One of My Sons — The Phial

THE PHIAL

The moment was not propitious for a fuller understanding between us.

Sam lowered the light and sauntered back into the outer room, remarking lazily to Yox: "If I were you I wouldn't sport this thing around too openly.

If judiciously kept out of sight it may bring you in another hundred some day."

"How's that?

You know those initials?"

"Know Louis Le Duc Gracieux?

Well, rather.

But as long as you have not the honour, keep quiet, lie low, and await events.

That is, if you care about the money.

What have you done with the blouse?"

"Put it away in cotton."

"Oh, I see.

Well, put the match-box with it."

"I will."

"Have another cigar?"

"Thank you.

I don't often have such a snap.

Well, what is it, sir?"

"Oh, nothing."

"I thought you looked as if you wanted something from me."

"I?

Not the least in the world."

Silence, then a lazy movement on the part of Sam which disturbed something on the table at which they were sitting.

The small noise had the effect of eliciting another word from Sam.

"I thought your story had more to it when I heard it last.

Didn't you say something about a small parcel which this mysterious man took out of his pocket before handing over his blouse?"

"Perhaps; but that wasn't anything.

I wonder you remember it."

Long silence on the part of Sam.

"I never forget anything," he observed at last.

"Was it a big parcel or a little?"

"It was a small one."

"How small?"

"Oh, a thing a man could hold in his fist.

Why do you ask about it?"

"Whim.

I am trying to wake myself up.

What was the shape of this parcel?"

"Bless me if I've given two thoughts to it."

"You'll get that blessing, Yox; for you've given more than two thoughts to it."

"I?"

"Yes, or why should you have described it as minutely as you did the other night?"

"Did I?"

"Undoubtedly; I can even recall your words.

You said the fellow was pretty well shaken up for a man of his size and appearance, and after handing you the blouse he caught it back and took something out of one of the pockets.

It looked like one of those phials the homoeopaths use.

You see, you were inclined to be more dramatic on that occasion than on this.

Indeed, I have been a little disappointed in you to-night."

"Oh, well!

a fellow cannot always cut a figure.

I'll try to remember the bottle next time I tell the story."

Sam did not answer; I heard him yawn instead.

But I did not yawn; that word "phial," had effectually roused me.

"As you say, it is a small matter," Underhill finally drawled.

"So is the straw that turns the current.

He was a philosopher who said, 'The little rift within the lute,' etc. , etc." Then suddenly, and with a wide-awake air which evidently startled his companion: "Do you suppose, Yox, that Mother Merry runs an opium-joint in those upper rooms?"

The answer he received evidently startled him.

"She may.

I hadn't thought of it before, but I remember, now, that when those women were brought down there was amongst them one who certainly was under the influence of something worse than liquor.

Faugh!

I see her yet.

But it wasn't opium he had in that bottle; that is, not the opium which is used for smoking.

The firelight shone full upon it as he passed it from one pocket to another, and I saw distinctly the sparkle of some dark liquid."

Sam Underhill, who seemed to have fallen back into his old condition of sleepy interest, mumbled something about his having been able to see a good deal, considering the darkness of the place.

To which his now possibly suspicious visitor replied: "I would have seen more if I had known so much was to be got out of it.

Can you give me a point or two as to how I'm to get that extra hundred?"

Whereupon Sam retorted, "Not to-night," in a way to close the conversation.

As soon as the man had left I rushed in upon Sam without ceremony.

He was still sitting at the table smoking, and received me with a look of mingled amusement and anxiety.

"How did the comedy strike you?"

he asked.

I attempted a shrug which failed before his imperturbable nonchalance.

"How did it strike you?"

he persisted.

"As cleverly carried out, but not so cleverly that the fellow will not suspect it to be a comedy."

"Oh, well!

So long as he does not associate the right name with those four initials we are safe.

And he won't; I know Yox well enough for that."

"Then you know him for a fool.

Louis Gracieux!

Who is Louis Gracieux?

Besides, the phial--why, the whole town is talking about a phial----" "I know, but not about a match-box that is worth another hundred dollars to the man holding it.

Yox isn't a member of the regular police; he's in business for himself, which means he's in it for what he can make.

Now, he knows--or, rather, I flatter myself that I have made him see--that there is more to be got out of this matter by circumspection and a close tongue than by bragging of his good luck and giving every ass about him a chance to chew upon those letters.

