The Blind Goddess. Arthur Cheney Train

she was Irish she liked him better this way than when he was humble. Really, he was rather nice!

      “What sort of a young man is that Mr. Dillon?” she asked, partly from a desire to annoy him. Redmond finished lighting his cigarette.

      “A nice fellow, I think. A sort of volcano. You never know when he’s going into eruption. A mighty good trial lawyer. He’s all right!”

      Had he but known it he could have kissed her at that moment without rebuke! But he did not know it. He merely knew instinctively that the best way to cajole a woman is to praise her lover.

      There were fifteen young people already having tea at the house when they made their entrance.

      “Do forgive me for being late!” she begged. “No—keep right on pouring, Mona!—Make it strong, please! I’m sorry, but I had important business down at the Tombs—and I’m a wreck.”

      “I hasten to add that I wasn’t the business,” added Mr. Redmond, modestly.

      “Isn’t it a terrible place?” inquired a languid girl with green eyes and earrings. “I wouldn’t mind seeing it myself. Will you take me down some day, Mr. Redmond?”

      Moira swung on her.

      “If you are going down there merely out of curiosity you’d better stay away, Elsie dear.”

      “I’m not going merely out of curiosity. I’d like to be of some help to those poor people!”

      The others had stopped talking. Moira found herself quoting Hugh.

      “Don’t think me rude,” she said, “but the idea that girls like us can really be of any help to men in prison, strikes me as ridiculous. What do we know about the conditions that brought them there? For that matter, what do we know about life?”

      From which sententious utterance most of those present immediately concluded that she was stalking Mr. Michael Redmond, and was taking that way of notifying others to keep off her hunting-ground. Her remark, however, was taken as a challenge, and precipitated an animated discussion in which Moira found herself hopelessly in the minority, and which was still going on when the party broke up at seven o’clock.

      Meanwhile, in her father’s den across the hall, another discussion was taking place which, curiously enough, also centred about the Tombs. Richard Devens had no downtown office, and it was Daniel Shay’s habit to report to him daily at about six o’clock, after which, if his friend had nothing else afoot, he was very apt to stay to dinner.

      They sat in their customary attitude, Devens at his desk with the right-hand slide pulled out, and Shay beside him, this position having been demonstrated by experience to be convenient for the examination of papers.

      “I’m after seeing Eileen last night, Dick. She’s in a bad way—says she can’t live like this any longer. I feared from her manner of speaking she might try to do away with herself.”

      Devens’ massive jaw seemed to grow squarer.

      “It breaks my heart, Dan! But what can I do? She’s worse than she’s ever been. How could I let her see Moira? It would ruin the girl’s life.”

      “Eileen’s livin’ in hell!”

      “She brought it on herself!”

      Uncle Dan laid his hand on that of his associate.

      “After all, she’s Moira’s mother!”

      Devens bowed his big head.

      “The mother must always be sacrificed to the child,” he said. “It’s the law of nature. You know how I loved her, Danny!—how I still love her—the real Eileen, I mean! This poor creature is somebody else! I knew trouble was brewing before you came in. Hoyle telephoned me she’d been down there to see him and wanted the contract modified so she could see Moira once a week. But, Dan, if I let her see the girl once, she’ll want to be with her all the time. Moira’d have to become nurse to a drug addict. I can’t turn this house into a sanatorium! I’ve got troubles enough as it is!”

      “Did Hoyle give you any other news?”

      “Yes. Kranich’s gang have started their campaign. Who do you suppose they tried to retain first? Hoyle himself!”

      “Hoyle!”

      Shay gave an ironic chuckle.

      “That’s a good one! Luck’s still with us!”

      “Hoyle says he’d have had their guts if young Dillon hadn’t kicked over the bucket.”

      “Dillon? How?”

      “By insisting that Hoyle and O’Hara refuse to take the case, on the ground of their retainer by us. Incidentally, I gather that he used some pretty strong language and then checked out.”

      “The young devil!”

      Devens rubbed his chin.

      “Hoyle says Kranich intends to lay the case before the district attorney as soon as he gets counsel. If we could find out in advance what they’re going to try to prove, we could forestall ’em. No district attorney is going to stand in with a bunch of blackmailers unless he has to.”

      Devens meditated a moment just as Moira, the tea-party having broken up, paused on the threshold.

      “It’s a damn shame young Dillon couldn’t get on with Hoyle and O’Hara. I took a real fancy to him. He must have acted pretty rough for Hoyle to fire him!”

      Moira stepped quickly into the room.

      “Do you mean that Hugh Dillon has lost his position with Hoyle and O’Hara, daddy?”

      “That is the fact.”

      “Oh, daddy! And I was going to make him Mayor of New York!”

      “I fancy he’d still be willing, wouldn’t he?”

      “But how is the poor boy to live? He doesn’t know anybody in New York? Where do you suppose he is sleeping to-night? Why can’t we ask him up here! Oh, I knew some bad luck was in store when that poor woman came out and looked at me so strangely. It was the second time I’d seen her. You know, daddy, she acted exactly as if she knew me! For a moment I thought she was going to speak, for she half-smiled as she went by—such a pathetic smile it was!—and started to hold out her hand.”

      Devens lifted the cover of the humidor and felt inside for a cigar without meeting her eyes.

      “Maybe she did know you. A lot of people must recognize you as my daughter.”

      “I’d never laid eyes on her before yesterday afternoon. I’m sure of it. No one who’d seen her once could ever forget her, daddy!—Hugh Dillon was with me. I hope she didn’t cast the evil eye on him! Oh, what am I saying! You’ll do something right off for him, daddy—won’t you? Why don’t you make him an assistant district attorney?”

      At her words Uncle Dan lifted his cupped hands and clapped them silently together behind her.

      “That’s a grand idea, Dickie!” he commented. “He might be after coming in very handy some day. A friend at court, you know!”

      “Oh, do! daddy!” cried Moira. “That would be simply wonderful! That is, if he’d take the position.”

      “Take it? Of course he’d take it! What young man wouldn’t?” asked her father.

      “Hugh Dillon mightn’t!” she answered seriously. “He’s a queer lad! But, oh, daddy!” and she threw her arms about Richard Devens’ neck and kissed him, “he’s a broth of a boy! And I love him!”