The Just and the Unjust by Vaughan Kester

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"I thought it would be easier," he said.

"Have you forgotten what friends we were once?" she asked softly. "You
always helped me out of my difficulties then, and you told me once that
you cared--a great deal for me, more than you should ever care for any
woman!"

"Yes," he answered shortly, and was silent.

He would scarcely have admitted to himself how foolish his early passion
had been, for it was at least sincere and there could have been no
sacrifice, at one time, that he would not have willingly made for her
sake. His later sentiment for her had been a disgracing and a
disgraceful thing, and he was glad to think of this boyish love, since
it carried him back to a time before he had wrought only misery for
himself. She misunderstood his reticence, she could not realize that she
had lost the power that had once been hers.

"What a mistake I made, Jack!" she cried, and stretched out her hands
toward him.

He fell back a step.

"Nonsense!" he said. He glanced sharply at her.

"How stupid you are!" she exclaimed.

She half rose from her chair with her hands still extended toward him.
For a moment he met her glance, and then, disgusted and ashamed,
withdrew his eyes from hers.

Evelyn sank back in her chair, and her face turned white and she covered
it with her hands. North was the first to break the silence.

"We would both of us better forget this," he said quietly.

She rose and stood at his side. The color had returned to her cheeks.

"What a fool you are, John North!" she jeered softly. "And I might have
made the tragic mistake of really caring for you!" She gave a little
shiver of dismay, and then after a moment's tense silence: "What a boy
you are,--almost as much of a boy as when we used to play together."

"I think there is nothing more to say, Evelyn," North said shortly. "It
is growing late. You must not be seen leaving here!"

She laughed.

"Oh, it would take a great deal to compromise me; though if Marsh ever
finds out that I have been here he'll be ready to kill me!" But she
still lingered, still seemed to invite.

North was silent.

"You must be in love, Jack! You see, I'll not grant that you are the
saint you'd have me think you! Yes, you are in love!" for he colored
angrily at her words. "Is it--"

He interrupted her harshly.

"Don't speak her name!"

"Then it is true! I'd heard that you were, but I did not believe it!
Yes, you are right, we must forget that I came here to-day."

While she was speaking she had moved toward the door, and instinctively
he had stepped past her to open it. When he turned with his hand on the
knob, it brought them again face to face. The smile had left her lips,
they were mere delicate lines of color. She raised herself on tiptoe and
her face, gray-white, was very close to his.

"What a fool you are, Jack, what a coward you must be!" and she struck
him on the cheek with her gloved hand. "You _are_ a coward!" she cried.

His face grew as white as her own, and he did not trust himself to
speak. She gave him a last contemptuous glance and drew her veil.

"Now open the door," she said insolently.

He did so, and she brushed past him swiftly and stepped out into the
long hall. For a moment North stood staring after her, and then he
closed the door.

CHAPTER THREE

STRANGE BEDFELLOWS

When North quitted Marshall Langham's office, Gilmore, after a brief
instant of irresolution, stepped into the room. He was crudely,
handsome, a powerfully-built man of about Langham's own age,
swarthy-faced and with ruthless lips showing red under a black waxed
mustache. His hat was inclined at a "sporty" angle and the cigar which
he held firmly between his strong even teeth was tilted in the same
direction, imparting a rakish touch to Mr. Gilmore's otherwise sturdy
and aggressive presence.

"Howdy, Marsh!" said his new-comer easily.

From his seat before his desk Langham scowled across at him.

"What the devil brings you here, Andy?" he asked, ungraciously enough.

Gilmore buried his hands deep in his trousers pockets and with one eye
half closed surveyed the lawyer over the tip of his tilted cigar.

"You're a civil cuss, Marsh," he said lightly, "but one wouldn't always
know it. Ain't I a client, ain't I a friend,--and damn it all, man,
ain't I a creditor? There are three excuses, any one of which is:
sufficient to bring me into your esteemed presence!"

"We may as well omit the first," growled Langham, wheeling his chair
back from the desk and facing Gilmore.

"Why?" asked Gilmore, lazily tolerant of the other's mood.

"Because there is nothing more that I can do for you," said Langham
shortly.

"Oh, yes there is, Marsh, there's a whole lot more you can do for me.
There's Moxlow, the distinguished prosecuting attorney; without you to
talk sense to him he's liable to listen to all sorts of queer people who
take more interest in my affairs than is good for them; but as long as
he's got you at his elbow he won't forget my little stake in his
election."

"If you wish him not to forget it, you'd better not be so particular in
reminding him of it; he'll get sick of you and your concerns!" retorted
Langham.

