"Glad to, glad if it helps you," said the officer, rising to go. Shagarach took his hand and thanked him, then tried on the glove and studied it for fully five minutes before admitting his regular clients. If it were Floyd's the case had neither gained nor lost. But he felt that the kid was too fine, the make too fashionable, for the eccentric young radical, who, as Chandler had noticed, never wore gloves except for protection against the cold. There was no hint of identity about it. Had it belonged to Harry Arnold? If so, how did it happen to lie on the stairs of his uncle's house immediately after the fire?
The island fort was a many-angled specimen of ancient masonry, following the shore line of an islet in the harbor. It was useless now. No flag streamed from its pole. Passing vessels no longer saluted it, only a lame old sergeant being about to protect the property. By an arrangement with the local authorities it had been converted into a pleasure-ground and connected with an adjacent peninsular of the city by a pier or bridge of half a mile's length. This was the rendezvous mentioned by the anonymous correspondent.
When Shagarach stepped from the car on his way to meet Mr. Skull-and-Crossbones he found that he was early. It still wanted twenty minutes to the appointed hour. The humanity of the district was just rising from its supper tables in teeming tenements to enjoy the cool liberty of the twilight air, and Shagarach listened to the sayings of the multitude whose current he found himself stemming. They were flowing to an open-air concert at some point behind him. The correspondent had timed his evening well for a lonely conference.
As he approached the pier the crowd thinned and at last he found himself walking near the water alone. Ships were putting into port, with red and green caution lights hung aloft. The sea, now violet, melted into the sky and a gathering dimness subdued everything to one tone. Only the black tree-masses and the outlines of the houses stood out somberly distinct.
"We violate nature," said Shagarach to himself, "with our angular, unsightly houses, but she puts her own fairer version on all at last—mosses the manse, curves the beach, litters the ruin, bathes the hard carpentry and mason work of the city with soft twilight balm." He looked back upon the sad accumulation of misery, amid whose foulest reek he was doomed to live. A greenish tint hung over it where the sunset had sunk. It was a rare hue for the heavens to wear—something bizarre yet beautiful, like yellow roses.
Thus far Shagarach had walked alone. Leaning over the railing on the right, he saw three boys fishing in a dory below. One of them was just lighting a lantern, for the thick dusk had begun to gather. The penetrating silence favored their occupation and he paused a moment to watch the silver-bellied mackerel slapping their bodies in the basket. A little farther on an oafish monster stood against the railing on the left. Shagarach thought he leered mirthlessly when their eyes met.
Then at the middle of the pier he came to a closed gate, shutting off access to the island.
"No admission to the fort after 7 p. m.——" He had started to read the placard, when suddenly he felt himself seized from behind. A hand over his mouth throttled the outcry he launched. It was too late to reach for the revolver. A brief, fierce trial of strength and he found himself forced over the railing into the water. The shock, to one who had never entered the ocean before, was icy as death.
His senses did not depart from him. He made an effort to lie still on the surface and to hold his breath. A hideous face projected over the railing, printed itself on his memory, and then disappeared. He knew that he clutched his assailant's cap in his right hand, and that the lights of the city were dancing before him as he rose and sunk. Then the only thing he felt was the gurgling of the deep, dark water nearer, nearer, nearer. How to fight it off? His hands wildly strove to push it away. All the sweetness of the world he was leaving flashed through him in one pregnant second, whereupon his resolution yielded. He opened his lips to utter the fatal "Help!" of the drowning man, and the element rushed in and made him its own.