Dougherty in a chorus.
“Bone jore,” said Dougherty, with an elaborate bow. “How’s that Dumain?”
“Pairfect,” smiled the little Frenchman.
“Really,” the ex-prizefighter asserted, “I think I’ll learn French. I like the way it sounds. ‘Monseere’ is much more classy than ‘mister,’ for instance.”
“If you do,” put in Driscoll, “you’d better speak it better than Dumain speaks English. If a man could be electrocuted for murdering a language he’d be a storage battery by this time.”
“Have your fun,” said Dumain, rising to his feet and shrugging his shoulders good-naturedly. “Eet ees a treeck—zat Angleesh. I have eet not.”
“Hardly,” laughed Jennings. “You don’t speak it with the finish of our late friend Mr. Knowlton, for instance. By the way, have you seen him?” he added, turning to Dougherty.
“Who? Knowlton?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I should say not.” Dougherty grinned as though the idea were absurd. “And, believe me, I won’t see him—at least, not in the Lamartine. When I tell a guy he’s not wanted, that ends it.”
“Don’t be too sure,” Booth advised. “Just because he didn’t come yesterday—you know today is another day.”
Dougherty turned on the speaker scornfully. “Listen,” he said with emphasis. “If that Knowlton shows his face in this lobby—which he won’t—but if he does, we’ll eat him up.”
“Diable! Mon Dieu!”
The exclamation came from Dumain, in an undertone of surprise and alarm. The others turned to him in wonder, and, following his fixed gaze toward the main entrance, saw Knowlton walk down the center of the lobby and stop at Lila’s desk!
The action and facial expression of each of the Erring Knights at this juncture was curiously indicative of their different characters.
Driscoll and Dougherty moved forward and glared belligerently; Booth and Jennings glanced from one side to the other as though in search of reenforcements; Dumain sputtered with wrath and indignation, and Sherman’s face darkened with a menacing scowl. None of them, however, appeared to be particularly anxious to cross the lobby.
Knowlton had not cast a single glance in their direction. His back was turned to them as he stood talking with Lila, and their conversation was in so low a tone that the Erring Knights heard not a word of it.
For perhaps two minutes this scene, half farcical, remained unchanged. The Erring Knights muttered to each other in undertones and glared fiercely, but they made no move.
Suddenly they saw Knowlton lift his hat and bow to Lila, turn sharply, and leave the lobby even more hurriedly than he had entered it.
Each of the Erring Knights glanced round the circle of his companions; some questioning, others assertive.
“It’s up to us,” declared Dougherty. “We’ve got to show him.”
They gathered themselves closely about the lounge, and all began talking at once.
In the meantime, what of Lila?
When Knowlton entered the lobby she was busied with some papers on her desk, and therefore did not see him. She became aware of his presence only when he stopped at her side and spoke to her.
For a moment she was speechless with surprise and gladness and confusion. She stared at him strangely, unseeing.
“What’s the matter?” smiled Knowlton. “I hope I don’t look as fierce as that.”
Then, as Lila did not answer, he reached for a telegraph blank, wrote on it, and handed it to her, together with a ten-dollar bill which he took from his wallet.
Lila’s dismay and confusion were doubled. The bill was exactly similar to the others he had given her, and to those which the collector had declared to be counterfeit.
What could she say? Finding no words, and feeling that she must do something, she extended her hand to take the bill, then drew it back, shivering involuntarily. Summoning her courage by a violent effort, she faltered:
“Mr. Knowlton, that bill—I—I cannot take it.”
And as Knowlton’s
“Bone jore,” said Dougherty, with an elaborate bow. “How’s that Dumain?”
“Pairfect,” smiled the little Frenchman.
“Really,” the ex-prizefighter asserted, “I think I’ll learn French. I like the way it sounds. ‘Monseere’ is much more classy than ‘mister,’ for instance.”
“If you do,” put in Driscoll, “you’d better speak it better than Dumain speaks English. If a man could be electrocuted for murdering a language he’d be a storage battery by this time.”
“Have your fun,” said Dumain, rising to his feet and shrugging his shoulders good-naturedly. “Eet ees a treeck—zat Angleesh. I have eet not.”
“Hardly,” laughed Jennings. “You don’t speak it with the finish of our late friend Mr. Knowlton, for instance. By the way, have you seen him?” he added, turning to Dougherty.
“Who? Knowlton?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I should say not.” Dougherty grinned as though the idea were absurd. “And, believe me, I won’t see him—at least, not in the Lamartine. When I tell a guy he’s not wanted, that ends it.”
“Don’t be too sure,” Booth advised. “Just because he didn’t come yesterday—you know today is another day.”
Dougherty turned on the speaker scornfully. “Listen,” he said with emphasis. “If that Knowlton shows his face in this lobby—which he won’t—but if he does, we’ll eat him up.”
“Diable! Mon Dieu!”
The exclamation came from Dumain, in an undertone of surprise and alarm. The others turned to him in wonder, and, following his fixed gaze toward the main entrance, saw Knowlton walk down the center of the lobby and stop at Lila’s desk!
The action and facial expression of each of the Erring Knights at this juncture was curiously indicative of their different characters.
Driscoll and Dougherty moved forward and glared belligerently; Booth and Jennings glanced from one side to the other as though in search of reenforcements; Dumain sputtered with wrath and indignation, and Sherman’s face darkened with a menacing scowl. None of them, however, appeared to be particularly anxious to cross the lobby.
Knowlton had not cast a single glance in their direction. His back was turned to them as he stood talking with Lila, and their conversation was in so low a tone that the Erring Knights heard not a word of it.
For perhaps two minutes this scene, half farcical, remained unchanged. The Erring Knights muttered to each other in undertones and glared fiercely, but they made no move.
Suddenly they saw Knowlton lift his hat and bow to Lila, turn sharply, and leave the lobby even more hurriedly than he had entered it.
Each of the Erring Knights glanced round the circle of his companions; some questioning, others assertive.
“It’s up to us,” declared Dougherty. “We’ve got to show him.”
They gathered themselves closely about the lounge, and all began talking at once.
In the meantime, what of Lila?
When Knowlton entered the lobby she was busied with some papers on her desk, and therefore did not see him. She became aware of his presence only when he stopped at her side and spoke to her.
For a moment she was speechless with surprise and gladness and confusion. She stared at him strangely, unseeing.
“What’s the matter?” smiled Knowlton. “I hope I don’t look as fierce as that.”
Then, as Lila did not answer, he reached for a telegraph blank, wrote on it, and handed it to her, together with a ten-dollar bill which he took from his wallet.
Lila’s dismay and confusion were doubled. The bill was exactly similar to the others he had given her, and to those which the collector had declared to be counterfeit.
What could she say? Finding no words, and feeling that she must do something, she extended her hand to take the bill, then drew it back, shivering involuntarily. Summoning her courage by a violent effort, she faltered:
“Mr. Knowlton, that bill—I—I cannot take it.”
And as Knowlton’s
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