Gilmore laughed.

"I ain't going to remind him of it; what have I got you for, Marsh? It's
your job." He took a step nearer Langham while his black brows met in a
sullen frown. "I know I ain't popular here in Mount Hope, I know there
are plenty of people who'd like to see me run out of town; but I'm no
quitter, they'll find. It suits me to stay here, and they can't touch me
if Moxlow won't have it. That's your job, that's what I hire you for,
Marsh; you're Moxlow's partner, you're your father's son, it's up to
you to see I ain't interfered with. Don't tell me you can't do anything
more for me. I won't have it!"

Langham's face was red, and his eyes blazed angrily, but Gilmore met his
glance with a look of stern insistence that could not be misunderstood.

"I have done what I could for you," the lawyer said at last, choking
down his rage.

"Oh, go to hell! You know you haven't hurt yourself," said Gilmore
insolently.

"Well, then, why do you come here?" demanded Langham.

"Same old business, Marsh." He lounged across the room and dropped,
yawning, into a chair near the window.

There was silence between them for a little space. Langham fussed with
the papers on his desk, while Gilmore squinted at him over the end of
his cigar.

"Same old business, Marsh!" Gilmore repeated lazily. "What's the enemy
up to, anyhow? Are the good people of Mount Hope worrying Moxlow? Is
their sleepless activity going to interfere with my sleepless
profession, eh? Can you answer me that?"

"Moxlow has cut the office of late," said Langham briefly.

"He's happened on a good thing in the prosecuting attorney's office, I
suppose? It's a pity you didn't strike out for that, Marsh; you'd have
been of some use to your friends if you'd got the job."

"Not necessarily," said Langham.

"Well, when's Moxlow going after me?" inquired Gilmore.

"I, haven't heard him say. He told me he had sufficient evidence for
your indictment."

"Yes, of course," agreed Gilmore placidly.

"I guess yours is a case for the next grand jury!"

"So Moxlow's in earnest about wishing to make trouble for me?" said
Gilmore, still placidly.

"Oh, he's in earnest, all right." Langham shrugged his shoulders
petulantly. "He'll go after you, and perhaps by the time he's done with
you you'll wish you'd taken my advice and made yourself scarce!"

"I'm no quitter!" rejoined Gilmore, chewing thoughtfully at the end of
his cigar.

"By all means stay in Mount Hope if you think it's worth your while,"
said Langham indifferently.

"Can you give me some definite idea as to when the fun begins?"

"No, but it will be soon enough, Andy. He wants the support of the best
element. He can't afford to offend it."

"And he knows you are my lawyer?" asked Gilmore still thoughtfully.

"Of course."

"Ain't that going to cut any figure with him?"

"Certainly not."

"Is that so, Marsh?" He crossed his legs and nursed an ankle with both
hands. "Well, somebody ought to lose Moxlow,--take him out and forget to
find him again. He's much too good for this world; it ain't natural.
He's about the only man of his age in Mount Hope who ain't drifted into
my rooms at one time or another." He paused and took the cigar from
between his teeth. "You call him off, Marsh, make him agree to let me
alone; ain't there such a thing as friendship in this profession of
yours?"

Langham shook his head, and again Gilmore's black brows met in a frown.
He made a contemptuous gesture.

"You're a hell of a lawyer!" he sneered.

"Be careful what you say to me!" cried Langham, suddenly giving way to
the feeling of rage that until now he had held in check.

"Oh, I'm careful enough. I guess if you stop to think a minute you'll
understand you got to take what I choose to say as I choose to say it!"

Langham sprang to his feet shaking with anger.

"No, by--" he began hoarsely.

"Sit down," said Gilmore coldly. "You can't afford to row with me;
anyhow, I ain't going to row with you. I'll tell you what I think of you
and what I expect of you, so sit down!"

There was a long pause. Gilmore gazed out the window. He seemed to watch
the hurrying snowflakes with no interest in Langham who was still
standing by his desk, with one shaking hand resting on the back of his
chair. Presently the lawyer resumed his seat and Gilmore turned toward
him.

"Don't talk about my quitting here, Marsh," he said menacingly. "That's
the kind of legal advice I won't have from you or any one else."

"You may as well make up your mind first as last to it," said Langham,
not regarding what Gilmore had just said. "I can't keep Moxlow quiet any
longer; the sentiment of the community is against gamblers. If you are
not a gambler, what are you?"

"You mean you are going to throw me over, you two?"