Oh, he'll keep quiet now, for a week or two at least.

After that I cannot promise."

"Do you think his version of this affair reliable?"

"Absolutely.

He would have exaggerated more if he had been forcing an invention upon us."

I sat down and, regarding Underhill across the table, remarked somewhat pointedly: "Now that the name has been mentioned between us, we can talk more openly.

What date have you been able to give to Yox's adventure?

You surely have not failed to get from him the day he went down to Mother Merry's?"

Sam rose--he who detested rising--and, going to a little side table where a pile of newspapers lay, he pulled off the top one and laid it open before me, taking care, however, to stretch his arm across the upper margin in a way to cover up effectually the date.

"Read," said he, pointing to a paragraph.

I followed his finger and read out a brief account of the descent which had been made on Mother Merry's, and a description of the proceedings which had ended in the release of the women involved.

"Now take a look at the date," he went on, lifting his arm.

I did so; it was a memorable one,--the evening of Mr. Gillespie's death.

"The affair at Mother Merry's took place on the preceding night," commented Sam.

There was no languishing note in his voice now.

I sat silent; when I did speak it was plainly and decidedly.

"I see what you mean.

You think he went to that place to get the acid."

Sam puffed away at his cigar.

"It has been a mystery to everyone where that acid came from," I continued; "a mystery which has evidently baffled the police.

If a druggist in the whole range of this great city had lately sold a phial of this poison to anyone answering the description given of these brothers, we would have heard from him before now.

Equally so if a doctor had prescribed it."

"A second Daniel come to judgment," quoth Sam, sententiously.

"And now we, through chance or special providence, perhaps, have stumbled upon a clue as to how this deadly drug may have entered the Gillespie family."

"I regret to agree with you, but that is the way it looks.

But, Outhwaite, you must remember--and as a lawyer you will--that a long and tangled road lies between mere supposition and the establishment of a fact like this.

This phial, so carefully transferred from a pocket where a seemingly more valuable article lay hid, has not been identified as holding poison, only as holding a liquid.

Much less has it been proven to be the bottle found under the clock in the Gillespie dining-room."

"All very true."

"Yet this fellow's story of--well, let us say, Louis Gracieux' appearance and conduct in this more than doubtful place, warrants us in thinking the worst of his errand."

I felt the force of this suggestion.

"Quite true."

I assented.

Then, in some agitation, for my thoughts were divided between the relief which a knowledge of this night's occurrences might bring to Hope and the terrible results to the man himself, I went on to say: "His little girl--you never saw his little girl, Sam.

Well, she's a fairy-like creature, and the last time I saw her she had her arms about his neck."

"Don't talk about children," he hastily objected.

"You'll make a muff of me," and then I remembered he had a great weakness for children.

"I had rather you'd talk about Miss Meredith.

Nothing but the interest I take in the peculiar position held by this young lady gives me the requisite courage to stir in this matter.

I have known those boys too long and too well; that is, I have drunk too many bottles with George and sat out too many nights in full view of Alfred's handsome figure, stretched out in the mysterious apathy I have alluded to.

With Leighton I have fewer associations; but I have seen enough of him to know perfectly well the match-box which Yox handed out."

"Do you suppose there was anything in those pockets besides the match-box; anything, I mean, calculated to give away the wearer of that foul blouse?"

"No. If there had been; if, in other words, he had found anything there which suggested a member of the Gillespie family, he would never have aired the matter in the presence of their friends.

He would have gone at once to the police, or endeavoured to make such capital out of it as such a find would suggest."

"Then you really think he does not know that the tools he is playing with have mighty sharp edges?"

"I am confident he does not."

"That is a relief; yet he cannot remain in such ignorance long if I call him to my assistance."

"That depends."

"How, depends?"

"Upon what you want him to do."

For this I had no answer.

My plans were as vague as the wandering smoke-wreaths curling upward at that instant from my neglected cigar.

"You have never liked Leighton," I remarked, in the hope of adjusting my thoughts before entering upon the more serious portion of this conversation.

"Neither have I, since surprising a very strange expression on his face the night of his father's death."

"Yet three-quarters of the people who knew him would tell you that he is a good man, a very good man, the best of the three, by far."

