's blue nose paled.

"But a charge like that!" protested he. "It's monstrous!"

"Added to it," said Amos, still fingering the paper, "there are apt to be brokerage charges, besides, there is my small portion to be fixed upon it finally."

He folded the paper in two and stood creasing it between thumb and forefinger while Stroude began to choke and to pull at his neck-cloth feebly.

"Perhaps you'd better not favor us," said Amos. "We never advise anything."

"Terms are always plainly stated," said Nathaniel; "and patrons are left to use their own judgment."

"Well?" asked Mr. Sparhawk of Stroude.

"Can I get the money to-day?" asked the merchant, his trembling hand still fumbling with the neck-cloth. "To-day, without fail?"

"It will be at your office in one hour," said Amos Bulfinch, soothingly. "I will send for it at once." Under his father's directions, Nathaniel sat down at his table and made out the note; when it was ready, it was passed over to Stroude, who read and buttoned it up in his breast pocket.

"My son, Rehoboam, will pay the money over to you," said the leech; "and I would ask, Mr. Stroude, that you have the necessary signatures ready affixed, to avoid delay."

Stroude stumbled a little as he went down the stairs; and the perky little Mr. Sparhawk carried a wrinkle of interrogation between his eyes as he went with him.

XIII

In the window at Christopher Dent's, among the gray dried herbs, the crooked, moisture-seeking roots, the barks and flowers, there had stood for a long time a small board upon which had been carefully lettered the information that upon the second floor desirable lodgings were to be had.

"Clean and roomy," Christopher described them in his talk. "And not of too great cost. The furnishings are not sumptuous, but are adequate to a modest taste; and any one inclined to occupy the premises must be so adjusted as to see no harm in occasional fumes resulting from the distilling, simmering, fermenting, or otherwise compounding of curative drugs, medicines, or chemicals. Any one of such a habit of mind will find themselves reasonably well bestowed." The board, however, had now disappeared from the window; this hinted at the second floor's being occupied; and a glance upward carried the hint to the border of certainty. The shutters were all open; and lights were seen behind trim white curtains. Water Street was quiet of an evening; the drays had ceased to trundle over the stones; porters, clerks, and merchants, who had all day been matching themselves against the mounds of goods that grew before the warehouses, the bills and figures and entries that crowded the desks of the counting-rooms, and the wits and wants of buyers, sellers, and agents, had all melted from view, into their homes, or into the bars or eating-rooms of favorite taverns.

Christopher Dent sat in his back room, his spectacles upon his nose, and a big book in Latin text upon his knee. A cheery fire crackled in the stove; two candles burned upon the table; and a number of other books, each as big as the one Christopher held, lay beside them. Outside the yellow flare lurked the retorts, the rows of bottles and jars full of pent-up possibilities, still and waiting. Tom Horn sat upon a bench near the stove; he rubbed his knees in the warmth, as the little apothecary looked at him over the edge of his spectacles.

"In none of the elder tongues," said Christopher, "is there much to do with the sea. As you say, the ancients were wise; they had a knowledge of many strange things; but they seldom ventured far from land, and so the sea as we know it was a darkened thing to them. So, knowing nothing of its secrets, they could scarcely agree with you. Bear in mind," said Christopher earnestly, "I am not denying; I only announce a lack of authority in the ancients."

"The sea," said Tom Horn in his hushed voice, "has a meaning. It is more than a mass of water, washing around in the hollows of the world."

"I grant you that," said Christopher readily. "I grant you that much active principle is in the sea; it holds many vital elements, crystallized or in solution. Soda, for example, is the cinder of sea-plants; and without this friendly alkali we'd many times be brought to a stand. The ocean gives rare and agreeable substances to materia medica, and in time, as we plumb its depths, it will give more."

But Tom Horn shook his head at this conception.

"I have watched the sea with the sun on it," he said; "and I've watched it running through the night. Hurricanes blow over it and make it leap and rave; but hurricanes die down, and the sea goes on. It is always muttering," said Tom Horn. "I've listened to it, hour after hour; it's always muttering over something it has hidden. But it never tells; it keeps its secrets well."

"The moon guides the ocean's tides," said Christopher. "And the wind ruffles or smooths its surface. It does nothing of itself."

