Routledge was startled by the shaking avidity with which Cardinegh carried the raw spirit to his lips.
“We came here direct from the Armory—Noreen and I,” he said breathlessly. “When we did not find you, we drove back to Cheer Street—and tossed the rest of the night. God pity her—I couldn’t tell her! Routledge, I didn’t dare to tell her!... She begged me to assure you again and again of her faith. She will see you to-day——”
There was a faint sigh and a soft squirming from the third chair before the fire. It had been turned away from the light. Cardinegh jumped to his feet with horror in his face.
“You’re nervous, old King-maker. Why, it’s just a little London waif I picked up asleep in my stairway.”
“Do you suppose he has heard what I’ve said?” the old man demanded huskily.
“You haven’t said anything yet that the world might not hear. Sit down and smoke, Jerry. God still reigns, and we’re Home.”
Cardinegh stared at the little figure curled up before the fire, catching his breath audibly.
“I’m all shot up,” he panted. “Say, but it’s like you, son, to pick up the little outcast.”
Routledge smiled, because the last word had a big and new meaning. “Perhaps our voices will bother him. I’ll put the lad in the next room,” he said, and untangled the knotted muddy laces, placing the wet, worn shoes evenly before the fire. As he lifted the boy in his arms, the eyes opened sleepily, but Routledge could not see the face pressed against his shoulder. They were drowsy, startled eyes, wise and very shiny, like those of a mouse. Routledge laid him upon his own bed and dropped a blanket over him. “Poor little gaffer, you smell like Bookstalls Road,” he muttered. “I could pick you out blind among the odors of India. Nothing short of a riot could keep you awake, but poor old Jerry will talk easier with you here—and the door shut.”
He drew his chair close to the other, and said genially: “And now, Jerry, tell me what is good for me to know.”