The Substitute Prisoner | Page 3

He followed her with his eyes,
until he saw her pass into the vestibule. Then he hastened forward and
opened the street door.
She descended the broad steps holding herself stiffly erect, head
uptilted--a striking figure, graceful, supple, almost commanding. In fact,
so attractive was the picture she made as she stood a moment on the
sidewalk, that a passing policeman, seized by a gallant impulse, opened
the door of the waiting taxicab and held it ajar while she entered.
Balancing himself on the edge of the curb, the bluecoat stared after her
in undisguised admiration until the cab swung around the corner; then

he bestowed a curious glance on the house whence she had come. He
saw that the door was half open and that a man's figure stood revealed
in the soft light of the hallway. One hand was on the door knob, one
foot was thrust forward as if the man were uncertain whether to plunge
after her. Evidently he decided against venturing out, for he stepped
back into the vestibule and shut the door.
"Even these people have their little scraps," the bluecoat murmured
sagely, and passed on.
Herbert Whitmore did not return to the room in which he had received
the visitor. Instead, he ascended the stairs to the library, and threw
himself into the soft embrace of a wide leather chair.
The turmoil of his brain gave him an uncomfortable feeling of
excitement, as if he were participating in something active and swift,
which he but partly understood. He was incapable of connected
thought--everything was vague and shadowy before him. In a dim way
he recognized that he was standing in the way of an approaching
avalanche, and gradually he began to discern the nature of the
impending catastrophe. Presently the vague uncertainty that hovered
before his mind resolved itself into action, and his groping forefinger
pressed a button hidden beneath the carved edge of the library table. In
response to the pressure, a liveried butler entered the room.
"Did you mail the letter I gave you?" inquired Whitmore.
"Yes, sir."
"When?"
"Immediately you gave it to me."
"That was about four hours ago?"
"Yes, sir."
"That is all."

The butler effaced himself from the room as noiselessly as he had
entered, and again Whitmore gave himself up to the alarming
predicament in which he found himself.
His reflections centered about the letter which the butler had mailed. It
was not sent in a moment of impulsiveness. The information which it
conveyed was not offered in spite, or in anger, or in envy. It was the
deliberate act of a man habituated to clear thinking and correct action.
Viewed with full knowledge of all the surrounding circumstances, that
letter must be regarded as the noble outpouring of a chivalrous love,
honest, worthy, unselfish. Regarded without the illumination of the
complex conditions which called it forth, the letter was pregnant with
possibility of mischief.
It was addressed to Mrs. George Collins. And George Collins must not
be permitted to intercept it.
With the single resolve to frustrate Collins actuating his movements,
Whitmore went to his apartment, slipped on his topcoat, and left the
house. He paused at the corner to consult his watch. It was eleven
o'clock.
He was sufficiently acquainted with the city to know that over on
Seventh Avenue certain shops kept open until midnight. He had passed
them frequently after theater and observed the industrious proprietors
and barkers noisily soliciting trade on the sidewalk.
Down Fifth Avenue Whitmore swung at a rapid pace, turning west at
Forty-second Street. Through the swirling crowds at Broadway he
threaded his way, finally entering the gloomy thoroughfare that cuts a
somber, murky streak through the illuminated area of Times Square.
Even Whitmore, engrossed as he was in his own affairs, could not help
a feeling of depression as with a single step he emerged from the
throbbing life and light of Broadway into the shabby darkness of
Seventh Avenue. For nowhere in the big city is the contrast of its
extremes brought home so sharply as at this intersection of three busy
thoroughfares.

It is worth while to pause a moment in the blatant glare of that
monstrously hideous variety house, that architectural malformation that
defaces the northwest corner; or opposite in the shadow of the gray
illumined tower that mounts undaunted, a connecting ladder between
earth and sky. Especially profitable is it to pause a moment at the hour
when the neighboring theaters are discharging their crowds, and to
glance behind and beyond the furious activity that bewilders the eye
and dazzles the senses. If you have the eye to see and the mind to
appreciate, you will behold an illuminated canvas whereon is depicted,
within the limited area of your vision, everything that a great city holds