"That is a common error," said Tom Horn, "and held to by men who have not watched, and seen, and listened. The sea slips around the world in a circle. It touches and knows all things. And inside the great circle there are many smaller ones, all moving the same way." He leaned forward in his chair so that his face was close to Christopher. "The world moves that way, too--does it not?--round and round. And so do the stars, and the moon, and the wind." There was a little pause, and then Tom Horn's hushed voice grew more whisper-like than ever. "Who ever saw a circle begin?" said he. "Did you?"

The little apothecary looked perplexed, and regarded his questioner seriously over the lenses of his spectacles.

"No one ever did," said Tom Horn, "because they begin outside the world's rim. The circle of your life, now, began ages before you were born, and in the emptiness of space. It grew narrower as it neared the earth, and the day it touched its surface you began to live. And so it went around and around, and so it continues to go around and around; it keeps growing narrower and narrower, as it has done from the first; it gets tighter and tighter about you. And one day it will close, and so disappear, upon a little spot of ground, in a quiet place. And there you will lie."

"Thankfully, I hope, and untroubled," said Christopher Dent soberly. "And with the little that's been given me to do well accomplished."

The street door opened, and Christopher went into the store.

"Good evening, Mr. Sparhawk," said he.

"Good evening," said Mr. Sparhawk in his perky little way. "I hope I find you very well, Christopher."

"Quite," said Christopher. "Never better, indeed."

"And prosperous, too, I trust."

The little apothecary moved his hand toward his store of dried plants.

"The fields," said he, "and the roadsides and thickets and stream margins have never in my day given themselves so completely to medicinal production. During the spring and summer the earth teemed with curative power, and I harvested abundantly."

Mr. Sparhawk rubbed his hands with satisfaction.

"Excellent," said he. "I am delighted to hear it. And, I think," said he, wisely, "I see the law of compensation at work in what you say; if nature brings us a sickly season such as we've seen of late she makes up for it in her lavish gifts of healing agents. Nature is remarkable," and Mr. Sparhawk wagged his head, "and the more minutely she is studied, the more remarkable she becomes."

The apothecary agreed to this readily enough, and advanced testimony containing instances proving how really remarkable she was.

"And that you are prospering, Christopher," said Mr. Sparhawk, halting the testimony at the first opportunity, "is gratifying. But," and he looked about with his lips pursed primly, "to have fat stores is one thing, and custom is another. I hope trade is active with you." Christopher nodded, and Mr. Sparhawk, much pleased, nodded in return. "Excellent!" said he. "That is good. Of course, in a profession such as yours,--and a most interesting and necessary profession,--custom must be active if one's income is to retain a proper level."

"Usually that is true," said Christopher. "But," and he beamed through his spectacles, "just now I am not forced to depend upon my trade alone."

"Ah!" Mr. Sparhawk looked both surprised and expectant. "I see. You have other sources of revenue, then?"

"Yes," said Christopher. "Lodgers."

"Lodgers!" Mr. Sparhawk now looked more surprised than ever. "So you have taken in lodgers?"

Christopher pointed toward the ceiling.

"Two of them," he said. "French people."

"Two Frenchmen," said Mr. Sparhawk. "Well, well!"

"One Frenchman, and his daughter," Christopher informed him. "The name is Lafargue."

"I have heard of them," nodded Mr. Sparhawk. "Quite genteel people, I think; and the father is engaged in a commercial way with some one in the city. So they are lodged in your house? Well, well, I am glad to hear it. You have been too much alone this long time, Christopher; and that is not good for a man. Now, these people will not only add to your income, but they'll give you someone to chat with. That will be a pleasure. For I suppose," and Mr. Sparhawk smiled agreeably at the little apothecary, "you do chat together?"

"I have spoken with them," said Christopher.

"Of course you have. That is quite right. They are very presentable people, as I have said, and are well circumstanced in their own country. I suppose they have come to America upon matters of pressing importance."

"I don't know," said Christopher Dent.

"Surely," said Mr. Sparhawk persuasively, "they have at some time or other asked you for some small item of information that would give you an idea of their mission."

"Why, no," said the little apothecary. "They have not. They are people who keep themselves to themselves a great deal."

"I see," said Mr. Sparhawk. "Yes, yes, I see."

He then changed the subject and talked of trade in general, the coming winter, of the lighting of the streets, of the watch. And then of crime.

"Time was," said he, "when actual crime of any sort was rare among us. But, now, we've reached a point where even those of violence cause no more than a flurry. Take that affair of Magruder, now--an honest, thriving man. Someone enters his place while he is engaged with his work, and in an instant stops his life. The coroner's jury speaks harshly against the criminals and invites all law-abiding people to bring them to justice. But it will take more than a declaration of indignation and a summons to civic reprisal to effect any good. The persons guilty of this action are still at large and, from all appearances, are likely to remain so."

