CHAPTER XXIII.
LAID UP.
Harriet Holden was sitting in Elizabeth's boudoir. "And he had the
effrontery," the latter was saying, "to tell me what I must do and must
not do! The idea! A miserable little milk-wagon driver dictating to me!"
Miss Holden smiled.
"I should not call him very little," she remarked.
"I didn't mean physically," retorted Elizabeth. "It is absolutely
insufferable. I am going to demand that father discharge the man."
"And suppose he asks you why?" asked Harriet. "You will tell him, of
course, that you want this person discharged because he protected you
from the insults and attacks of a ruffian while you were dining in
Feinheimer's at night--is that it?"
"You are utterly impossible, Harriet!" cried Elizabeth, stamping her
foot. "You are as bad as that efficiency person. But, then, I might have
expected it! You have always, it seems to me, shown a great deal more
interest in the fellow than necessary, and probably the fact that Harold
doesn't like him is enough to make you partial toward him, for you have
never tried to hide the fact that you don't like Harold."
"If you're going to be cross," said Harriet, "I think I shall go home."
At about the same time the Lizard entered Feinheimer's. In the far
corner of the room Murray was seated at a table. The Lizard approached
and sat down opposite him. "Here I am," he said. "What do you want, and
how did you know I was in town?"
"I didn't know," said Murray. "I got a swell job for you, and so I sent
out word to get you."
"You're in luck then," said the Lizard. "I just blew in this morning.
What kind of a job you got?"
Murray explained at length.
"They got a watchman," he concluded, "but I've got a guy on de inside
that'll fix him."
"When do I pull this off?" asked the Lizard.
"In about a week. I'll let you know the night later. Dey ordinarily
draw the payroll money Monday, the same day dey pay, but dis week
they'll draw it Saturday and leave it in the safe. It'II be layin' on
top of a hunch of books and papers. Dey're de t'ings you're to destroy.
As I told you, it will all be fixed from de inside. Dere's no danger of
a pinch. All you gotta do is crack de safe, put about a four or five
t'ousand dollar roll in your pocket, and as you cross de river drop a
handful of books and papers in. Nothin' to it--it's the easiest graft
you ever had."
"You're sure dat's all?" asked the Lizard.
"Sure thing!" replied Murray.
"Where's de place?"
"Dat I can't tell you until the day we're ready to pull off de job."
At four o'clock that afternoon Jimmy Torrance collapsed at his desk.
The flu had struck him as suddenly and as unexpectedly as it had
attacked many of its victims. Edith Hudson found him, and immediately
notified Mr. Compton, with the result that half an hour later Jimmy
Torrance was in a small private hospital in Park Avenue.
That night Bince got Murray over the phone. He told him of Jimmy's
sickness.
"He's balled up the whole plan," he complained. "We've either got to
wait until he croaks or is out again before we can go ahead, unless
something else arises to make it necessary to act before. I think I can
hold things off, though, at this end, all right."
For four or five days Jimmy was a pretty sick man. He was allowed to
see no one, but even if Jimmy had been in condition to give the matter
any thought he would not have expected to see any one, for who was there
to visit him in the hospital, who was there who knew of his illness, to
care whether he was sick or well, alive or dead? It was on the fifth day
that Jimmy commenced to take notice of anything. At Compton's orders he
had been placed in a private room and given a special nurse, and to-day
for the first time he learned of Mr. Compton's kindness and the fact
that the nurse was instructed to call Jimmy's employer twice a day and
report the patient's condition.
"Mighty nice of him," thought Jimmy, and then to the nurse: "And the
flowers, too? Does he send those?"
The young woman shook her head negatively.
"No," she said; "a young lady comes every evening about six and leaves
the flowers. She always asks about your condition and when she may see
you."
Jimmy was silent for some time. "She comes every evening?" he asked.
"Yes," replied the nurse.
"May I see her this evening?" asked Jimmy.
"We'll ask the doctor," she replied; and the doctor must have given
consent, for at six o'clock that evening the nurse brought Edith Hudson
to his bedside.
The girl came every evening thereafter and sat with Jimmy as long as the
nurse would permit her to remain. Jimmy discovered during those periods
a new side to her character, a mothering tenderness that filled him with
a feeling of content and happiness the moment that she entered the room,
and which doubtless aided materially in his rapid convalescence, for
until she had been permitted to see him Jimmy had suffered as much from
mental depression as from any other of the symptoms of his disease.
He had felt utterly alone and uncared for, and in this mental state he
had brooded over his failures to such an extent that he had reached a
point where he felt that death would be something of a relief.
Militating against his recovery had been the parting words of Elizabeth
Compton the evening that he had dined at her father's home, but now all
that was very nearly forgotten--at least crowded into the dim vistas of
recollection by the unselfish friendship of this girl of the streets.
Jimmy's nurse quite fell in love with Edith.
"She is such a sweet girl," she said, "and always so cheerful. She is
going to make some one a mighty good wife." and she smiled knowingly at
Jimmy.
The suggestion which her words implied came to Jimmy as a distinct
shock. He had never thought of Edith Hudson in the light of this
suggestion, and now he wondered if there could be any such sentiment as
it implied in Edith's heart, but finally he put the idea away with a
shrug.
"Impossible," he thought. "She thinks of me as I think of her, only as a
good friend."