"With Moxlow it is a case of bread and butter; personally I don't care
whom you fleece, but I've got my living to make here in Mount Hope, too,
and I can't afford to go counter to public opinion."

"You have had some favors out of me, Marsh."

"I am not likely to forget them, you give me no chance," rejoined
Langham bitterly.

"Why should I, eh?" asked Gilmore coolly. He leaned back in his chair
and stared at the ceiling above his head. "Marsh, what was that North
was saying about me when I came down the hall?" and his swarthy cheeks
were tinged with red.

"I don't recall that he was speaking of you."

"You don't? Well, think again. It was about our going up to your house
to-night, wasn't it? Your wife's back, eh? Well, don't worry, I came
here partly to tell you that I had made other arrangements for the
evening."

"It's just as well," said Langham.

"Do you mean your wife wouldn't receive me?" demanded Gilmore. There
was a catch in his voice and a pallor in his face.

"I didn't say that."

Gilmore's chair resounded noisily on the floor as he came to his feet.
He strode to the lawyer's side.

"Then what in hell _do_ you say?" he stormed.

In spite of himself Langham quailed before the gambler's fury.

"Oh, keep still, Andy! What a nasty-tempered beast you are!" he said
pacifically.

There was a pause, and Gilmore resumed his chair, turning to the window
to hide his emotion; then slowly his scowling glance came back to
Langham.

"He said I was a common card-sharp, eh?" Langham knew that he spoke of
North. "Damn him! What does he call himself?" He threw the stub of his
cigar from him across the room. "Marsh, what does your wife know about
me?" And again there was the catch to his voice.

Langham looked at him in astonishment.

"Know about you--my wife--nothing," he said slowly.

"I suppose she's heard my name?" inquired the gambler.

"No doubt."

"Thinks I rob you at cards, eh?" But Langham made no answer to this.
"Thinks I take your money away from you," continued the gambler. "And
it's your game to let her think that! I wonder what she'd think if she
knew the account stood the other way about? I've been a handy sort of a
friend, haven't I, Marsh? The sort you could use,--and you have used me
up to the limit! I've been good enough to borrow money from, but not
good enough to take home--"

"Oh, come, Andy, what's the use," placated Langham. "I'm sorry if your
feelings are hurt."

"It's time you and I had a settlement, Marsh. I want you to take up
those notes of yours."

"I haven't the money!" said Langham.

"Well, I can't wait on you any longer."

"I don't see but that you'll have to," retorted Langham.

"I'm going to offer a few inducements for haste, Marsh. I'm going to
make you see that it's worth your while to find that money for me
quick,--understand? You owe me about two thousand dollars; are you fixed
to turn it in by the end of the month?"

The gambler bit off the end of a fresh cigar and held it a moment
between his fingers as he gazed at Langham, waiting for his reply. The
latter shook his head but said nothing.

"Well, then, by George, I am going to sue you!"

"Because I can't protect you longer!"

"Oh, to hell with your protection! Go dig up the money for me or I'll
raise a fuss here that'll hurt more than one reputation! The notes are
good, ain't they?"

"They are good when I have the money to meet them."

"They are good even if you haven't the money to meet them! I guess Judge
Langham's indorsement is worth something, and Linscott's a rich man;
even Moxlow's got some property. Those are the three who are on your
paper, and the paper's considerably overdue."

Langham turned a pale face on the gambler.

"You won't do that, Andy!" he said, in a voice which he vainly strove to
hold steady.

"Won't I? Do you think I'm in business for my health?" And he laughed
shortly, then he wheeled on Langham with unexpected fierceness. "I'll
give you until the first of the month, Marsh, and then I'm going after
you without gloves. I don't care a damn who squares the account; your
indorsers' cash will suit me as well as your own." He caught the
expression on Langham's face, its deathly pallor, the hunted look in his
eyes, and paused suddenly. The shadow of a slow smile fixed itself at
the corners of his mouth, he put out a hand and rested it on Langham's
shoulder. "You damn fool! Have you tried that trick on me? I'll take
those notes to the bank in the morning and see if the signatures are
genuine."

"Do it!" Langham spoke in a whisper.

"Maybe you think I won't!" sneered the gambler. "Maybe you'd rather I
didn't, eh? It will hardly suit you to have me show those notes?"

"Do what you like; whatever suggests itself to a scurvy whelp like you!"
said Langham.

Gilmore merely grinned at this.

"If you are trying to encourage me to smash you, Marsh, you have got the
right idea as to how it is to be done." But his tone was now one of lazy
good nature.

"Smash me then; I haven't the money to pay you."

"Get it!" said Gilmore tersely.

