HOW GEOFFREY RAVENSLEE WENT SEEKING AN OBJECT
A clock in the hall without struck midnight, but Mr. Ravenslee sat there long after the silvery chime had died away, his chin sunk upon his broad chest, his sombre eyes staring blindly at the fading embers, lost in profound and gloomy meditation. But, all at once, he started and glanced swiftly around toward a certain window, the curtains of which were only partly drawn, and his lounging attitude changed instantly to one of watchful alertness.
As he sat thus, broad shoulders stooped, feet drawn up—poised for swift action, he beheld a light that flashed here and there, that vanished and came again, hovering up and down and to and fro outside the window; wherefore he reached out a long arm in the gloom and silently opened a certain drawer in the escritoire.
Came a soft click, a faint creak, and a breath of cool, fragrant air as the window was cautiously opened, and a shapeless something climbed through, while Mr. Ravenslee sat motionless—waiting.
The flashing light winked again, a small, bright disc that hovered uncertainly and finally steadied upon the carved cabinet in the corner, and the Something crept stealthily thither. A long-drawn, breathless minute and then —the room was flooded with brilliant light, and a figure, kneeling before the cabinet, uttered a strangled cry and leapt up, only to recoil before Mr. Ravenslee’s levelled revolver.
A pallid-faced, willowy lad, this, of perhaps seventeen, who, sinking to his knees, threw up an arm across his face, then raised both hands above his head.
“Ah, don’t shoot, mister!” he gasped. “Oh, don’t shoot—I got me hands up!”
“Stand up!” said Ravenslee grimly, “up with you and shutter that window—you may have friends outside, and I’m taking no chances! Quick—shutter that window, I say.”
The lad struggled to his feet and, crossing to the window, fumbled the shutter into place, his ghastly face turning and turning toward the revolver that glittered in such deadly fashion in Mr. Ravenslee’s steady hand. At length, the shutters barred, the boy turned, and moistening dry lips, spoke hoarsely and with apparent effort.
“Oh, mister—don’t go for to—croak a guy as—as ain’t done nothing!”
“You broke into my house!”
“But I—haven’t took nothin’!”
“Because I happened to catch you!”
“But—but—oh, sir,” stammered the boy, taking off his cap and fumbling with it while he stared wide-eyed at the threatening revolver, “I—I ain’t a real thief—cross me heart and hope to die, I ain’t! Don’t croak me, sir!”
“But why in the world not?” enquired Mr. Ravenslee. “Alone and unaided I have captured a desperate criminal, a bloodthirsty villain—caught him in the very act of burgling a cabinet where I keep my cigars of price—and Mr. Brimberly’s, of course! Consequently to—er—croak you is my privilege as a citizen; it’s all quite just and proper— really, I ought to croak you, you know.”
“I—ain’t desprit, mister,” the boy pleaded, “I ain’t a reg’lar crook; dis is me first try-out—honest it is!”
“But then I prefer to regard you as a deep-dyed desperado—you must be quite—er—sixteen! Consequently it is my duty to croak you on the spot, or hand you over to the police—”
“No, no!” cried the boy, his tremulous hands reached out in a passion of supplication, “not d’ cops—don’t let th’ p’lice get me. Oh, I never took nothin’ from nobody—lemme go! Be a sport and let me beat it, please, sir!”
All Mr. Ravenslee’s chronic languor seemed to have returned as, leaning back in the deep-cushioned chair, he regarded this youthful malefactor with sleepy eyes, yet eyes that missed nothing of the boy’s quivering earnestness as he continued, breathlessly:
“Oh, I ain’t a real crook, I never done nothin’ like this before, an’ I never will again if—if you’ll only let me chase meself—”
“And now,” sighed Mr. Ravenslee, “I’ll trouble you for the ‘phone, yonder.”
“Are ye goin’ to—call in de cops?”
“That is my intention. Give me the ‘phone.”
“No!” cried the boy, and springing before the telephone he stood there, trembling but defiant.
“Give me that telephone!”
“Not much I won’t!”
“Then of course I must shoot you!”
The boy stood with head up-flung and fists tight-clenched; Mr. Ravenslee lounged in his chair with levelled pistol. So they fronted each other—but, all at once, with a sound between a choke and a groan, the lad covered his face.
“Go on!” he whispered hoarsely, “go on—what’s keepin’ you? If it’s the cops or croaking, I—I’d rather croak.”
“Why?”
“‘Cause if I was ever sent to—prison—it ‘ud break her heart, I guess.”
“Her heart?” said Mr. Ravenslee, and lowered the pistol.
“Me sister’s.”
“Ah—so you have a sister?” and Mr. Ravenslee sat up suddenly.
“Lots o’ guys has, but there ain’t a sister like mine in all N’ York—nor nowheres else.”
“Who are you? What’s your name?”
“Spike. Me real name’s Arthur, but Arthur sounds kinder soft an’ sissy; nobody don’t call me Arthur ‘cept her, an’ I don’t mind her.”
