Frederick Bartlett - The Web of the Golden Spider

Wilson saw him. He gave one last hurried look about on the chance of finding some loophole of escape from that which was worse than the crowd. His eyes fell upon the face of a young man in an automobile which was moving slowly up the hill. It took the latter but a glance to see that Wilson was a gentleman hard pushed. The appeal in the eyes was enough. He ordered the machine stopped and threw open the door. As Wilson reached it, he leaned forward and grasped his shoulders, dragging him in. Then the driver threw back his lever and the machine leaped forward like an unleashed dog. The officer ordered them to stop, but they skimmed on up the hill and turning to the left found Beacon Street a straight path before them.

“Narrow squeak that time, old man,” smiled the stranger. “What the devil was the trouble?”

“This, I suppose,” answered Wilson, as soon as he had caught his breath, lifting a corner of the elaborate gown. “And this,” touching the bandages on his head.

“But what in thunder did they chase you for?”

“I guess they thought I was crazy–or drunk.”

“Well, it wasn’t fair sport at a hundred to one. Where shall I land you?”

Wilson pondered a second. He would only lose time if he got out and attempted again to find the house in that rig.

“If–if I could only get some clothes.”

“Where’s your hotel or home? Take you anywhere you say.”

“I haven’t either a home or a hotel,” answered Wilson, deliberately. “And these are all the clothes I have in the world.”

“Is that a dream?”

“It is the truth.”

“But how–” exclaimed the other.

“I can’t tell you now how it came about, but it is the truth that I am without a cent, and that this is my entire wardrobe.”

“Where did you come from this morning?” asked the other, still incredulous.

“From the hospital.”

Wilson hesitated just a second; he knew that in asking anything further he ran the risk of being mistaken for a charlatan, but this seemed now his only chance of getting back to her. They were speeding out through the Fenway, but the driver had now slowed down to await further orders. The man would drop him anywhere he said, but even supposing he brought him back to the vicinity of the house, he could not possibly escape observation long enough to locate that little door in the rear–the only clue he had to identification of the house. If ever a man’s exterior gave promise of generous help, the features of this fellow by his side did. He was of about his own age, smooth shaven, with a frank, open face that gave him a clean and wholesome appearance. He had the lithe frame and red cheeks of an athlete in training–his eyes clear as night air, his teeth white as a hound’s. But it was a trick of the eyes which decided Wilson–a bright eagerness tinged with humor and something of dreams, which suggested that he himself was alert for just such adventures as this in which Wilson found himself. He glanced up and found the other studying him curiously as though trying to decide for himself just what sort of a fellow he had rescued.

“I don’t blame you for being suspicious,” began Wilson, “but I’ve told you only the truth. Furthermore, I’ve done nothing any decent fellow wouldn’t do. The police have no right to me, although they might make a lot of trouble.”

“That’s all right, old man. You needn’t feel obliged to ’fess up to me.”

“I wanted to tell you that much,” answered Wilson, “because I want to ask something of you; I want you to give me a suit of clothes and enough money to keep me alive for a week.”

Wilson saw the other’s brows contract for a second as though in keen annoyance or disappointment at this mediocre turn in a promising situation. He added quickly:

“I’m not asking this altogether for myself; there’s a girl involved–a girl in great danger. If I get back to her soon, there is still hope that I can be of some use.”

The other’s face brightened instantly.

“What’s that you say? A girl in danger?”

“In serious danger. This–” he pointed at the linen turban, “this ought to give you some idea of how serious; I was on my way to her when I received this.”

“But good Lord, man, why didn’t you say so before? Home, Mike, and let her out!”

The chauffeur leaned forward and once again the machine vibrated to the call. They skimmed along the park roads and into the smooth roads of Brookline. From here Wilson knew nothing of the direction or the locality.

“My name is Danbury,” his rescuer introduced himself, “and I’m glad to be of help to you. We’re about the same size and I guess you can get into some of my clothes. But can’t I send a wire or something to the girl that you are coming?”

Wilson shook his head. “I don’t know exactly where she is myself. You see I–I found her in the dark and I lost her in the dark.”

“Sort of a game of blind man’s buff,” broke in Danbury. “But how the devil did you get that swipe in the head?”

“I don’t know any more than you where that came from.”

“You look as though you ought to be tucked away in bed on account of it. You are still groggy.”

Wilson tried to smile, but, truth to tell, his head was getting dizzy again and he felt almost faint.

“Lie back and take it easy until we reach the house. I’ll give you a dose of brandy when we get there.”

The machine slid through a stone gateway and stopped before a fine, rambling white house set in the midst of green trees and with a wide sweep of green lawn behind it. A butler hurried out and at a nod took hold of one of Wilson’s arms and helped him up the steps–though it was clear the old fellow did not like the appearance of his master’s guest. Of late, however, the boy had brought home several of whom he did not approve. One of them–quite the worst one to his mind–was now waiting in the study. The butler had crossed himself after having escorted him in. If ever the devil assumed human shape, he would say that this was no other than his satanic majesty himself.

“A gentleman to see you, sir, in the study.”

“The devil you say,” snapped Danbury.

“I did not say it, sir.”

“I wanted to take this gentleman in there. However, we will go to the den.”

Danbury led the way through a series of rooms to a smaller room which opened upon the green lawn. It was furnished in mahogany with plenty of large, leather-bottomed chairs and a huge sofa. The walls were decorated with designs of yachts and pictures of dogs. This room evidently was shut off from the main study by the folding doors which were partly concealed by a large tapestry. Danbury poured out a stiff drink of brandy and insisted upon Wilson’s swallowing it, which he did after considerable choking.

“Now,” said Danbury, “you lie down while John is getting some clothes together, and I’ll just slip into the next room and see what my queer friend wants.”

Wilson stretched himself out and gave himself up to the warm influx of life which came with the stimulation from the drink. Pound after pound seemed to be lifting from his weary legs and cloud after cloud from his dulled brain. He would soon be able to go back now. He felt a new need for the sight of her, for the touch of her warm fingers, for the smile of good fellowship from her dark eyes. In these last few hours he felt that he had grown wonderfully in his intimacy with her and this found expression in his need of her. Lying there, he felt a craving that bit like thirst or hunger. It was something new to him thus to yearn for another. The sentiment dormant within him had always found its satisfaction in the impersonal in his vague and distant dreams. Now it was as though all those fancies of the past had suddenly been gathered together and embodied in this new-found comrade.