Gordon Craig | Page 8

away a trolley-car swept past, an odd, violet light playing along the
wire, grotesque shadows showing briefly amid the enveloping folds of
vapor. The discordant clang of the gong died away into the far distance.
Crouching there in the shade of the wall I felt like a criminal. Then,
angry at myself, I advanced slowly forward, yet keeping well under
cover.
The light fell slanting across the stone steps in front, and revealed a
narrow opening through the brick coping beyond. I must pass that way
in reaching the street, but hesitated to go forward boldly. I could see
only a few feet in any direction, as the fog was thickening, driving
along the soaked pavement in dense gray clouds, already beginning to
blot from view the houses opposite. Another trolley-car, dismally
clanging its gong, paused a moment at some near-by corner, and then
passed noisily on. The way seemed clear, the street utterly deserted,
and, nerving myself to the effort, I crept cautiously forward, until I
crouched behind the brick coping. There was not a disturbing sound,
and I straightened up, essaying the first quick step forth into the full
gleam of the light. Like some confronting ghost, scarcely more real
than a phantom of imagination, I came face to face with a woman.
She had turned swiftly into the narrow gateway leading through the
brick coping, hurrying silently as if pursued, her foot barely planted
upon the step when we met. I stopped, speechless, rigid, my
outstretched hand gripping the rail, but the woman drew hastily back,

her lips parted in a sudden sob of surprise, one hand flung out as if in
self-protection. It was instantaneous, yet before either could move
otherwise, or utter a word of explanation, a heavy footfall crunched
along the walk, and a burly police officer, his star gleaming ominously
in the dull light, rounded the corner a dozen feet away. Neither of us
stirred, staring into each other's bewildered faces, and before either
fully realized the situation, the strong, suspicious hand of the law had
gripped my shoulder.
"Here, now, an' what the hell are ye oop too, me fine buck?" he
questioned roughly, swinging me about into the light. "Give an account
o' yer-self moighty quick, 'er I 'll run ye in."
Startled, recalling the money hidden in my pocket, the last injunction of
Neale, I could think of no excuse, no explanation. The girl, still staring
blankly at me, must have perceived how I instinctively shrank back, my
lips moving in an impotent effort at speech. Some sudden impulse
changed her fright into sympathy. However it was the officer who
impatiently broke the silence, swinging his night stick menacingly:
"Come on now, me lad, hav' ye lost yer voice entoirely? Spake oop
loively--whut ther hell are the two ov' yer oop to, onyhow?"
She started forward, just a step.
"Nothing in the least wrong, officer," her voice trembling slightly, yet
sounding clearly distinct. "He--he was merely accompanying me home
from a dance."
"Whut dance?"
"Over--over there on 43rd Street."
"An' do yer live here?" the gruff tone still vibrant with suspicion. "Fer
if ye do, yer 're sure a new gurl," and he peered at her shadowed face in
the dim light. She drew in her breath sharply.
"No," her voice steadying, now she realized she must carry out the

deception. "My place is three blocks yet, around the next corner."
"Thet 's a prutty thin story, Miss. Then whut wus the two ov' yer doin'
in here?"
She clutched the brick coping with one hand, never glancing toward me,
her eyes fixed imploringly on the glistening face of the questioning
policeman. Yet she responded instantly with the quick wit of a clever
woman.
"I had my foot on the step, tying my shoe," she explained simply. "You
don't arrest people for that, do you?"
It was plain enough the officer was puzzled, yet he reluctantly released
his grip on my arm, boring the end of his club into the brick wall.
"It's half Oi' belave yer stringin' me roight now," he announced
doubtfully, "but Oi 'll give yer ther benefit ov' the doubt; only the two
ov' yer better kape on a-goin' till yer git under cover. Don't let me run
across yer along this beat agin ternight. Be gory av yer do, Oi 'll let yer
explain to ther sargint over at ther station. Go on now!"
I felt her hand touch my sleeve timidly, and caught a swift glimpse of
her eyes. We must carry out the deception now, and go away together.
There was no other choice. The policeman stared after us through the
mist, rolling his night stick in his hand. I heard him mutter to himself:
"It 's a rum go o' sum koind. Thet guy