The little apothecary shook his head and looked perturbed.

"Dear, dear," said he. "A pretty pass, indeed. I suspect the safety of the streets, for all they are so well lit, and so told Monsieur Lafargue, as he went out to-night."

"He has gone out, then?" said Mr. Sparhawk, and there was interest in his face.

"A half-hour or more ago," replied Christopher. "And he seemed quite infirm, and made much use of his cane."

Mr. Sparhawk now made some trifling purchase and left the shop. Christopher returned to the back room. Tom was staring at the blaze through the open door of the stove; without turning his head, or shifting his eyes, he said:

"That was Sparhawk."

"Yes," said Christopher. "An agreeable person. He's considerate of everything and every one."

There was a little pause, and then Tom Horn said:

"Why did he ask about your lodgers?"

"He didn't," stated the apothecary mildly. "I mentioned them."

"He made you do it," said Tom Horn. "I heard him."

Christopher Dent blinked at his friend in surprise and rubbed his bald head.

"Last night," said Tom, "I went to the Boatswain-and-Call after I left the counting-room. I always go there for my supper. Mr. Sparhawk was in the bar."

"Of the Boatswain-and-Call?" said Christopher. "What was he doing there?"

"He had a mug of ale, a thick cut of bread, and the leg of a fowl. But, for all he ate with good appetite, he wasn't there for that. No, it was to talk with me."

"Did he tell you so?" asked the apothecary.

"No," said Tom Horn. "He didn't need to."

Just then the subdued _rat-tat-tat_ of a knocker sounded.

"Listen!" said Tom, though he never moved and never took his gaze from the fire.

"It's at the side door," exclaimed Christopher. "A visitor for my lodgers."

"Sparhawk," said Tom Horn. And while Christopher gazed at his friend, astonished, steps were heard descending a stairway; there was a murmur of voices, and then the stairs creaked under a double burden. "He knew last night they were lodged here," said Tom Horn. "I told him so."

"Do you think," said Christopher incredulously, "that was what he wanted to talk about?"

"It was partly that," nodded Tom. "But mainly it was about what they were doing in this country. He made me tell what I knew, without asking, just as he made you a few moments ago."

Christopher Dent looked completely mystified.

"It is all very odd," said he. "I wonder what he has in his mind?"

"Aye, I wonder," said Tom Horn, his gaze never leaving the flame in the open stove. "I wonder, indeed."

XIV

Mr. Sparhawk had carefully closed the door of the apothecary shop and had passed the window with the leisurely air of a man who has satisfactorily transacted his business. But while still only a few steps away he had paused; then he went to the side door and knocked the _rat-tat-tat_ which Tom Horn and the apothecary had heard.

A quadroon maid answered. Was Monsieur Lafargue at home? No, he was not. But Mademoiselle Lafargue was. Perhaps the gentleman would care to see her? Yes, it so happened after some consideration the gentleman would; and he was led up-stairs and asked to wait in a room into which the staircase opened. In a few moments Mademoiselle Lafargue appeared. She was taller than Mr. Sparhawk, and dressed in a robe that was not common in the houses of American women of that time. Her fine dark eyes were full of questioning as she looked at the visitor.

"I hope I don't intrude," said Mr. Sparhawk. "It's a matter of business that might not wait with profit."

"Will you sit down?" said the girl.

They sat down. Mr. Sparhawk settled himself comfortably, and put his finger-tips precisely together; then he regarded the girl with careful attention.

"You are the daughter of Jean Edouard Lafargue, citizen of Brest, I understand?"

"Yes," said the girl.

"He is, and has been, agent in France for the commercial house of Rufus Stevens' Sons," stated Mr. Sparhawk gravely, "and is in America on business having to do with that concern."

There was a shadow in the girl's eyes; but her voice was level and unchanged as she said:

"Am I to understand that you are its representative?"

"By no means," said Mr. Sparhawk. "I would not have you understand that for the world, because such would not be the fact. I do _not_ represent it."

"It was your confidence as to my father's business that made me suppose it," said the girl quietly.

"I've mentioned his connection that we might put things on a solid footing; that is all." He nodded in his perky, bird-like way, and his finger-tips sought an even more perfect contact. "I desired you to know that I held him in high esteem; every one having to do with that excellent house is held in high esteem."