"Where?"

"You are asking too much of me, Marsh. If I could finance you I'd cut
out cards in the future. How about the judge,--no? Well, I just threw
that out as a hint, but I suppose you have been there already, for
naturally you'd compliment him by giving him the chance to pull you up
out of your troubles. Since your own father won't help you, how about
Linscott? Is he going to want to see his son-in-law disgraced? I guess
he's your best chance, Marsh. Put it on strong and for once tell the
truth. Tell him you've dabbled in forgery and that it won't work!"

Langham had dropped back in his chair. He was seeking to devise some
expedient that would meet his present difficulties. His bondage to the
gambler had become intolerable, anything would be better than a
continuance of that. The monstrous folly of those forgeries seemed
beyond anything he could have perpetrated in his sober senses. He must
have been mad! But then he had needed the money desperately.

He might go to his, father, but he had been to him only recently, and
the judge himself was burdened with debt. He might go to Mr. Linscott,
he might even try North. He could tell the latter the whole circumstance
and borrow a part of what was left of his small fortune; of course he
was in his debt as it was, but North would never think of that; he was a
man to share his last dollar with a friend.

He passed a shaking hand across his eyes. On every side the nightmare of
his obligations confronted him, for who was there that he could owe whom
he did not already owe? He was notorious for his inability to pay his
debts. This notoriety was hurting his professional standing, and now if
Gilmore carried out his threat he must look forward to the shame of a
public exposure. His very reputation for common honesty was at stake.

He wondered what men did in a crisis such as this. He wondered what
happened to them when they could do nothing more. Usually he was fertile
in expedients, but to-day his brain seemed wholly inert. He realized
only a certain dull terror of the future; the present eluded him
utterly.

He had never been over-scrupulous perhaps, he had always taken what he
pleased to call long chances, and it was in almost imperceptible
gradations that he had descended in the scale of honesty to the point
that had at last made possible these forgeries. Until now he had always
felt certain of himself and of his future; time was to bring him into
the presence of his dear desires, when he should have money to lift the
burden of debt, money to waste, money to scatter, money to spend for the
good things of life.

But he had made the fatal mistake of anticipating the success in which
he so firmly believed. Those notes--he dashed his hand before his face;
suddenly the air of the room seemed to stifle him, courage and cunning
had left him; there was only North to whom he could turn for a few
hundreds with which to quiet Gilmore. Let him but escape the
consequences of his folly this time and he promised himself he would
retrench; he would live within his income, he would apply himself to his
profession as he had never yet applied himself. He scowled heavily at
Gilmore, who met his scowl with a cynical smile.

"Well, what are you going to do?" he queried.

But Langham did not answer at once. He had turned and was looking from
the window. It was snowing now very hard, and twilight, under the edges
of torn gray clouds was creeping over the Square; he could barely see
the flickering lights in Archibald McBride's dingy shop-windows.

"Give me a chance, Andy!" he said at last appealingly.

"To the end of the month, not a day more," asserted Gilmore.

"Where am I to get such a sum in that time? You know I can't do it!"

"Don't ask me, but turn to and get it, Marsh. That's your only hope."

"By the first of the year perhaps," urged Langham.

"No, get rid of the notion that I am going to let up on you, for I
ain't! I'm going to squat on your trail until the money's in my hand;
otherwise I know damn well I won't ever see a cent of it! I ain't your
only creditor, but the one who hounds you hardest will see his money
first, and I got you where I want you."

"I can't raise the money; what will you gain by ruining me?" demanded
Langham. He wished to impress this on Gilmore, and then he would propose
as a compromise the few hundreds it would be possible to borrow from
North.

"To get square with you, Marsh, will be worth something, and frankly, I
ain't sure that I ever expected to see any of that money, but as long as
you stood my friend I was disposed to be easy on you."

"I am still your friend."

"Just about so-so, but you won't keep Moxlow--"

"I can't!"

"Then I can't see where your friendship comes in." Gilmore quitted his
chair.

"Wait, Andy!" said Langham hastily.

"No use of any more talk, Marsh, I want my money! Go dig it up."

"Suppose, by straining every nerve, I can raise five hundred dollars by
the end of the month--"

"Oh, pay your grocer with that!"

Langham choked down his rage. "You haven't always been so contemptuous
of such sums."

"I'm feeling proud to-day, Marsh. I'm going to treat myself to a few
airs, and you can pat yourself on the back when you've dug up the money
by the end of the month! You'll have done something to feel proud of,
too."

"Suppose we say a thousand," urged Langham.

