The Black Bag | Page 6

dejected apathy, from which Kirkwood, growing at
length impatient, found it necessary to rouse him.
"You wished to see me about something else, I'm sure?"
Mr. Calendar started from his reverie. "Eh? ... I was dreaming. I beg
pardon. It seems hard to realize, Mr. Kirkwood, that this awful
catastrophe has overtaken our beloved metropolis--"
The canting phrases wearied Kirkwood; abruptly he cut in. "Would a
sovereign help you out, Mr. Calendar? I don't mind telling you that's
about the limit of my present resources."
"Pardon me." Mr. Calendar's moon-like countenance darkened; he
assumed a transparent dignity. "You misconstrue my motive, sir."
"Then I'm sorry."

"I am not here to borrow. On the other hand, quite by accident I
discovered your name upon the register, down-stairs; a good old Frisco
name, if you will permit me to say so. I thought to myself that here was
a chance to help a fellow-countryman." Calendar paused, interrogative;
Kirkwood remained interested but silent. "If a passage across would
help you, I--I think it might be arranged," stammered Calendar, ill at
ease.
"It might," admitted Kirkwood, speculative.
"I could fix it so that you could go over--first-class, of course--and pay
your way, so to speak, by, rendering us, me and my partner, a trifling
service."
"Ah?"
"In fact," continued Calendar, warming up to his theme, "there might
be something more in it for you than the passage, if--if you're the right
man, the man I'm looking for."
"That, of course, is the question."
"Eh?" Calendar pulled up suddenly in a full-winged flight of
enthusiasm.
Kirkwood eyed him steadily. "I said that it is a question, Mr. Calendar,
whether or not I am the man you're looking for. Between you and me
and the fire-dogs, I don't believe I am. Now if you wish to name your
quid pro quo, this trifling service I'm to render in recognition of your
benevolence, you may."
"Ye-es," slowly. But the speaker delayed his reply until he had
surveyed his host from head to foot, with a glance both critical and
appreciative.
He saw a man in height rather less than the stock size six-feet so much
in demand by the manufacturers of modern heroes of fiction; a man a
bit round-shouldered, too, but otherwise sturdily built, self-contained,

well-groomed.
Kirkwood wears a boy's honest face; no one has ever called him
handsome. A few prejudiced persons have decided that he has an
interesting countenance; the propounders of this verdict have been, for
the most part, feminine. Kirkwood himself has been heard to declare
that his features do not fit; in its essence the statement is true, but there
is a very real, if undefinable, engaging quality in their very irregularity.
His eyes are brown, pleasant, set wide apart, straightforward of
expression.
Now it appeared that, whatever his motive, Mr. Calendar had acted
upon impulse in sending his card up to Kirkwood. Possibly he had
anticipated a very different sort of reception from a very different sort
of man. Even in the light of subsequent events it remains difficult to
fathom the mystery of his choice. Perhaps Fate directed it; stranger
things have happened at the dictates of a man's Destiny.
At all events, this Calendar proved not lacking in penetration; men of
his stamp are commonly endowed with that quality to an eminent
degree. Not slow to reckon the caliber of the man before him, the
leaven of intuition began to work in his adipose intelligence. He owned
himself baffled.
"Thanks," he concluded pensively; "I reckon you're right. You won't do,
after all. I've wasted your time. Mine, too."
"Don't mention it."
Calendar got heavily out of his chair, reaching for his hat and umbrella.
"Permit me to apologize for an unwarrantable intrusion, Mr.
Kirkwood." He faltered; a worried and calculating look shadowed his
small eyes. "I was looking for some one to serve me in a certain
capacity--"
"Certain or questionable?" propounded Kirkwood blandly, opening the
door.

Pointedly Mr. Calendar ignored the imputation. "Sorry I disturbed you.
G'dafternoon, Mr. Kirkwood."
"Good-by, Mr. Calendar." A smile twitched the corners of Kirkwood's
too-wide mouth.
Calendar stepped hastily out into the hall. As he strode--or rather,
rolled--away, Kirkwood maliciously feathered a Parthian arrow.
"By the way, Mr. Calendar--?"
The sound of retreating footsteps was stilled and "Yes?" came from the
gloom of the corridor.
"Were you ever in San Francisco? Really and truly? Honest Injun, Mr.
Calendar?"
For a space the quiet was disturbed by harsh breathing; then, in a
strained voice, "Good day, Mr. Kirkwood"; and again the sound of
departing footfalls.
Kirkwood closed the door and the incident simultaneously, with a
smart bang of finality. Laughing quietly he went back to the window
with its dreary outlook, now the drearier for lengthening evening
shadows.
"I wonder what his game is, anyway. An