"So I have been told," said the girl, but there was bitterness in her voice.

"If you will pardon my calling the matter up," said Mr. Sparhawk in a most confidential way, "and I only call it up because I cannot go on without doing so, your father's procedure since reaching the city has been somewhat unusual. It has caused comment. He is a trusted agent of Rufus Stevens' Sons, and has been these many years; and yet, though he's been in the city a week, he has not yet called at their counting-house."

"You say you do not speak for my father's business connections," said the girl; "indeed, you do not say in whose interests you are here; and yet you do not hesitate to inquire into a thing that must, of its nature, be private."

Mr. Sparhawk held up one open hand in protest; his face wore a look of pain.

"My dear young lady," said he, "pray do not think me guilty of an idle impertinence. Nothing could be further from my thoughts. I've said what I said because it is the readiest way I can summon just now as an approach to a very delicate--an exceedingly delicate--subject." He regarded her with careful attention. "The Atlantic is wide," he observed; "and in these unsettled days it is also much troubled. A man does not venture upon the ocean now, especially with his daughter, without good reason. That is common sense. And yet we find, in this instance of your father's so doing, that no sufficient reason has shown itself. If a firm summons its agent he is, in commercial duty, bound to obey. But Rufus Stevens' Sons has not summoned your father. In fact, some in the firm are somewhat aghast at his appearance."

"Well?" said the girl, quietly.

"It has been observed--quite by chance, of course--that in the time Monsieur Lafargue has been in the city he has ventured abroad upon only a few occasions."

"He is old," said the girl.

"I have noted that," said Mr. Sparhawk cheerfully. "And I sympathize with his infirmities. I have heard talk," he added, after a moment's reflection, "connecting your father with Monsieur--or, as the revolutionary manner has it, Citizen--Genêt. This gentleman and he," and the little man's head took the inquiring bird-like tilt, "are fast friends, I think."

"Well?" said the girl.

Mr. Sparhawk had evidently expected more or less enlightenment on this point; but now that he saw none was forthcoming he proceeded with adroit readiness.

"To-day your father visited another person, Mr. Amos Bulfinch, a usurer!"

The girl arose suddenly, but before she could speak Mr. Sparhawk once more lifted the protesting hand.

"If you will favor me with one more instant," said he. Then, as she stood looking at him: "Thank you. It would seem," said he, "there was one other person upon whom your father called since he's been in the city; and, if reports speak truly, the circumstances of the visit were peculiar. The person I refer to was one Magruder, a merchant, now dead."

The girl sat down; her face was very white.

"My father did not know Mr. Magruder," she said. "He never so much as saw him."

"The late night," said Mr. Sparhawk, "is commonly spoken of as the silent hours. But, while these hours have no voice, it has been shown time and again that they have many eyes. And on that particular night these eyes seem to have been more than usually vigilant. It is said," and Mr. Sparhawk nodded his head, and looked exceedingly unwilling to credit it, "that upon this visit you bore your father company."

There was a pause of some duration; the girl sat very still, and her gaze never ceased from searching the man's face. Mr. Sparhawk was quite composed; he tilted his head and looked exceedingly prim, and he pressed his finger-tips together with the utmost nicety of adjustment.

"Are you of the police?" asked Mademoiselle Lafargue.

"God bless my soul!" exclaimed Mr. Sparhawk. "No! Whatever made you think of such a thing?"

"What is your errand here?" said the girl.

"We shall reach that by and by," said Mr. Sparhawk reassuringly. "Never fear, we shall come to it in due course." He nodded his head; his whole expression and manner indicating that here, at least, was one matter that would be properly attended to when its turn came--attended to and settled, once and for all. "You say," said Mr. Sparhawk, "that your father did not know Mr. Magruder; indeed, he'd never seen him. Very well. Suppose we accept that statement and pass on." Mr. Sparhawk seemed to test his footing at this new point of advance; and, apparently convinced that it was safe, he said, "Had your father and Magruder ever had any correspondence?"

"I know very little of my father's business affairs," said the girl.

"Why, of course, that would be so," agreed Mr. Sparhawk. "I am glad you've mentioned it." Then he shook his head, and looked disturbed. "I wish, though, it had been otherwise. Your father's proposed call upon this man--and, God save us! what an unfortunate time he took for it!--would indicate that some writings had passed between them."

The girl said nothing. Mr. Sparhawk pondered, his head continuing to shake dubiously.