"Good old Marsh! If you keep on raising yourself like this you'll soon
get to a figure where we can talk business!" Gilmore laughed.

"Perhaps I can raise a thousand dollars. I don't know why I should think
I can, but I'm willing to try; I'm willing to say I'll try--"

Gilmore shook his head.

"I've told you what you got to do, Marsh, and I mean every damn word I
say,--understand that? I'm going to have my money or I'm going to have
the fun of smashing you."

"Listen to me, Andy!" began Langham desperately.

"Why take me into your confidence?" asked the gambler coldly.

"What will you gain by ruining me?" repeated Langham fiercely.

The gambler only grinned.

"I am always willing to spend money on my pleasures; and besides when
those notes turn up, your father or some one else will have to come
across."

Langham was silent. He was staring out across the empty snow-strewn
Square at the lights in Archibald McBride's windows.

"Remember," said Gilmore, moving toward the door. "I'll talk to you when
you got two thousand dollars."

"Damn you, where do you think I'll get it?" cried Langham.

"I'm not good at guessing," laughed Gilmore.

He turned without another word or look and left the room. His footsteps
echoed loudly in the hall and on the stairs, and then there was silence
in the building. Langham was again looking out across the Square at the
lights in Archibald McBride's windows.

CHAPTER FOUR

ADVENTURE IN EARNEST

Mr. Shrimplin had made his way through a number of back streets without
adventure of any sort, and as the night and the storm closed swiftly in
about him, the shapes of himself, his cart and of wild Bill disappeared,
and there remained to mark his progress only the hissing sputtering
flame, that flared spectrally six feet in air as the little lamplighter
drove in and out of shabby unfrequented streets and alleys.

It had grown steadily colder with the approach of night, and the wind
had risen. The streets seemed deserted, and Mr. Shrimplin being as he
was of a somewhat fanciful turn of mind, could almost imagine himself
and Bill the only living things astir in all the town.

He reached Water Street, the western boundary of that part of Mount Hope
known as the flats. He jogged past Maxy Schaffer's Railroad Hotel at the
corner of Front Street, which flung the wicked radiance of its bar-room
windows along the shining railroad track where it crossed the creek on
the new iron bridge; and keeping on down Water Street with its smoky
tenements, entered an outlying district where the lamps were far apart
and where red and blue and green switch lights blinked at him out of the
storm.

It was nearly six o'clock when he at last wheeled into the Square; here
only three gasolene burners--survivors of the old regime--held their own
against the fast encroaching gas-lamp.

He lighted the one in Division Street and was ready to turn and traverse
the north side of the Square to the second lamp which stood a block away
at the corner of High Street. He was drawing Bill's head about--Bill
being smitten with a sudden desire to go directly home leaving the
night's work unfinished--when the muffled figure of a man appeared in
the street in front of him. The inch or more of snow that now covered
the pavement had deadened the sound of his steps, while the eddying
flakes had made possible his near approach unseen. As he came rapidly
into the red glare of Mr. Shrimplin's hissing torch that hero was
exceeding well pleased to recognize a friendly face.

"How are you, Mr. North!" he said, and John North halted suddenly.

"Oh, it's you, Shrimp! A nasty night, isn't it?"

"It's the suffering human limit!" rejoined Mr. Shrimplin with feeling.

As he spoke the town bell rang the hour; unconsciously, perhaps, the two
men paused until the last reverberating stroke had spent itself in the
snowy distance.

"Six o'clock," observed Mr. Shrimplin.

"Good night, Shrimp," replied North irrelevantly.

He turned away and an instant later was engulfed in the wintry night.

Having at last pointed Bill's head in the right direction Mr. Shrimplin
drove that trusty beast up to the lamp-post on the corner of High
Street, when suddenly and for no apparent reason Bill settled back in
the shafts and exhibited unmistakable, though humiliating symptoms of
fright.

"Go on, you!" cried Mr. Shrimplin, slapping bravely with both the lines,
but his voice was far from steady, for suppose Bill should abandon the
rectitude of a lifetime and begin to kick.

"Go on, you!" repeated Mr. Shrimplin and slapped the lines again, but
less vigorously, for by this time Bill was unquestionably backing away
from the curb.

"Be done! Be done!" expostulated Mr. Shrimplin, but he gave over
slapping the lines, for why irritate Bill in his present uncertain mood?
"Want I should get out and lead you?" asked Mr. Shrimplin, putting aside
with one hand the blankets in which he was wrapped. "You're a game old
codger, ain't you? I guess you ain't aware you've growed up!"

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