"Notwithstanding his low associates?"

I ventured.

"Notwithstanding everything.

People are so deceived by a few words uttered in prayer-meeting, that their judgment is apt to be blunted to the real character of a man like Leighton Gillespie."

"He must be an odd one," I observed.

"The lights and shades of such a nature are past finding out.

In appearance and manner he is a gentleman, yet if Yox's story is true he finds no difficulty in visiting the worst of places under circumstances and in a garb which bespeaks a personal interest in them.

The nature of that interest we have dared to infer from the part played in his visit by the mysterious phial.

But how account for such instincts, such murderous impulses in a man brought up as he has been?

The motive must have been a serious one to drive a man of his connections into crime.

Can you name it?

Was it the need of money, a craving for perfect liberty to pursue his own strange courses unchecked, or just the malice of a revengeful spirit cherishing some rankling grudge, which only the death of its object could satisfy?"

"Do not ask me.

I'm not going to supply facts and reasons, too, in this matter.

What!

going?"

"Yes, I never don my thinking-cap to any purpose save in privacy and under the influences emanating from my own room and its familiar surroundings."

"Very good--you shall seek such inspiration as is to be found there in just another moment.

But first let me give you a little further insight into the character of the man we are discussing.

This is something I saw myself: One day last fall I was going down West Broadway when I came upon Leighton Gillespie standing near an elegant turnout, talking with an ill-shod and bedraggled woman.

As philanthropy is his fad and occurrences of this kind a common affair with him, I was passing by with no further display of interest than an inward sneer, when I noted his expression and stopped short, if not from sympathy, at least in some curiosity as to the woman who could draw it forth.

Outhwaite, she was a wild-eyed, panting creature, with chestnut-coloured hair and nervously working lips; not beautiful, not even interesting--to me.

But he--well!

I have seen few faces look as his did then, and when she started to run--as she presently did, he caught at the muddy shawl she wore and pulled her back as if his very life depended upon restraining her at his side.

"I even saw him take that shawl in his hand--such a shawl!

I would not have touched it for a champagne supper, and there have been times when he has shown himself more squeamish on some subjects than I. But he was not squeamish now--far from it, for he not only held that shawl, but fumbled with it, almost clung to it, talking all the while with voluble persistency.

At last he asked her some questions which brought out a passionate refusal.

But if discouraged, he did not show it; on the contrary, he continued his plea with increasing earnestness, and finally pointed to his carriage.

She gave it one look and shrank back with a gesture of fear; then she grew steadier and her head fell forward on her breast.

He went on pleading with her; and then I saw a strange sight.

With an air such as only a swell like himself is capable of assuming, he signalled to his driver to draw up at the curbstone before him.

Then, as he might hand in one of the four hundred, he handed her in and took his seat beside her.

Not a look to the right nor left,--he was simply the perfect gentleman; and, obnoxious as he had always been to me up to that hour, I could not but respect his manner if not himself.

It was admirable, and so was that of the man who sat upon the box.

Though the latter must have cringed when that disreputable foot struck the step and what might be called a bundle of rags entered among his pearl satin cushions, he did not turn a hair or lose a jot of that serene absorption in his own affairs which characterises all the Gillespie coachmen.

I watched him expressly to see.

A valuable fellow that, for a master of the eccentric tastes of Leighton Gillespie!"

"You interest me," said I. "Did you watch them drive off?"

"Yes, and stood there staring till they were half down the block, for she had not accepted the situation with the same ease as himself, and I felt that something would happen.

And there did.

Before the polished panels were lost to my sight, the door burst open and I saw her wild figure jump out and plunge away in the direction of the river.

This time he made no attempt to follow her; the carriage rolled on and he with it.

Nor did he do what I would have done,--let the door stand open till the air of that carriage had been purged of its late unwholesome occupant.

Altogether, it was an odd experience.

What do you make out of it, Outhwaite?"

"He's a fellow who will bear studying.

Is he always so respectful to the paupers he befriends?"

Sam shrugged his shoulders.

"I have related my sole experience with Leighton Gillespie in his _role_ of philanthropist.

My other memories of him suggest simply the millionaire's son."

[Illustration: "I SAW HER WILD FIGURE JUMP OUT AND PLUNGE AWAY IN THE DIRECTION OF THE RIVER"]